moonlessnight14

-He definitely cries (like when you started showing and when the baby kicked for the first time), and he just stares at his daughter and thinks, "How could I have any part in something this perfect?"

-He'll look at you and just whisper a simple "thank you" because what else is there to say when he's got the world's most perfect baby on his chest?

-When it's time to leave the hospital, he'll keep looking over his shoulder at you while the nurse wheels you out, but you're just focused on how HOT he looks walking out with the baby in her car seat as you find out the "hot dad walk" is truly NOT a myth.

-At home, he's very determined to get the baby on a schedule, for three reasons: his sanity, he read children thrive on routine, and he wants to maximize the amount of sleep you get as you recover.

-He insists on changing all the diapers to "pay you back for the pregnancy."

-He gives the baby her first bottle after you've pumped enough and he's ecstatic that he can be part of feeding the baby and sustaining her life.

-When the baby's about to start crawling, he's torn between setting his phone up to record and being in the moment, but the baby decides for him and starts crawling toward the two of you faster than anticipated.

-Both of you smile and cheer her on and just eat her cute, gummy smiles the fuck up.

-Even though she can crawl, he still lovessssss to hold her. he loves holding her while the two of you make dinner, walking through the house, at the grocery store (even though you bought a fabric cover for the cart's baby seat AND you could bring her car seat inside), and in bed.

-He loves when she wakes up a little early, and he can just take her to the bedroom where you're still asleep and hold her in his arms (that he's still scared could crush her one day) and smile at her and kiss her and let her poke his nose while they wait for you to wake up.

-When she starts walking, you already set your phone up on the coffee table, so he's glad he can relive the moment, but nothing will ever beat the feeling of watching his baby smile at him and walk directly toward him and fall into his arms when she reaches him because she knows he'll always be there to catch her.

-The first baby was unplanned. You and Pope weren't even really together when you got pregnant, but he quickly bought a house for you to raise your family in, even marrying you in a courthouse the week before the baby was born.

-None of it was planned, and Pope didn't have a ton of time to ruminate on it the way he usually does with big things like this. he was just acting, never thinking too much about how he felt about it. All he knew was that he did love you and care for you, and he wanted to give this little miracle baby, no one ever thought he deserved, the best life possible.

-So when the baby turns one, and he's cried all the tears about it that his body will allow, and she's asleep in her room, and you sit on his lap in the middle of the bed, whispering, "I want another one," in his ear, he finally takes a moment to think about all this.

-Most sex before you was just a quick release. Usually no talking, and certainly no wishes or begs to be filled or to let him fill anyone up.

-So now he really thinks about it, reflecting on your pregnancy and what it meant for you to carry a piece of him inside of you. The piece of him that was good and innocent and able to stand a chance in this world because his baby's mother is an angel on earth and you looked so pretty, all round and ripe with life, and his daughter looks at you and him like you went on a two-person mission to hang the moon for her just how she likes it.

-His daughter is only the best parts of him and so much of you, and if the world can get more of that, if Andrew Cody can get more of that, then he wants that.

-So he nods his head and whispers every filthy phrase he's thought of but never thought he was allowed to say.

-And when his second daughter is born, it's like rinse and repeat.

-Except there's a two-year-old in his arms when he walks into your recovery room with a bouquet of flowers this time, and he and you want to make sure she understands that Mommy and Daddy still love her very much even though there's a baby in the bassinet next to Mommy's bed.

-Andrew holds his oldest in his lap on the couch at home while you feed the baby, and he demonstrates for her what "gentle touching" is as he softly caresses the baby's cheek with his thumb.

-When the toddler gently pets her baby sister's cheek, you and Andrew smile and praise how gentle and sweet he is.

-As the girls grow up, they become more active, and with that comes a bunch of booboos that need kissing.

-You were both watching your now five-year-old when she went tumbling down from her bicycle. There wasn't anything you could do; you were too far, and the rock blended in perfectly with the asphalt.

-She cries and holds onto you as Andrew picks the bike up and carries it into the garage.

-He meets you in the kitchen where you have his oldest on the counter, tears streaming down her face while you clean her cuts.

-He's at her side immediately, a hand on her back, the other holding her tiny little hand while you get the last specks of dirt out of her cuts and apply the disinfectant and Band-Aids. 

-Both Mommy and Daddy kiss her booboos, and Andrew holds his baby girl in his arms and carries her to the couch while you put the first aid away. He kisses her head and puts on her favorite movie to take her mind off her owies.

-After the youngest wakes up from her nap, you carry her into the living room to join Daddy and big sister.

-The girls join hands, and baby sister kisses her older sister's skinned knees, and you lean your head on your husband's shoulders.

-He eventually gets his big girl back on her bike a week later, telling her she's a very brave girl and so so proud of her

-Andrew reads both girls two bedtime stories every night. He takes them to the library twice a month because his kids won't contribute to the country's declining literacy rates.

-His youngest usually cons him into an extra book.

-He moves his truck into the street so his girls can play with sidewalk chalk in the driveway and lies on the ground for them to trace his body and draw a "portrait of him" and tries not to think too hard about all the disease he could catch in doing so.

-He sends you a text to come out and let the girls trace you, too, and once they have Mommy drawn out next to Daddy, they need to be traced, too, so you each trace one of your daughters and watch in awe as they create a multi-colored chalk drawing of their family.

-When the girls are sleeping, and he's alone in bed with his angel of a wife, he whispers in your ear that you're the most incredible woman, that he loves you and the family you've made with him, that you're so kind and smart and resilient, that he loves you, and he wants to try for baby number three.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional

The word sounds off as it comes out of Andrew's mouth as he lets himself into your apartment in the early afternoon and locks the door behind him.

"Hi." You smile at him and tilt your head up for a kiss when he walks over to you. It's a short and sweet thing but that's part of what makes it perfect in its own right. Something is off though, enough to make you start to worry a little. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." He strokes the top of your head once and then walks away into the kitchen.

You don't even mark the page of the book you were reading, just toss it aside and get up and follow him, eyes tracking him as he grabs a glass and the filtered pitcher from the fridge and pours himself some water. It strikes you as a little strange. You give him a little space, leave five-ish feet between you. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Andrew nods. He takes a sip of water before dumping it out into the sink and setting the glass down. The entire thing is so incredibly odd you're not sure what to make of it. "I thought you were going out."

"Soon, yeah. I was going to start getting ready in a couple of minutes." You tilt your head at him but he doesn't see. He's staring at one of the walls.

You can tell something is wrong. You knew immediately, from the second he walked in.

It's in the way he's holding himself, his body language, and the expression of his face, but more than anything it's in the way he won't make any eye contact with you for more than a second or two. That last part has you worried, a cold anxiety washing over you.

Your mind goes straight to him wanting to break up with you. You're not sure why exactly it does and you hate yourself for going there immediately but you do. The thought of losing him, of him just suddenly no longer being in your life scares you. It makes you wonder why, what you did, what you could've done more of or better.

You've only been together around six months but in those six months you and Andrew have gotten close. You're pretty sure you've never been as close to someone as you are to Andrew. Which makes sense because you know you've never loved anyone the way you love Andrew.

And you're pretty sure that Andrew has never been as close to someone as he is with you, has never loved someone the way he loves you. You're pretty sure Andrew has never let anyone in the way he lets you in, pretty sure he's never let anyone see him, all of him, the real him, the way he lets you see him.

Love is a word that's only recently started to be exchanged, two weeks of ‘I love yous,’ despite the fact that you've both felt it for longer. You knew that phrase would be a lot for him to hear even when you mean it in the purest, truest and most gentle way. Because Andrew doesn't really know love like that, at least not in a capacity and strength to override what Smurf taught him love meant.

You'd learned quickly once you began dating that love was a complicated emotion for Andrew, one with negative connotations more than anything, that had been warped and manipulated and abused and used against him and to make him do things, horrible things he hates himself for, that he would never otherwise do. So once you fell in love with him, once you knew you were in love with him, you knew that one of the most loving things you could do was to wait to tell him until you were able to spend time showing him that you love him and that love could be a good thing.

Andrew had known it was coming and that's why one night he came over already nearly in tears and rigid in a way you'd never seen before and told you everything. Everything he'd ever done, every sin.

It wasn't that he was trying to talk you out of loving him exactly, he just couldn't stand the thought of you loving him and then having to watch you fall out of love with him when you found things out. He didn't want to abuse your love by making you fall in love with a person who didn't really exist, who wasn't the man you thought he was. And while it'd been a lot to take in and work through it hadn't changed anything and you hadn't rejected him, he hadn't seen the love dissolve in your eyes right in front of him. You'd held him while he'd cried, very carefully took and put away in your closet safe the gun he'd brought with him to go use on himself and himself alone in the event things went badly, went the way they'd gone before, because if you had rejected him, been disgusted with him, then there was no hope for him.

Andrew hadn't said it back immediately and had felt awful about it, you could see the flashes of self-hate in his eyes especially at your reaction. You'd kept your face neutral but he could tell it hurt you and more than that he could tell that you'd known he wasn't going to say it back and something about that killed him. Because it wasn't that he didn't love you, he was sure he did by then, it was that he was scared of loving and being loved and he wanted to make sure he knew how to love you the way you deserve to be loved before he said it.

Sure, not hearing it back hurt and made you self-conscious and sent you spiraling more than once but each time you were able to come out of it and realize it was loving of him in his own way. You could tell that he wanted to make sure he knew how to love you right and what love really was and supposed to be. He didn't want to tell you and fuck up and somehow teach and show you that love was bad or that you deserved to be loved in any capacity and way less than how you truly deserve to be loved.

Him waiting had made that night on the beach when he told you for the first time all the more special and meaningful. And it'll make losing him all the more painful and destructive.

"Andrew, what's wrong? Please talk to me," you whisper, stepping closer to him even though you're well aware it might be the wrong move. Might be something he doesn't want. "I'm worried about you."

It's been six months of you worrying about him and Andrew still isn't used to it. Honestly it's been longer and you both know it, you guys became friends and flirted and danced around the mutual physical and emotional attraction for three or so months before Andrew finally asked you out.

You met when he came into the café you were working at. Andrew hadn't had any intentions of returning to the café after that day, but he'd been back nearly every day since just to see you. And after three or so months he finally asked you out. Six months later you find yourselves here.

"I don't know," he mumbles, shrugging and breaking his stare at the wall. He doesn't look at you though. He looks down at the counter.

Your heart races and tears are already preemptively stinging at your eyes as you try to think of things you could've done wrong, or the wrong words you could've said. As you study him more you realize that while he still looks incredibly handsome, Andrew looks rough. He's pale, a little sweaty but in a a way that looks clammy, his eyes are glassy and don't seem completely present, he's hanging his head and almost hunched in on himself a little bit and you know him well enough and have spent enough time listening to him breathe in bed with your head on his chest to know that he's breathing heavier but slower than normal.

Your mind won't let go of him wanting rid of you, though. You take a step back and Andrew's head snaps up, his eyes finding yours. The move tells him you think it's you, and your eyes confirm it, that you can tell he's off and you think it's something you did, that you probably think he's going to break up with you. Before he can reassure you you're asking about it. "Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry if I did. I'd really like the chance to fix it if possible. But I understand if not."

"No." He says it quickly so that you know it's not something he has to think about but not so quickly that it'll seem like a lie. "No, you haven't done anything. This, it's not you or us." He takes a couple of slow breaths and closes his eyes for a second and swallows hard. You recognize that for what it is. He just breathed through an intense wave of nausea that almost made him sick. "I just… I don't feel so good."

"Yeah," you murmur, walking up to him. "I can see that now. I'm sorry for thinking it was me, that was selfish." Part of you wants to ask why he didn't just tell you, but realistically, you already know the whole host of reasons. "What's going on Handsome?"

Andrew shakes his head just barely. "I'll be fine. It'll pass. Go out with your friends. I just need a second and…" Another wave of nausea overtakes him and this time he has to put a hand out on the counter to help steady himself with the dizziness that accompanies it. "I just need a second and I'll leave."

"It doesn't matter if you'll be fine, you're not fine now. And if it passes then I'll go out when it does." You reach up with the back of your hand to feel his forehead and he pulls his head back away from you at first but then sighs and lets you feel. "You have a fever." You let your hand run through his curls and then hold the side of his face gently.

"I don't need to be taken care of. I never have." There's a little bite to his words but you know it's because he's so conflicted, because there's far more going on here than just him being sick and trying to push you away.

You smile softly and let out a quiet, loving sigh. "I know you don't need to be-"

"Then go," Andrew snaps. He's never quite snapped at you like that before, but then it's also been a long time since he's put up his carefully constructed walls around himself to try and keep you out. Or tried to, at least, because it's not working. You're still right there with him, still seeing all of him.

When you pull your hand from his face Andrew's certain you're going to leave and he almost has to run to the bathroom to finally be sick. He’s certain you’re leaving not just in the way that he's asking right now, but leaving him completely. He’s certain that you’ve finally seen enough, seen the truth that you deserve more and better and not some fucked up thing like him. Because he knows that's what he is. He doesn't know how you ever fell in love with him.

A quiet beat passes between you with you looking over the man you love and adore more than should be humanly possible and Andrew staring at the counter with his head spinning because physically he feels like such shit, hasn't felt this awful in a long fucking time, and mentally he feels just the same because he just snapped at you while you're trying to help and he's never deserved you and he can't believe being sick is what's finally going to show you and convince you of that.

"See… I'm sorry. Please just go," he mutters, sounds as awful as you're sure he must feel on every level. "I don't, I don't…" He can't bring himself to lie to you and say he doesn't want or need you right now. "I'll be gone when you get back."

"Andrew," you whisper. "Look at me. Please." You know that this isn't him truly not wanting you around, not wanting your touch and care and comfort. This isn't him telling you that he doesn't like to be touched while he's sick, or that he prefers being alone while he's sick.

Despite what many people think Andrew is actually a physical touch person. Especially in the context of a romantic relationship. So your touch, he craves it and needs it and loves it. He wants it all the time, tries, consciously or not, to always have at least some little piece of him touching you.

It takes a second but eventually hazel eyes that look miserable and full of self-loathing for the way he just spoke to you find yours. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you can look me in the eye and tell me you really want me to leave. Because I don't think you're really asking me to leave, I think you're pushing me away. Do you really want me to leave or do you think you don't deserve me taking care of you? Because you do. Unquestionably, you do."

His eyes drop from yours and it's just further confirmation you're right, both the way he drops his gaze to the counter and the look in his eyes you catch a glimpse of just before he does. Andrew's body language tells you it too. You're right but there's more here, there's something else going on.

He starts to look back up at you but stops, his eyes slamming shut. You watch the color drain from his face as he grimaces and clutches just slightly at his stomach, the softest hint of a groan coming from his throat as he can't quite swallow the sound down all the way this time. Nor can he breathe his way through the nausea and urge to be sick this time.

It breaks a little piece of your heart when he runs to the bathroom because you know how awful being sick is, know how terrible the stomach flu you're pretty sure he has is, how the constant being sick and dry heaving is just fucking painful when combined with the intense body aches and headache. You know based on the sound alone that his knees will be bruised from how hard he drops to them to be sick into the toilet.

You follow him, of course. You're not about to let him be sick and in pain and miserable alone, not when you're sure that's what being sick has been like for him for decades now. You carefully sink to your knees behind him and start rubbing his back and speaking softly to him. "Okay, Darling, it's okay, don't fight it."

Andrew isn't sure if the tears that slip over his lash line are from the force of being sick or your tenderness with him, especially in the wake of him snapping at you. He can remember the last time he was throwing up and sick like this and feeling so completely shitty like this and as stupid as it sounds and may be, your gentle words and the way you rub his back make so much of a difference, make it far more bearable and not quite as bad.

When he's finally stopped dry heaving and coughing you sit back on the floor with your legs spread open so that when he sits back he'll be sitting between them. "You wanna get into bed?"

"No," he mumbles, sitting back just like you did once he shuts the lid and flushes and he's a little surprised when he finds himself wedged between your legs, the pressure actually helping his body aches in the places it reaches. "I'm just going to be sick again and don't want to have to run."

"Okay," you murmur. 

Andrew doesn't fight it when you shift with him so that your back is against the wall and pull him back gently so that his back rests against your chest, his head leaning in the crook of one shoulder and turned toward your neck a little, resting under your chin. He doesn't have the energy to fight it, nor does he really want to. He wants to stay just like this, he wants you to hold him and keep doing all the little things you're doing that make feeling this sick not so bad.

But he doesn't deserve it.

It'll push you away.

He knows it’ll make it hurt worse but he decides he’ll give himself five minutes of this. Five minutes of your care before he leaves so that you’re not having to deal with him or see him like this. 

The newness of your relationship heightens his fear and anxiety, you've never seen him like this, sick or injured, and he's sure this vulnerability will make you leave. You've seen him cry once, when he told you everything, but other than that you haven't seen him this vulnerable.

Or at least not that he realizes. Because you know that every time Andrew tells you something about himself, every time he shows you something he likes, every time he tells you one of his fears, every time he tells you how he's feeling, every time he lets you see his emotions, every time he says I love you, he's being just as vulnerable as he consciously feels he is right now, even if he doesn't realize it. You know what all of that means, how special it is, what a gift it is.

You know it's Andrew Cody handing you his heart on a silver platter, gifting you the ability to destroy him and trusting that you won't in the face of every traumatic memory that tells him not to.

You're not sure what you ever could've possibly done to earn that, but holding his heart in yours is a privilege you'll never take for granted and that ability to destroy him is one you'll never use.

Andrew's also sure you'll leave once you realize how weak he is right now.

Because this isn't who he is. He's the enforcer. The protector. That's his job. Always has been. Smurf made that very clear, made it very clear that's all he's truly good for, doing all the dirty work and terrible shit, taking every hit. Protecting his family at any cost to himself and his psyche.

And so what good is he to you if he's weak and vulnerable and can't protect you? Why bother being with him if he can't do the one thing he's good for?

You're going to see it now and realize that the only thing he's good for is protection and you deserve more than that. You deserve someone who can give you everything you need exactly how you need it.

Deep down Andrew knows that you've seen him this vulnerable before, that you do all the time. He knows you don't think he's weak right now. Deep down, beneath the flu and exhaustion and fever foggy brain, Andrew knows that in your mind, he's good for so much more than protection. That you're not with him for protection. That he gives you everything you need exactly how you need it or does his fucking damnedest to try, which is all you truly need. He knows he's safe in your relationship, that he's safe with you, that he can be this vulnerable and this weak in front of you and can trust that you won't go anywhere, won't use it against him or take advantage of him or throw it in his face later. He knows that. He trusts you.

But sick and fevered and exhausted, and therefore irrational and illogical, Andrew struggles to remember and truly believe and hold onto all of that. It has nothing to do with you or what you are or aren't doing or saying, and everything to do with him and his mind and what he believes he deserves and the trauma that's taught his brain patterns and what happens next.

The other shoe will drop. He knows it. Maybe it's better for it to be now, six months in as opposed to six years in.

One would be enough, he's sure, and both are present here, so Andrew works himself up in his mind and convinces himself that if this continues, you'll run. That seeing him this weak and vulnerable will make you leave.

But then you kiss as much of his temple as much as you can and brush some sweaty curls from his forehead and start rubbing his tummy and it breaks through. Andrew remembers and he thinks maybe you'll stay and everything will be okay and he won't lose you.

It's not quite that simple, his mind is still a battleground, still all over the place vacillating between you staying and you running, him getting more time with you and you leaving him, but it's better, his mind is quieter, the fear not quite as intense, his certainty not as certain. You make it so much better in those three stunningly simple moves.

He has to try one more time, though. Has to try and push you away first, get you to leave at his suggestion because then he'll have had control over it, you'll have done what he told you to and so it won't hurt so bad. Or at least that's what he tells himself.

Before he can though he's pushing himself off you to be sick again, and you're right there with him leaning forward to rub his back and murmur sweet reassurances, press a couple of kisses to his back over the shirt he's very quickly starting to drench with sweat as his fever climbs higher. All of it gets worse. It feels like he's only just finished with this round and has only started to move off his knees when he's lurching forward to be sick again. And you stay right there with him.

Neither of you are sure how long it continues like that, where Andrew barely gets a break between the rounds of throwing up. It's long enough for you to have helped him get out of his shirt and jeans because you could feel him getting way too hot, and long enough for him to have run out of anything left for his body to throw up three times over, you both swear. However long it is in reality, it's too long for the both of you. Andrew's body is exhausting out which means his mind is too and so he's back to being totally and completely convinced you're going to leave if you continue to stay and see him like this and if he asks you for anything more than what you've already done for him.

It's a little ironic almost, but in the least funny of ways because you're behind him still rubbing his back and soothing him and pushing sweaty curls off his forehead and out of the way and nearly in fucking tears because you hate seeing him this miserable and in this much pain and not being able to do a single fucking thing about it. Because you can read the pain in the way his body is tensed up, the strain of being sick, especially when it turns into mostly dry heaves, making the body aches that are burning his muscles and his headache a thousand times worse.

He never complains though. Not a single word of complaint. Just some thank yous and the occasional I'm sorry.

When he finishes this time Andrew stays slumped forward as he breathes hard and tries to get himself back under any level of control. For the first time in a while he doesn't feel like he's going to imminently be sick again. It's not over, he still feels like he'll be sick again, but not for a bit.

You seize the opportunity of him not being sick and needing your immediate comfort and not leaning into you. You have no idea that you're about to send Andrew into a tailspin.

"I'll be right back, okay? I just want to grab us a few things," you tell him softly as you stand up behind him, kiss the top of his head and grab his shirt and jeans before walking out of the room, texting your friends to let them know you won't make it as you start to speed around the house gathering supplies.

There it is, Andrew thinks.

He knew it.

He knew it.

You're leaving him. You saw how weak and vulnerable he is and you're leaving.

A few tears fall and he's quick to wipe them away, is glad he can blame them on the force of being sick.

He needs to get out of here. It hasn't been two minutes yet but being in your space is killing him, hurts worse than his body and stomach and head combined.

You're gone. He lost you.

Andrew's sick again.

"Shit!"

Andrew's just able to hear you hiss the word and a dulled thump of a bunch of something hitting the carpet outside the bathroom.

And then your hand is on his back and he can feel you kneel behind him again. "I'm sorry, Handsome, I thought I'd have a little more time. It's okay. You're okay, I've got you, I promise. I'm here." You press a kiss into the hot, sweaty skin of his upper back.

You came back. Andrew doesn't understand why.

He stays leaning forward again when he finishes this time, and it's not a position you love. One, because it can't be comfortable for him and two, because you're worried that if he gets even a little dizzy or slips at all he's going to end up slamming his head on the tile of the floor or the tile of the edge of the shower bath combo you have.

"Andrew?" You shift a little behind him. Andrew forces himself to sit up a little and turn slightly to look at you. "Do you think you can sit against the wall here and sip on this pedialyte? Just while I make things a little more comfy, yeah?" You've never been more glad that you keep a bottle in the fridge for when you inevitably forget to drink water for a week or so and the dehydration finally catches up with you.

He gives you a single nod. He'll do whatever you want if it means you'll stay and help him and hold him. God, he'd really like you to hold him. Or to rest his head in your lap.

You move and help Andrew get sitting up against the wall. He takes the bottle of pedialyte from you when you offer it but just looks at it for a minute. He knows he nodded but holding the bottle makes it feel like such a bad idea. "I'm just going to throw it up."

"Will you try some really tiny sips? Like really, really tiny." You give him a small encouraging smile.

"Okay," he whispers.

Something about it feels automatic in a way. Choice-less. Like he thinks there's only one right answer. You don't like it. You don't want him feeling like he has to do anything for you, now or ever. You don't want to be overbearing.

"Hey," you tell him softly, wrap your hand gently around his arm before he can bring the bottle to his lips. "You can say no. You can say no to anything I do or offer, Andrew. It won't upset me."

A beat of silence passes between the two of you and you realize he didn't think he could, that the something more you felt going earlier relates to this. You let go of his arm and are still trying to figure out what to say when Andrew moves the bottle closer to his lips. "I want to try," he mumbles before taking the smallest sip just like you instructed.

You nod slowly and watch him take another sip before you turn your attention to what you dropped outside of the room. You fill the plastic cup you brought with you with some water and put the washcloth you grabbed from the towel closet in it, set them down in the corner where the wall meets the bath.

Andrew continues to sip on the pedialyte as he watches you fold a large, old quilt into quarters and then spread it out over the bathroom floor, gently picking his outstretched legs up to get it under them. You throw another couple of blankets in the room and grab the drink you brought for yourself and then settle in the corner by the cup.

You look over at him and smile softly, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious about all of this. "I, um, I thought you'd probably want to lay down but stay in the bathroom and the quilt won't make it super comfy but it should be better than laying directly on the tile, especially with the body aches."

There are a million things Andrew wants to say. He wants to tell you to go. He wants to push you away and tell you to leave him here before he ruins everything with this. He wants to tell you he'll never be able to articulate how loved he feels in this moment. He wants to tell you he loves you. He wants to cry at how sweet and thoughtful and loving what you've done is as he tells you thank you. One thought wins out.

"You should go."

The words don't surprise you. With the way he was looking at you, you kind of expected something like that. You know he's struggling to accept any of this, to accept any of your care. You know he thinks he doesn't deserve it and you get that, you really do. Because a lot of the time you don't feel like you deserve his love or care or any of the millions of things big and small that he does for you.

You tilt your head at him. "Why?"

"I don't want you seeing me like this," Andrew admits.

"Sick?"

He shakes his head slightly. "Weak."

Your eyebrows raise at the word. In retrospect you should've expected it, but for whatever reason you didn't. Probably because that word was nowhere on your radar. "You're not weak, Andrew. I don't think you're weak, I've never thought that. You're the strongest person I know." He doesn't say anything and you watch him for a moment, try to put your finger on what else is going on. "Do you want me to leave?"

The look in his eyes and the way his body flinches toward you give you your answer long before he forces the word out. "No," he whispers.

"Okay," you nod slowly, "that's good, because I don't want to leave." The longing in Andrew's eyes when you say that is what makes it hit you. "I know you think you don't deserve my care and comfort and I get that, I promise I do, you know I do, that that's a shared struggle. But are you afraid that this is going to make me leave? That you being sick and needing or wanting me or to be taken care of is going to make me leave now or tomorrow or in a month or a year?"

He's quiet for a moment but you can tell he's trying to think of what to say through the fog of his illness. He doesn't give you a yes or no answer when he does speak, but he answers the questions anyway. "I shouldn't need to be taken care of, I should be able to just… take care of myself," he finally mumbles. Yes.

You read between his lines so perfectly it's almost scary. "Andrew, my love, this isn't going to make me go anywhere. I'm not going to leave because you're sick and I'm taking care of you. I'm not going to leave because you're sick and you want me to take care of you or need me to. I want to take care of you the same way you take care of me. And I'm not going to leave if you want or need me to take care of you one day when you're not sick or hurt but just because you're down or feeling needy or for no reason at all. I’m going to take care of you, happily. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I'm staying."

"I'm not with you for what you can do for me, in any sense, or for how you can protect me. Who you are is enough. You are enough. Just you. I don't need you to do anything for me, ever, that's not why I'm with you. I'm with you for you. And I don't say I love you because I love the things you can do for me or how you protect me, though I do love the things you do for me and how you protect me and love me and make me feel loved, don't get me wrong. But I say I love you because I love you."

You give him a soft smile, your heart aching at the way he's been treated and taught that he's not allowed to need or want while he's sick, that he's only worth what he can do for someone, only deserves love and affection in equal proportion to what he does for someone, that love and affection will be taken away and disappear if he's vulnerable. "I really don't care about what you can or can't do for me or whether you can protect me or whatever else you're thinking about. I care about you. You wanting and needing me when you're sick and not feeling well physically or mentally makes me happy. Not happy that you're sick or not feeling well, but happy that I'm where you turn, I'm who you turn to, I'm who you want and need."

Andrew slumps against the wall a little despite how hard he tries not to. Keeping himself sitting up even with the help of the wall is exhausting and painful. He just wants to lay down with his head in your lap and have you play with his hair and scratch at his scalp. But more than he wants that he wants you to stay. He tries to take your words in and really believe them, internalize them so that he'll calm down a little and the nausea from anxiety won't be adding to the nausea from whatever illness he has. But it's hard. He trusts you, he really, truly does. It's just so, so incredibly hard to get his mind to go against every learned instinct that tells him you'll leave.

And it's scary, the thought of losing you. He'd rather suffer through this physically and keep you than take comfort from you right now and have it push you away and you leave, than have to suffer the loss of you. He's not sure he could come back from losing you, from not being enough while simultaneously being too much. He's not sure he could survive your broken promises.

Those thoughts compound everything because now he feels like he’s worse than a piece of shit for doubting you when you've never given him a single reason to doubt you and every reason to trust you and your word. How does he explain that to you? How does he try to get you to see that he does trust you and your word, he just can't hold onto it right now? He doesn't deserve you. This is just bringing him further certainty on that point. His head pounds, the whirlwind of thoughts straining his brain and amplifying his headache.

"Andrew." You murmur his name just loud enough to get his attention. "You're thinking about all of this way too much, Darling, and I get it because I do the same thing." You tilt your head at him and hold a hand out. It hurts seeing him feeling so poorly and hurting so much physically and mentally. All you want to do is hold him and make it better.

"I want to take care of you. I want you to be clingy, as clingy as you want, I want you to be almost literally adhered to me. I want you to want to sleep on me. I want you to give into how shitty you feel and let yourself feel it and let yourself want to be taken care of even if maybe, yeah, you don't strictly need it in a sense. If that's all stuff you want, then that's what I want," you nod to emphasize your words. "I want to be a safe and comforting space for you, I want you to know you can turn to me whenever for whatever reason or no reason at all and that I'll take care of you, willingly and happily."

"You're allowed to be taken care of and you're allowed to want to be taken care of. I'm not trying to be condescending or instructive, I promise. I just want you to know that because I know your whole life has taught you the opposite. You deserve to be taken care of. You deserve to be loved and held through all of the shitty things life throws at you and us. You deserve to not have to be strong all the time and you deserve to not have to always do everything alone and you deserve to not have to always take care of yourself." You pause and hold your hand out for him. "Even if you don't think you deserve any of that, I know you do."

You know you've thrown a lot at him, probably more than you should've asked his exhausted, fever foggy brain to take in and process and believe. But you can see in his eyes the way he's truly doing his best to try to accept your words and not fight them, the way he's thinking and trying to get his brain to let him want and be clingy and miserable and taken care of.

"Will you come here?" you murmur. "Come be with me, yeah? You can lay on me however you want, I'll hold you however you want. Please."

Andrew's eyes hold your gaze for another few seconds before dropping down to your hand, longing filling his eyes and washing over his face and mixing with his anxious hesitancy so that he looks painfully conflicted. He knows what he wants to do. And he knows what he should do. And he knows that those are the same thing and that it's safe to. But he still finds himself frozen as body aches sear through his nerves and he starts sweating and flushing from his fever again. "I…"

"Andrew," you wiggle your fingers at him and nod, confident and steady and reassuring. "I've got you. I promise."

A few seconds pass and then he nods once, pushes himself off the wall as you move closer to him to help keep him steady as he gets over to where you've made a spot for yourself. You get yourself comfortable as he sits facing you on one side.

Before you can tell him you're good for him to get comfy however he wants he speaks. He needs to be looking at you properly for this. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you and being so difficult."

You smile at him softly, bring a hand up and smooth back a few sweaty curls, hold one side of his face gently. "I forgive you for snapping. We all have our moments. But you aren't being difficult." You shake your head at him. "Not even close."

"I know it's, I know that it's safe, you're safe." Exhausted and glassy hazel eyes plead with yours. "I trust you, I promise, I just…"

"I know," you reassure him. "I know it's different when you're sick and feeling vulnerable and weak and so things you know at any other time aren't always there for your brain to grasp and hold onto in the same way. We are so similar in our thoughts, sometimes, Andrew. It would be funny and cute if they weren't shitty thoughts." You give him a wry smile with a flash of your brows and he lets out a small huffed laugh that makes your heart soar. "I promise I'm not offended or hurt and I don't feel bad or like I'm not enough and don't do enough or that you don't trust me. I understand. And I promise you I'm not going anywhere and I will tell you and reassure you of that as much as you need, okay?"

Andrew nods and you brush your thumb over his cheek and then give his face the gentlest squeeze before leaning forward and pressing a lingering kiss to his too warm forehead that he leans into. "I love you. That's not going anywhere either," you murmur, lips brushing against his skin. "Promise."

"I love you too," Andrew whispers.

You press one more kiss to his forehead that he's pretty sure he could melt into if you'd let him and then settle yourself again and smile at him. "How would you like me?"

"I just wanna lay down," he mumbles, grimacing in pain.

"You wanna put your head in my lap?"

Andrew is nodding and saying, "yeah," before you finish the question.

You help him get laying down, hear him hiss in pain as he lays on his side and shifts to get his head in your lap facing away from you comfortably, can see the pain twist his face as you look down at him. You hate it. You wish there was more you could do. You'd give him meds but you're pretty sure they'd hit his stomach and make him throw up immediately.

One of your hands finds his curls as soon as his head is on your lap, the other hanging on his shoulder for now as he settles, gets his head comfortable and rests his top hand just above your knee. He's still for a moment, you know he's still trying to adjust and let himself have this, but after a minute or so he surprises you a little and moves his bottom hand up until his fingers brush yours and takes your hand, lets himself have even more of your comfort.

As you lace your fingers together the best you can and continue to run your hand through his hair he turns his head and looks back and up at you a bit. He's breathing a little harder from all the movement and pain and you pray he isn't pushing himself up and out of your lap to lunge for the toilet and be sick within minutes of laying down and getting comfortable on you. "Thank you."

It's the softest thing you've ever heard from him.

"Of course. Anytime," you murmur. "I mean it. I like you being close. And it makes me feel better having you close when you're sick, honestly. Lets me keep a better eye on you."

Andrew just hums in response and you feel his body start to slowly relax more and more as your closeness and smell and hand moving through his curls perfectly help sleep find him.

It's short lived, unfortunately. Very short lived. Andrew can't be asleep or at least dozing on you for more than thirty minutes before you feel his body tense and then he's sitting up and getting to the toilet and is sick again. 

And you're right there behind him again, rubbing his back and giving him soft words of encouragement, reaching around and rubbing his tummy because all you want to do is comfort him. You wish you could take it away, take it on for him despite how much you hate throwing up. Watching him suffer is far worse.

Andrew is still amazed at how much your presence and your touch and your words make it better, make it so much less awful than it could be. He slumps back into you breathing hard, knowing he's going to be sick again soon and so not going to bother making either of you move to go back so he can lay down just to immediately or close to immediately have to move again.

You reach behind yourself and grab the washcloth from the cup, ring it out a couple of times as much as you can with one hand and then use it to dab at Andrew's forehead and neck, wipe off the sweat that's accumulating. You kiss the top of his head, reach around with the hand not using the washcloth and rub at his tummy again. He all but melts back into you a little more at the feeling and you smile to yourself.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

"Course, Handsome," you murmur back. "You think you could take some medicine? Something acetaminophen or ibuprofen to help get your fever down?"

As soon as Andrew starts to think about taking meds and having to swallow them down his stomach lurches painfully and he gags a little, manages to keep from throwing up again quite yet. "No, I don't think I could even get them down."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even brought them up and risked making you sick again." Your hand slows just slightly and he can feel you stiffen a little as he reclines against your chest and he knows you're upset with yourself.

"Don't apologize or blame yourself, it's not your fault." He grabs your hand that's rubbing soothing circles over his tummy with one of his and squeezes it gently before releasing it.

You hum in acknowledgement, clearly not convinced and Andrew has no idea why it makes him realize something he somehow hadn't thought about until now. He doesn't understand how his brain fucked up so massively and ignored the obvious and is immediately livid with himself.

He sits up out of your arms and you go to follow, thinking he's about to be sick again but he's not. "You should go, I'm gonna get you sick with this, I'm sorry I didn't think about it earlier."

The concern and worry and almost sheepishness in his voice makes your heart break. You know he can't help it, that he doesn't truly think you'd leave him over something like that, but that he's struggling to bring what he knows to the front of his mind over what he feels, how he thinks you should react.

"Hey," you say quietly, nuzzle your nose against his sweaty neck and kiss the back of his head as you let your hands rest on his waist. "You could've told me to go earlier and I wouldn't have gone. And you can tell me to go now and I won't go. I can't let you be in here sick and miserable alone. You deserve so much better than that, and getting sick is a risk I'm more than willing to take to help you. I think I'd be more miserable sitting right outside the bathroom door listening to you suffer alone than I'll be if I get sick. And it's an if. We don't know that I will."

"No, but…" Andrew trails off as he feels the certain wave of nausea and stomach pain that tell him he's about to be sick again. "I…" He shakes his head slightly before he leans forward to be sick again.

"It's okay," you murmur softly, rub his back gently like you have been. "No matter what happens it's gonna be okay and we're gonna be okay and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Andrew hates himself for it but in the moment he's not sure if he believes it. He's not sure his mind will let him believe it. He tries to believe you. He wants to believe you. And deep down somewhere subconsciously he does believe you and he does trust implicitly and completely or he wouldn't let you in the way he has. But his whole life, almost everything that's ever happened to him has made him weary of kindness and love and trusting others and letting someone else take care of him. There's always been punishment, verbal, physical, and psychological.

You don't hold his difficulty trusting against him. You know it's not personal, that it has nothing to do with you, nothing to do with what you say or don't, what you do or don't do, how you treat him or how you don't. And you know that he does trust you, that he does believe you. Because you also know that if he didn't he wouldn't let you in how he has.

At some point he finally stops and after sitting up for a few minutes he turns his head a little to half look back at you. "I'd like to lay down again," he mumbles. "You don't have to stay."

You move your head and duck it down a little so you're in his line of sight even as he tries to avoid eye contact and give him a small smile. "I know I don't have to," you whisper.

You start to move back to where you guys were before he jumped up to be sick, help him as you do. He sips some of the pedialyte as you get yourself comfortable and make sure everything is within reach again. When you're ready and he feels like he's had as much as he can have to drink without risking immediately throwing it up, Andrew gets himself laying down with his head in your lap again.

This time his lower hand doesn't wait for yours to find his shoulder so that he can brush your fingertips with his and then take your hand. It just waits there for yours, fingers spread so you can lace them together how you did last time. Because he can't see your face and quite frankly because your fingers in his curls are already drawing him under Andrew misses the watery and slightly trembling smile that him holding his hand up for you causes you to make.

You lace your fingers together and squeeze gently as much as you can. "Get some sleep, Handsome," you murmur. It's only a few minutes later you feel him relax fully and get a little heavier on your lap when he falls asleep.

Your reaction to Andrew holding his hand up for you to take would seem absolutely ridiculous to anyone other than you because it was such a simple move. A lover seeking just a little more comfort from his partner while he lays on them curled up sick. But it's so much more than that with him and his past. It's trust. It's letting himself want comfort. It's letting himself seek comfort out. And him letting himself want and seek comfort while feeling awful and sick and vulnerable and weak like he said earlier is everything to you.

Like last time, you slip your hand from his at times to dab at him with the washcloth. When he finally gets the chills you get one of the lighter blankets you brought with you and put it over him, make sure you keep an eye on how hot he's getting.

Andrew is out for a while. You didn't look at the time but it has to be at least two hours. Your ass and feet are numb and hurt a bit but you have your phone and have been able to scroll and read and do whatever.

At some point you let your head rest against the wall and doze a bit. You're pulled back awake by Andrew letting out a soft groan of pain and flinching in on himself and you hate what you're sure that's going to precipitate.

You're proven correct a little less than a minute or so later when he's up being sick again, you right behind him and soothing him just like you have been, your ass and feet tingling as you get feeling back to them. It doesn't last as long this time which gives you some hope that he's through the worst of it at least in terms of throwing up. You talk softly together again and he sips on some more pedialyte.

This time he leans into how awful he feels even more, lets himself want and take a little more comfort from you. Lets himself not be the strong one. Andrew just leans back against you, his back against your chest and abdomen more or less, at an angle that leaves you wondering how on earth it's comfortable for him, but it clearly is because he's out on you like that again quickly.

He's not out anywhere near as long this time before he's sick again but this time is much shorter and he finally feels like he's not going to be sick again as he slumps back into you. "I fucking hate this," he groans quietly, an incredibly rare complaint that shatters you because if he's letting himself complain, even only in four words, it has to be bad.

"I know, my love, I hate it for you." You bend your head and kiss the top of his a few times before resting your cheek against it gently so he doesn’t have to take any real weight, just enough of  a press to feel close. "I'm sorry you're feeling so awful."

Andrew shakes his head just a little, his voice dipping down into irritation and anger, both clearly directed at himself. "If you get this from me I'll…" He doesn't even know what he'll do short of throwing himself off the nearest fucking cliff. "I'll…"

"You'll take care of me just like I'm taking care of you and once I'm better life will continue exactly the same as it was before we got sick," you murmur, your words gentle and reassuring. "We'll be exactly the same." You don't bring up the fact that there is absolutely no way in hell he will be in the bathroom with you if you do get sick and have to spend hours living in here. No way in fucking hell. It doesn't bother you at all when he’s sick in front of you because it's him and you love him. But the thought of him seeing you be sick just makes you vaguely embarrassed and feel gross.

"Yeah," he grunts. You know that's way too simple of an answer, that it wouldn't be that easy for him, he wouldn't be able to not hate himself the entire time you were sick. It wouldn't matter how much better he made you feel, wouldn't matter how much you told him that it wasn't truly him that got you sick, that it was a virus, that it was nothing he could help or control. He'd still hate himself the entire time and for a good while after you recovered.

He's still breathing hard and fairly slow and you know it's because he's in pain, probably has awful body aches setting in. And he does. He wants to get up and go to bed but that seems like so much fucking work right now and he knows that it's going to fucking hurt and he's just so tired. But it's not comfortable here, for him, or for you he imagines.

It's the fact that it's likely not comfortable for you that gives him the motivation and small boost of energy to get up and into bed. "Can we go to bed? I don't feel like I'll be sick again soon."

There's something about him asking that's at once so pure and sweet and Andrew of him and also so fucking awful because his life, his mother, if you can really call her that, has made him think he has to ask, that he can't just say what he wants or needs, especially when he's sick.

"We can do whatever you want or need, you don't have to ask." You move your cheek off the top of head and give him another kiss there before helping him sit up on his own. "You wanna shower before we get in bed?"

He would love to. God he would fucking love to. Showers make things better, especially showers with you. He knows the warm water would help soothe the body aches tearing him apart. But showering would be even more work than getting to bed and he's honestly not sure he could stand long enough for it to really help at all.

Andrew shakes his head slightly. "Too much work and standing."

You know he has to be feeling absolutely fucking awful and must be beyond exhausted if he's turning a shower down.

"Well how about you just sit in the tub, okay? We have the handheld shower head, you can sit and I'll wash you, okay?" You keep your tone as light and pressure free as you can, want him to know he can say no and it'll be okay, that you won't be offended or shut down or stop talking to him or stop taking care of him or leave. "I think getting the sweat off and just feeling clean might help you feel a little better."

You shift so that you can see him and give him a reassuring smile, a smile that you hope tells him you love him and want to help however you can. The conflict in his eyes is obvious, a look you recognize from earlier when you held your hand out to him.

It's dumb, perhaps, but this feels so much different for him. You bathing him is more… complete, in a way, it's you completely taking of him like he can't take care of himself when he can, he could if he really wanted to. It's completely surrendering himself in a way, or at least that's what it feels like to him. And while everything that's happened so far has reassured him, while you've reassured him and you've stayed, there's a huge part of him that's still terrified like he was earlier, that he'll be even more vulnerable like this, that he'll let himself not be the strong one, not be the protector and fill that role and you'll realize it and leave because if he can't fill that role then what is he truly offering you.

But then he's the only one of the two of you who thinks he has that role, isn't he? You don't. You never have.

That's something he's imposed on himself courtesy of his mother. Like you said earlier, you're not with him for what he can do for you or how he can protect you. As hard as that may be for him to wrap his mind around and believe, especially now while he's sick, at the end of the day he knows you'd never lie to him.

"Being taken care of, letting yourself be taken care of and wanting to be taken care of doesn't make you weak Andrew. Especially not in my eyes. I know how hard it is for you." And you do. You know how hard it is for him, how this is going to feel so much different than washing each other in the shower together. It's you washing him, not you washing each other. He's not giving anything, just being taken care of. And you know he still struggles with that. Accepting it and trusting it.

Andrew starts to nod slowly and the huge beaming smile you give him reassures him a little and at least makes him feel good that he was able to make you happy and smile. "Yeah, okay."

"Okay, great. I'll get it started." You get up and lean over him a little to reach the faucet and get the shower on and water heating up. "Can I feel you?" Andrew looks up at you a little confused about what exactly you mean. "I want to know how high your fever is to know how hot we can get the water."

"Yeah." Andrew is a little at war with himself. He's so appreciative of this and you and everything you're doing for him and he doesn't want to hurt you or upset you and he knows he should just grin and bear it, but the words slip out. "I really don't want to shower if it has to be cold or cool, I'm sorry."

"That's okay and more than understandable. If you're super warm and really shouldn't have much heat to the water I'll just turn it off." You say it so simply as you reach down and put the back of your hand to his forehead, like it doesn't upset you in the slightest, like you're not holding it against him or mad he accepted your help and then changed his mind. Of course Andrew knew that's how you'd react. It's just hard and his brain is so fuzzy and so it's all worse than normal.

He's definitely warm, warmer than he normally runs, but he's not as hot as he was for a while earlier. You're praying this is just some 24 hour thing that's working its way out of his system and so his fever won't spike again.

You don't think he's so warm that he really shouldn't have much heat to the water. Something closer to tepid would probably be better, but you know he won't go for it, truly understandably so like you told him, and showers are just so good for your Andrew. They help him reset and clear his mind as much as possible, help him physically relax which helps his mind follow. And you know he enjoys feeling clean after getting sweaty.

"Here, let me adjust it and then you can feel and decide, okay?" You reach back over and adjust the dial before putting your hand out into the stream. Once you think it's at an okay temperature you switch the shower so that water only comes out through the handheld shower head and test it like that. "See what you think about this?"

You bring the shower head down low and Andrew reaches over with one hand into the bath to feel the temperature. It's not as hot as he'd like but it's not cold, not going to make him feel colder. "It's good," he nods.

"Alright, Handsome, good." You set the shower head in the holder and keep your hands on him as he gets himself up enough to step into the shower bath combo and sit down. "Still okay?" you check with him when you bring the shower head down and start getting his hair wet.

"Feels nice." Andrew lets his eyes flutter closed as you get his hair and body wet, hold the shower head so that it feels just like he's standing under the normal one. He feels bad because he knows he's being even less talkative and more quiet than usual, especially compared to what he's like when the two of you are alone together. He knows you understand and get it but he still hates it. Hates that he's doing this to you.

Andrew knows how much reassurance you take from him talking to you, from just hearing his voice. You've never said it, in some ways he thinks you might try to hide it a little because you don't want him to feel pressured, but he sees it. He's always seen it. And so he's angry at and with himself from taking that from you and not being able to give it to you. 

"Good," you hum at him. You continue to hold the shower head so it feels like he's standing under the regular shower head for as long as you possibly can, switching hands on and off when your muscles start to scream because you want to give him this. Want to give him the shower soak that you know he loves and wants but doesn't have the energy for.

Andrew's not even truly aware of time passing. He lets his head hang forward slowly and actually nods off for a little bit because the water is warm enough and relaxing and he's so tired and you're nearby. You don't say anything, happy to sit on the edge of the tub and do this for him even when your ass is numb and your arms are burning.

When he rolls his shoulders and neck you speak to him softly. You'd love to give him more but you genuinely think your arms might fall off. "You wanna hold this while I shampoo you, Sweetheart?"

He opens his eyes back up and looks over his shoulder at you and nods, holds his hand out for it and then holds the shower head near his neck so that water runs over his back and chest and keeps him warm. "Do you have a headache?" you ask him as you get some of his shampoo in your palm.

"Yeah," he mumbles.

"Okay," you murmur as you lean in toward him and start lathering curls you adore more than is reasonable. "Let me know if this hurts or starts to hurt, okay?"

He nods silently and once you have his hair well lathered you start to give him a scalp massage, drag your nails over his skin gently, use the pads of your fingers to do something closer to a real massage. Andrew absolutely melts into it. It feels so good his eyes close again and his lips part as he breathes through them a little heavier because relief he didn't even realize he needed pours over him. You continue to switch between your nails and the pads of your fingers, start to drop your hands a little lower until you're massaging his neck gently and then slowly move out toward his shoulders and massage them for a bit before working your hands back up to his scalp.

The little sighs of relief and non-sexual pleasure that Andrew gives you, likely unknowingly, are all you need to keep going until your fingers hurt just as bad as the rest of your arms. Eventually you're forced to stop though. Your place has a good hot water heater but you don't want to risk it with how long you let him soak.

"Okay if I rinse you Sweetheart?" you ask softly.

"Yeah, whatever you want."

You don't make a comment that this isn't about you and what you want but him and what he wants and needs. It won't be productive at this point and might just end up making him feel bad in both directions and shut down a little. "Tilt your head back a little for me, yeah? I don't want to get soap in your eyes."

Andrew does as you ask while handing you the shower head and you bring it up to rinse his curls, run your hand through them a bit to make sure you get it all out. "I'm gonna hand you this back and get some conditioner on for you." He takes the shower head back from you and holds it where he had it earlier and stops tilting his head back.

You grab some conditioner and work it through his curls, hum to yourself softly as you do. He wears his curls just a little longer than he has before because you love it so much and he wants to make you happy and the length doesn't really bother him one way or the other.

"You wanna brush your teeth while that sits?" you ask as you finish up, cut into his line of water spraying down his back so you can get the extra conditioner off your hands quickly. He's quiet for a beat too long, partially lost in his head and partially just taken by surprise at the question somewhat. He just wasn't expecting it. "Sorry, you don't have to obviously, maybe that was a weird idea," you titter. "I just thought, you know, it's nice to brush your teeth after you're sick but that takes energy to stand there and do it so I thought maybe sitting in the shower would be better. I guess you could just sit on the toilet while you brush, but then still, to rinse you'd have to stand…"

"I'd like to, please," he murmurs once you trail off.

"Oh." It's almost half questioned, reflecting the way you'd already dismissed your own idea. "Yeah, okay, of course." You pop up from the edge of the tub and swallow down the slight groan of pain that comes from sitting there for so long after sitting on the floor even on top of the quilt for so long. You grab Andrew his toothbrush and some toothpaste and hand it to him, sit back down and hold the shower head for him as he brushes his teeth. You kick the quilt you had on the floor over so that it won't get wet when he gets out.

You trade again and he holds the shower head for a few seconds as you put back his toothbrush and the toothpaste, hands it back to you and tilts his head back a little once you're sitting again so that you can rinse the conditioner from his hair. It doesn't take long to get it rinsed out and you and Andrew move in silent harmony, don't have to say a word to each other for him to know that he's taking back the shower head and you're grabbing some body wash for him.

There's nothing wrong, the comfortable silence between you is simply a byproduct of how well you know each other and the quiet intimacy of the moment. Andrew turns the shower head so no water hits him and sprays against the wall instead and you get enough body wash in your hands and lather it a bit before you start to run your soapy hands all over him.

You use the perfect pressure, something more than a light touch or the pressure you'd normally use to wash him like this but not too much pressure, cognizant that he might still have some residual body and muscle aches. Your eyes track your hands as you wash him, take in his toned definition with the perfect softness he's kept, trace constellations in freckles you could easily spend the rest of your life trying to memorize.

It feels so ridiculous in the moment, but when Andrew only relaxes further the second he feels your touch you swear you almost burst into tears because you see him flinch all the time when people touch him and Deran has told you how bad it was with Smurf, how Andrew would flinch and be rigid most of the time with her, especially toward the end of her life. The feeling of tears make anxiety spike through you for a minute because while you know that Andrew is going to be just fine and is already doing better and this isn't even going to be remotely close to life-threatening, it still makes you think about it, about losing him for a second. Or several hundred. 

You don't know what you'd do without him. It makes you breathless to think about. You don’t know that you’re strong enough to bury him.

Andrew feels the same way. The way your hands glide over him with such care and reverence hits him square in the chest, and when you get to his tummy and he feels your hand soften as it starts to wash it and then rub at it soothingly just because you can and you think it'll make him feel better, he thinks he could cry. Because he can't believe he has you and you're doing all of this for him and speaking to him and looking at him with absolutely nothing but love and adoration and devotion on your beautiful face and in your eyes and your voice. 

He can't imagine ever losing you, ever not having you in his life, by his side, can't imagine not hearing your laugh or not getting to kiss you and feel you smile into it or hug you when everything is too much, and so that voice that had gotten quiet in the back of his mind flares a little and his anxiety about you leaving returns to where it was.

Once you've run your hands over him enough to sate you for right now you rinse his body and then wash his face for him. After another little soak you turn the water off and make sure he gets up safely, keep a hand on him as he steps out of the tub and then wrap him in one of your big fluffy towels and help dry him off.

You give him a hopeful smile after you hang the towel up and shove most of the stuff you'd brought into the bathroom with you into the hall out of the way for now. "Feeling a little better?"

"Yeah." He takes a step closer to you and grabs your hand, squeezes it. "Thank you," he whispers.

It's a thank you for asking but more than that it's a thank you for everything. Thank you for staying, thank you for making the floor more comfortable, thank you for letting him sleep on you, thank you for dabbing at him with a washcloth and rubbing his tummy and back while he was sick and thank you for showering him. Thank you for loving him.

"Of course," you murmur, step closer and squeeze his hand back as you press a soft kiss to his chest. "Let's get you to bed."

Andrew nods and you grab the most important things you'd brought into the bathroom with you, your phones and the pedialyte and then lace your fingers in his and walk to your bedroom together. You pull open your comforter for him to slip under and then step to the side so he can climb in.

He tells himself you not getting in doesn't mean anything. You just want to get him in first. "Thank you," he tells you again quietly as he slides in and leans against the headboard for now, nervously, if he's honest.

His nervousness and anxiety skyrocket when you sit on the edge of the bed next to him instead of getting in and look conflicted, like you're fighting yourself about whether you really want to say whatever's on your mind. It's quickly relieved though.

"I'm hesitating to ask because I don't want to make you sick again, but do you think you could try to have some broth?" You deliberately don't add 'for me' at the end of your question like you didn't with the pedialyte because you know it'll unfairly make it harder for him to say no because he'll feel like if he does then he's depriving you of something you want. And you have no interest in pressuring him or manipulating him. "I really think it'll help you feel better, keep your body fueled to fight this off."

His immediate reaction is no, but not because he thinks it'll make him sick. Because he doesn't want you to leave, doesn't want to not be able to see you. He knows he doesn't need to be worried, he knows and trusts that you're not going to leave and disappear and tell him to be out by a certain time. He's sure it's probably terribly codependent and wrong and he knows it's a stupid reason not to have some broth. But Andrew is just so fucking scared.

This is scary for him. This level of vulnerability. It's never gone well for him before. And he knows you're not his before, that you're so fucking different from everything in his life before you, but it's so difficult to not let his past tint his view of the present and the future.

He reminds himself of everything that's already happened today, all the things you've done for him, how you ran out of the bathroom to grab some stuff earlier and came right back. Yes, he could ask to go with you or just follow you out there but he knows you want him in bed and frankly that he wants to be in bed. And he needs to do this. For you and for himself. He just hopes the anxiety of being alone suddenly and you not being in the room with him won't make him sick.

God, he needs to get a fucking grip, he tells himself, asks himself why he can’t just be fucking normal.

He lets out a long breath and nods slowly. "Yeah, I'll try."

You smile widely at him and it makes it all worth it. "Okay, Handsome, thank you." You scoot toward him a little and kiss his cheeks and his forehead before you slip off the edge of the bed. Before you head to the kitchen you make sure his phone and the pedialyte are right next to him in case he needs either and close the curtains.

Once you're out of your room you run and grab your earbuds, put one in and then facetime him as you walk into the kitchen and start looking around for something you can prop your phone up with that will make it so you're in frame the whole time and he can see you, your earbud making it so that the microphone will be with you. 

Because you know. 

You know how hard this is for him and how much it's freaking him out. Given your conversation earlier and him trying to push you away, you know how scary it is for him, how real it feels to him that you could just leave, walk out the door and never come back into his life. At the same time you know the rational part of him trusts you. It's just that right now that part is struggling to be in control. So if you can do this one simple little thing to help him, you absolutely will.

Andrew is almost annoyed when his phone starts ringing. He can't be fucking asked to deal with his brothers or J right now. He sighs as he grabs his phone and is frozen for a second when he sees that it's you trying to facetime him. He connects of course, your face coming into view and drawing up into a cute smile at his slightly puzzled expression.

"Hi." You step away from your phone and start moving in the kitchen, looking to see what broth you have. In an ideal world you'd have time to dress it up a bit or even make him chicken noodle soup from scratch. But it's not an ideal world and that's okay. You know he doesn't mind. You know he'd frankly much rather have you in bed with him. "I'm assuming you're okay with chicken broth? I don't think I, oh… No, wait… Yeah I do have beef broth here if you'd prefer that."

His head spins as he fully processes what's going on. What you're doing for him. He realizes you're waiting on an answer from him. "Chicken is good."

"Alright, Handsome, I'm going to heat it up on the stove. I know it'll take a bit longer but I'm struggling to be able to bring myself to bring you microwaved chicken broth." You step closer to your phone and watch his reaction. If he really needs you to get back as soon as possible you'll go, and you know you'll be able to tell by the look on his face. Luckily, the facetime does what you hoped it would and seems to calm him enough that he's okay with it, giving you a small nod and even the quickest quark of his lips at the corners. Andrew finds your inability to bring him microwaved chicken broth to be a very you thing in a way that's so cute it warms his heart.

He's struck by the way that from the start of the call, you haven't pretended that you're doing this for you. You haven't said you called because you wanted to keep an eye on him or wanted to talk to him or had a question for him. You just ignore it. You don't offer a reason why you called, don't bring it up. Both of you know that you didn't call for you, not really. As much as you do like the fact that you get to keep an eye on him this way, that isn't why you decided to do this.

While saying that white lie might be okay with other partners, you think that you saying this was for yourself when you both know it's not might almost feel at least somewhat belittling to Andrew, even though you know he knows you'd never mean it that way.

You start moving around in the kitchen to grab a pot and a few very light seasonings to make the broth more palatable. As you move and stir the broth while it warms up you chatter to him. Not too much because you know he has a headache and too many words, especially talking too fast, would just make it worse. You talk about whatever pops into your head so he can hear your voice. Occasionally he'll say something back or make a little noise that tells you he heard you.

Andrew never really saw marriage for himself. For lots of reasons. He never thought he'd find someone he wanted to marry. Never felt the need to. Or at least that's what he tried to convince himself, that he'd be fine without that kind of love, even once he'd had a taste of it. He had moments where he wasn't sure that, if he found someone who he wanted to marry, someone he loves more than anything, he should subject that person to him forever. He didn't think he deserved it, that kind of love, that kind of commitment. He's still not sure if he does.

So he never saw it for himself. Never thought he would.

But when he thinks about all you've done for him today without being asked, when he listens to you talk about whatever comes to your mind while watching you stand at the stove and heat the broth up for him after facetiming him so that he could see you and you could help soothe some of his anxiety, when you go out of your way to prop your phone up so it could see the whole kitchen and get an earbud so that you'd have the mic with you and he could hear you easily, when you did that for him without him asking, without you asking him and making him have to say yes he wants that, when you knew what he needed, picked up on his anxiety and saw what he needed without him having to say a word, when you kept it so natural and simple and didn't comment on it, when you didn't make it a big deal or make it seem like you were doing him some huge favor he was going to have to repay you for, when you loved him enough to just do it, to just give him what he needs when you realize he needs it, Andrew knows.

Andrew knows he's going to ask you to marry him one day. And despite how deep down he buries it for now so as not to jinx things, Andrew knows you're going to say yes, that you're going to say yes somewhere between a giggle and a sob as your eyes sparkle with tears that fall over your lash line and glitter down your cheeks, that you're going to say yes while you look at him like he's all you need to survive and be happy. Him. Just him. Just him as he is, no matter what that looks like on any given day. Just Andrew. Just your Andrew.

Because that's all he ever has to be with you. Him. However he needs or wants to be, however he just is. It's always enough for you. He's always enough for you.

Once the broth is warm enough you turn the stove off and get it into a bowl for him, grab yourself a drink and something quick to eat from the fridge, hang up and head back into your bedroom. As he starts to sip at the broth and before you start to eat you make sure there's a trash can next to the side of his bed just in case and turn the nightstand lamps on and the overhead light off, shut your bedroom door. The more broth he has and keeps down, the more relaxed you both feel, and at some point he offers to try some meds which makes you smile as you grab them for him. You hate seeing him in pain and still a little feverish and know the meds will help with that, hopefully allowing him to get some good sleep.

When you've both finished you set his bowl and what's left of what you grabbed on your nightstand to deal with later. Right now you just want to get him some sleep.

There are two things you know Andrew wants right now. The first he might ask for. The second you know he absolutely will not ask for right now.

You're not going to make him ask for either, of course.

The first thing you know he wants is you naked. Andrew loves sleeping together naked, snuggling together naked. He loves feeling your soft skin against his, being able to run his hands over you and truly feel you, be as close as he possibly can to you, have absolutely nothing between the two of you.

You don't bother sliding out of bed to get the comfortable clothes you've been in all day off, just wiggle them off as much as you need to and then toss them on the floor so that you're naked. You can feel his eyes on you from where he's still resting against the headboard waiting for you, already naked himself since he never put any clothes on after the shower.

"Need anything?" you ask as you turn to look at him. In retrospect maybe you should've asked before you took your clothes off in case you need to get up, but oh well.

"No," he shakes his head slightly. 

"Okay." You smile and nod at him as you turn off your nightstand lamp and slide your way closer to him on the bed. He starts to slide down from the headboard so that the two of you can get comfy, turns the other lamp off as he does.

The second thing you know he wants, probably desperately, is to be held.

And you know that he will not ask for it.

Maybe he will someday when you've been together much longer than six months and when he's not already scared you're going to leave him because you've had to take care of him so much. But for now he won't and that's okay. You'll make sure he still gets what he wants and maybe even needs. "Why don't you lay on your side facing the wall, Handsome?"

"Okay." Andrew does as you ask, knowing where it's going but still worrying you're going to scoot back to the edge of your side of the bed far away from him so you don't have to touch him.

After he gets comfortable you slide up next to him and spoon him from behind the best you can with your size difference. You plaster yourself against his back, rest your head just behind and slightly below his on the same pillow so that you only have to move your head forward slightly to kiss the back of his neck. Your legs tangle together naturally and you adjust so your bottom arm goes under the pillow and then bends at the elbow so you can run your hand through his hair. You slide your top hand over his side to his tummy and start to rub soothing circles into it, anxious about him getting sick again all because you wanted him to have some broth. You'll feel so fucking awful.

Andrew melts into it, melts into your body and your hands. But he has to check. He doesn't want you to feel like this is something you feel like you have to do and end up resenting him. He knows that's his mind spinning out but he can't help it, especially not right now. "You sure?" he asks quietly.

"Of course." You press a kiss to the back of his neck and Andrew can feel you smile against his skin and any remaining tension bleeds out of him. "I love spooning you."

"I love it when you do." His admission is whispered and there's something so achingly beautiful and sweet about it and the timing of it.

You kiss his neck again, right at the nape over his curls. "I know you do, Handsome," you murmur. "I love you. Get some sleep, okay? If you need anything just wake me. I'm gonna stay right here and hopefully you'll wake up feeling better." You can't help but kiss the back of his neck a few times, nuzzle your nose there.

"Okay, I love you too," he mumbles, sleep already coming for him hard with the exhaustion of being sick and the fever and your hand rubbing his tummy so soothingly and your other hand in his hair brushing through his curls and scratching at his scalp. "You'll be okay?"

You smile to yourself at the way he thinks of you, worries about and checks in on you always. "Of course, you know I'm always down to sleep."

Andrew hums in acknowledgement, manages to get out a few last mumbled words. "True. My sleepy girl."

You could scream. It's a testament to yourself control that you don’t scream about how fucking adorable that was and that you don’t fucking bite him with how cute it was and how hard it triggered your cuteness aggression. His sleepy girl. His fucking sleepy girl. You can't think of anything else to aspire to be in life right now. Just Andrew's sleepy girl.

"Yeah," you whisper against his skin. "I'm yours, Andrew. Always."

Both of you fall asleep and you have no idea what time it is when feeling Andrew stretch against you wakes you up. He gently starts to try to roll, waiting for you to roll with him. You think it means he's awake and taking care not to smush you. "Andrew?" you whisper.

There's no answer. He's still out.

You roll with him and let how he moves in his sleep guide you. He ends up laying almost completely on top of you with his head on your chest. It's admittedly not the most comfortable position you've been in with him, but it's not so bad that you can't deal with it. You just focus on the fact that he was asleep when he got you into this position. That his body and mind are subconsciously comfortable and relaxed and feel safe enough with you to roll on top of you to cuddle this way during the night. You tangle your legs with his again the best you can and wrap your arms around him so that he still feels held.

You keep yourself awake for a few minutes so that you can enjoy this, Andrew laying like this on you.

Hours later Andrew wakes with a half start from a nightmare that today went exactly as it had earlier except when he woke up in bed you were gone. You were just gone and you never came back. He never saw you again.

But Andrew wakes up to the sound of your heart beating beneath his ear and your arms wrapped around him, holding him as tight as you can while you sleep.

A few seconds later you stir, sensing that he was awake. "Hey, you okay?" you mumble, sleep thick and adorable in your voice.

"I'm good. Gonna fall back asleep," he mumbles back with the same sleep in his voice.

You hum at him in agreement and force yourself to stay awake until you feel him relax all the way and hear and feel his breathing change and know he's fallen back to sleep. It doesn't take you long to follow him back into dreamland. And you stay.

The next morning Andrew wakes up to the sound of your heart beating beneath his ear again. You stayed.

Andrew is still worried, terrified, that tonight or in or a month or a year you'll think back on yesterday and realize it was too much, that he was too much and he offers nothing and you'll leave him.

He's feeling much better physically, it was some 24 hour thing like you'd been praying. You don't have anything planned so the two of you stay in bed for the most part and just snuggle and watch movies together and you tell him how glad you are that he's feeling better. Toward the end of the night you keep jerking yourself awake every time you fall asleep on his chest so that you guys can spend more time together and you can finish the movie.

"Hey," Andrew murmurs, his arms wrapped around you, one hand rubbing up and down your back in a way that's lulling you right to sleep. "Let yourself fall asleep, sleepy girl."

You hum and sigh, almost grumble a little as you wiggle your way up him slightly so that you can bury your head in his neck and nuzzle into it, mumble something completely unintelligible into his skin that makes him smile to himself. A minute or so later your breathing evens out and he feels you go dead weight on him, asleep on his chest curled into him. And you stay.

A month later Andrew's buried deep inside of you, drinking down every little noise you make for him. His favorite is when you say his name, when you sigh it or moan it or scream it a little. Andrew. After, once he's confident you can stay standing for more than a few seconds at a time, you soak in the shower together, speak in touches and kisses. You spoon him that night as you both fall asleep. Instead of rubbing his tummy though you let him take your top hand and hold it in one of his hands against his chest. And you stay.

A year later you and Andrew are moving into your new place together. That night you find yourselves on your mattress on the floor in your bedroom of your new place snuggled up in bed together. The furniture people had fucked up and gotten the date of the delivery for your new bedroom set wrong and you'd already tossed the old frame. So a mattress on the floor it is. It feels kind of ridiculous and comical and that's what makes it so perfect and has you laughing together and reminiscing and dreaming about the future while cuddled under the sheets until you both fall asleep on your sides pressed against each other. And you stay.

And three years later Andrew asks you to marry him.

And just like he knew as he watched you heat up chicken broth for him over facetime all those years ago, with eyes sparkling with tears that are falling over your lash line and glittering down your cheeks as you look at him like all you need to survive and be happy is him, just him, just your Andrew, somewhere between a giggle and a sob you say it. "Yes." 

I JUST WANT TO LOVE HIM!!!!! HE DESERVES EVERYTHING!!!!!!! I WANT HIM TO SLEEP ON ME!!!!!!!!

I hope you enjoyed and that it was okay! ♥️ I appreciate you taking the time to read so much, thank you! I love hearing your thoughts and comments too, and thank you for all of your support and patience!

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“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. 

He laughed, full bellied and loud, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder and his arms circling your waist loosely again.

“It’s not funny,” you protested, unable to hide the laugh from your own voice. “You can’t go over there with banana goop all over your shirt. And your poor hair!” You patted at the beautiful mixture of dark and silver curls with the back of your hand, as if apologizing to them for sullying them with your sticky banana-laced fingers.

Jack only pulled back for a moment, still grinning but looking down at you with that familiar smug look you’d fallen for so long ago.

“Believe it or not, they have this great new invention for that,” he drawled, ducking his head to peck you on the cheek. “It’s called shampoo,” he murmured. “Supposed to really be something.”

You rolled your eyes, half heartedly pushing him off so you could wash your hands. “It’s only new to you, old timer.”

You felt almost silly walking through the ED with a paper plate of banana bread muffins, all wrapped up in saran wrap. The clean antiseptic smell in the air stung your nostrils, and you could hear crying from down the hall. It always amazed you how Jack could come back to this, day after day and night after night. It wore him down, sure, no one could leave completely unaffected by the things they saw, but he remained steadfast and stubborn, the same headstrong man who insisted on your fourth date that you’d be married someday with the confidence of a man who knew he was right.

You paused as you neared the central desk, looking around and trying to decide where the best place was to drop off the muffins. You hoped you’d see Jack, just to say a quick hello and tell him about the treat you’d made for him, but you didn’t want to distract him when there was work to be done and lives to be saved. The staff lounge was always a safe bet, but you hadn’t thought to bring a note to leave with them. You didn’t want them sitting there untouched, knowing only a few of the staff who’d been there for years would recognize your form of offering to the kind and dedicated staff of the Pitt. Even the med students deserved a muffin though, especially after the stories Jack had told you about the new recruits struggling with proper nutrition, shoving a few protein bars into their bags at the beginning of their shift and hoping it would be enough to sustain them for 12 hours.

Not on your watch. You would find some spare paper and a pen, and make sure everyone knew they were welcome to a snack. You might even draw an embarrassing heart or write a love letter and slip it into Jack’s locker for him to find at the end of shift.

You were hugging the wall, looking around for Lena or another familiar face not wearing anything bloodstained when someone approached you.

“Excuse me?” the woman asked. “Ma’am, you can’t be here. Only active patients are allowed back here, you have to wait your turn in chairs until someone brings you back.” You laughed. This wasn’t the first time you’d been mistaken for someone drifting through the wrong door just to end up in the middle of the ED.

“Oh no,” you started, “I’m not a patient. I’m actually here to see a doctor.”

The woman, a pretty woman you’d guess to be somewhere in her forties, glanced over you, as if she was weighing the odds between believing you or not. The plate of securely wrapped muffins in your hands seemed to sway her in your favor.

“Which doctor?” she asked, suspicion leaking into her voice.

“Dr. Jack Abbot,” you answer. “He’s my-”

“Oh, Jack!” she all but squealed, instantly brightening at your husband’s name. “I love Jack, he’s practically my work husband.” The warm smile on your face flickered at that, a bitter taste forming in your mouth that you weren’t familiar with.

“Is that so?”

The woman, Cheryl, it said on the ID badge clipped to her pocket, seemed to need very little prompting to launch into a tirade of reasons to love Jack. All of which were right, you knew, but somehow that did little to stop the growing knot in your stomach.

“Jack’s the best,” she said, guiding you towards the desk she must have been occupying when she noticed you standing by the wall. “He’s always helping me with my patients, checking it to make sure I’m doing alright, making little jokes just for us,” she looked down almost bashfully, a faint pink rising to her cheeks, though she found no issue continuing to talk.“He walks me to my car at night sometimes. He’s just always there, helping me, looking out for me.”

“Y-yeah,” you fumbled for words. All of that sounds like Jack, in a way. “He’s a great attending. The PTMC is lucky to have him.” You realized with a clench in your stomach that his coffee mug was on her desk, the same goofy travel mug that read Best Doctor on One Leg that you’d gotten him as a joke Christmas present one year. You’d just washed it the night before, still shocked he still used the damn thing outside of the house. Cheryl snorted a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she said, leaning across the desk and speaking with an almost conspiratorial hush. “But he’s really here for me in particular, if you know what I mean.” If she can tell from your expression that your stomach drops, the plate of muffins now set aside on the central desk because they feel too heavy for your tired wrists, she doesn’t give any indication. “It’s crazy, it’s like every time I look behind me he’s just staring at me.”

She seemed to remember she was at work and not with her friends at a bar gushing over the cute boys they liked, suddenly looking a bit sheepish.

“So, why are you here to see Jack? Did he treat you?”

You plastered on a fake smile, suddenly wishing you’d taken those acting classes in high school. “Oh, uh, no. No, I just know him. I wanted to bring these by for everyone working today,” you tap the plate of muffins, your hands feeling too unsteady to risk holding them. “I figured I would say hi if I saw him, but he’s got to be busy, y’know, saving lives!”

Cheryl gave you an odd smile then, noticing for the first time that something was wrong. There was something concerned in her eyes, almost pitying, that made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Okay, well, I’ll tell him someone stopped by,” she offered, using a comforting tone usually reserved for children and people more upset than the situation called for. 

Someone. You were “someone.”

You nodded, too sharply, already turning on your heels. “Thanks, you do that.” You grimaced as you began to walk away, cursing yourself for everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.

You were curled up on the couch when Jack came home the next morning. It wasn’t unusual for you to be up so early, preparing a quick breakfast for your husband so you’d be sure he actually ate something and took some time to rest before heading to the gym to work off some stress or collapsing in bed after a quick shower. This morning you’d done none of that though. You had slept like shit, laying awake on Jack’s side of the bed, head pressed to his pillow to breathe in the smell of his shampoo and something distinctly him, watching the ceiling fan spin in endless circles above you. You’d tossed and turned, only slipping under for a few hours at a time before you realized with an uncomfortable ache that you were awake again. 

By four in the morning you’d given up, hauling yourself unceremoniously out of bed and trudging to the couch. With a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a book in hand, you collapsed with a huff, wincing as you turned on the lamp on the end table, even the low light feeling like a sudden intrusion. You stared at the lamp once your eyes adjusted, taking in the smooth porcelain and the small imperfections in the glaze. It was a gift, you remembered, something off your and Jack’s wedding registry. You had loved the set of lamps you’d found at a local farmer’s market, the other part of the pair sitting on a table at the far end of the couch, where you usually sat tucked under your husband’s arm, pressed against his chest to listen to his heart beating, but you had a hard time justifying the cost. Weddings were already so expensive, and even with the modest way you’d chosen to have your ceremony, you didn’t want to go overboard. Jack had laughed at you, teasingly daring you to find handmade lamps at a better price anywhere else, let alone ones that had you so immediately enamored. It wasn’t until two years into your marriage that Jack had admitted during a quiet moment, curled up around each other in bed, that he had been the one to buy the lamps. He had given you that easy smile, all crinkled edges and sleep-tussled hair, when he explained it like it was simple. You had wanted them, but didn’t think you’d deserved them. He disagreed, and, being Jack Abbot, went about fixing it in the most him way possible, treating you with the kindness you’d always yearned for even though you hadn’t even realized it at the time.

You still loved the lamps. Imperfections and all.

Jack kicked off one of his shoes at the door, leaving the other on his prosthesis until he could sit down. He shrugged off his heavy army backpack, laden with all the tools you knew he carried and hoped he never needed, and rested it in the seat of one of the dining room chairs. He moved towards the couch, stepping unevenly at the height difference from still having one shoe on.

“Goodmorning, beautiful.” His hands swept through your hair, gently brushing it out of your face. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment before straightening back up.

“Have you slept at all?”

You shrugged lazily, giving him a weak smile.

“Some. Definitely not enough though.” You patted the space on the couch next to you, uncurling your legs to make room for him.

Jack joined you on the couch, lowering himself down carefully with a faint grimace. His hands moved to his pant leg, tugging up the fabric to undo the fastenings of his prosthesis. Once it was off, and he’d let out a deep sigh of relief he’d never let anyone else hear, his artificial limb propped up to stand on the floor beside him, he held an arm out to you. You eagerly moved towards him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder to draw you closer and press a whiskery kiss to your temple.

“Welcome home,” you said, giving him an easier smile as you settled into your spot against him. He leaned back into the couch, letting the soft cushions welcome him like an embrace.

“I missed you,” you continued, no longer trying to hide just how tired you were, physically and emotionally. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His hand moved soothingly up and down your arm. “I sleep better with you too.”

“Shen said he saw you during our shift.” There was no accusation to his statement, just a light lilting tone of confusion. You’d never go in and not ask to see him, even if you only had time to press a kiss to his cheek and tell him how proud you were of him before sending him off again with a cheeky wink and the occasional slap to his ass if no one was around.

“Yeah, I made some banana bread muffins and thought you and the troops could use a pick me up.” 

Jack didn’t acknowledge how you side stepped the question he hadn’t asked.

“So I saw. They were delicious, by the way,” he added. “We almost had to intervene so Joy wouldn’t get too territorial over them. Thank you, for bringing them in.” Another kiss was pressed to your temple, lingering a little longer than the last. “I’ve gotta admit, I had my doubts when you started freezing bananas, but I stand corrected.” You chuckled softly. “Damn right you do,” you murmured into his scrub top. The antiseptic smell still clung to him, but you could pick up enough of him that it didn’t matter. “Never question my freezer organization skills against mister.”

Jack chuckled, his nose pressing into your hair and drawing in a deep breath. His hand drew lazily up and down your arm for a few moments as you sat in silence, just taking each other in again after a long day. 

“Want to tell me why you didn’t wait to see me today?” Jack’s voice was quiet, his low tone rumbling in a way you always loved. There was no pressure in his question, just genuine interest and a tinge of concern. You could tell him no, and he’d accept it, just draw you into a firm hug and hold you until he went to shower before joining you back in bed.

“It’s stupid,” you confessed. You toyed idly with the drawstring of his scrub pants, knowing your frown looked more like a pout than you wanted it to. 

“Nothing about you is stupid,” he said seriously, tipping his head a bit lower to press his forehead against the crown of your downturned head. “Sometimes questionable in the moment,” he continued, that gruff humorous lilt coming back, “but if we’ve learned anything from the bananas, you have your reasons.”

You rolled your eyes, lifting your head to look at him. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, giving you a sweet smile and a quick peck on the lips when you shook your head at him. 

“You haven’t had, like, a super terrible day, right?” You would kick yourself later if you didn’t ask. Some days he came home barely able to do anything but shrug and mumble responses, the ED bleeding him dry of any semblance of emotional energy.

Jack smiled softly. “No, sweetheart. Just regular terrible.” His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not so terrible I can’t hear about yours.”

You gave him a small but appreciative smile, returning the squeeze of his hand. 

“I ran into one of your coworkers before I could find Lena,” you began, voice coming out slightly quieter than usual. Even with his reassurance, you felt silly acting like it was a real problem. “She was nice. New, I think. I’d never met her before, anyway, and I don’t think you’ve mentioned her.” Jack hummed, his broad hand slowly rubbing your back, urging you gently when you paused. “I was going to ask if you were around, but she didn’t really give me a chance. She was talking about you, how great you are and how much she loves being around you.” Jack kept his expression neutral, his brow still furrowed as he nodded along, not letting the praise get to him or stroke his ego.

“Obviously she’s right to think all that and say all that,” you add, giving your husband a shy smile to say that it was okay to smile or joke about it. “Honestly, you deserve way more than anything she or I could ever say, but…I don’t know. Something about it felt off.” Jack frowned. “Off how?” he prompted.

You shook your head, trying to guide the pieces together in your sleepless mind. 

“It felt personal to her,” you settle on. “Almost intimate.” You scowled before you could help yourself. “She called herself your work wife. Said you spent more time with her than the others, that you were always looking at her and hovering around her.” You shook your head again, trying in vain to dislodge the ill feelings that were blooming in your chest again. 

“And I know you’re a diligent teacher,” you added, looking up at Jack’s concentrated frown. “I know you stare when you don’t mean to, and you have more of a presence than you know-” “This is starting to feel like an attack,” Jack interrupted, soft grin spreading across his tired face. 

You scoffed, hand moving up to cup his cheek, already prickly with the ghost of morning stubble. 

“I love your staring and your presence,” you said, firm enough for him to know you meant it, but soft enough to still be teasing. You kissed him once for good measure, enjoying the humorous glint in his eye when you pulled back. 

“But they’re for you,” he supplied, putting together the threads between your ramblings. “Not her.”

You gave a small nod, gaze dropping again as a wave of guilt washed over you. You didn’t want to be the person movies and books had trained you to hate for so long, the jealous woman who lashed out when someone looked at her man too long. You didn’t want to be possessive, or read into things that weren’t there, or even worse, punish Jack, your dear Jack, just because you couldn’t get a grip on your own insecurities.

“I don’t want to be crazy,” you all but whispered, hand finding the draw string on his scrubs again and spinning the knot idly between your fingers. “But I didn’t like it. She looked at me like decided she had me all figured out. And it felt like she thought she really had a chance with you, and…I don’t know. Maybe I still don’t feel like I deserve you. Maybe I’ve just been missing you more with all the doubles you’ve had to pull. And I know that’s not fair-”

Jack cut you off with one finger held to your lips, shushing you like a child in a way that had your eyes narrowing and looking up to find his. When you did, you found an endearingly soft smile on his lips, looking just as in love with you as he did the day he’d proposed. 

“First off,” he said, speaking like he was instructing a new medical student, using only objective facts, “your feelings are always fair. They’re never crazy, or overblown. They always have their reasons, even if you can’t see them right away. Reactions are what matter, and you’re reacting perfectly normally by telling me this so I can help. Alright?” He looked at you, corner of his lip quirking up when you gave a reluctant nod, but raised his eyebrows, giving you a cocky look that you knew meant he wanted a verbal answer. You huffed dramatically, but gave him what he was looking for. 

“Yeah.”

He gave you a real smile, hand squeezing your upper arm as a reward. 

“Second, you’re not crazy. No one should be talking about me like that at work, even if I was single. And certainly not when I have a foxy wife at home.” His broad hands gripped you as you scoffed out a laugh, dragging you onto his lap so he could wrap his arms around you, smiling smugly at the genuine laugh he’d earned. 

“Don’t you dare laugh at that,” he’d added, poking you gently in the ribs. “No one laughs at my woman, not even my woman.” You grin stupidly wide, arms circling around his neck in a show of surrender. 

“Your woman?” you question, clicking your tongue scoldingly. “Guess I’m not the only possessive one then.” Jack shook his head, his even gaze never leaving yours. “Far from it.” His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face where it had fallen from his manhandling. They lingered on the apple of your cheek, gently holding you as you leaned into the touch.

“I’ll say no to any more doubles for a while,” he said, barely above a whisper. Your brow furrows, but you don’t interrupt as he continues. “I didn’t realize how long it had been since we’ve gotten time for us. I’m sorry about that.” You could see that he meant it, his face serious as a ghost.  You leaned forward, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Okay,” you agreed. “I think you need the break, if I’m honest. You’ve been stiffer recently, and I’ve been worried about you.”

Jack let out an exaggerated groan, stretching his legs underneath you. 

“God, you’re right,” he sighed, settling a little lower on the couch, and pulling you down with him. 

You grinned. “I’m always right.”

He nodded. “That’s why I married you.”

“And my baking skills,” you added, holding up a finger defiantly.

Jack shrugged, pretending to think about it.

“You’ve developed skills,” he settled on.

You gasped drastically, mustering up as much betrayal as you could in your fatigue, clutching your chest as if he’d wounded you.

“Developed?”

“Yeah. You’ve gotten better.”

You scoffed. “You don’t deserve my muffins.” His voice was low. “Hey now-” “Next time I’ll make a sign, For anyone but Jack,” you pretended to write across the air, voice trembling with laughter at the way his jaw dropped open.

“That has to be a violation of your wedding vows.” You smirked. “No sirree, Jack-ass.” He groaned at the nickname usually reserved for when he was being extra pestering. He slumped his head forward, burying his face in your neck as you continued. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer, but nothing about when your husband doesn’t appreciate homemade muffins made with very resourceful banana preservation tactics.” The side of your neck warmed from the sudden laugh he let out, muscled arms tugging you tighter to his chest.

“Robby will even get to take home the leftovers.” Jack feigned a cry at that, raising his head and giving you the most betrayed look he could.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

You paused, trying to find it in you to continue the bit when he looked at you so sweetly, eyebrows knit together like his best friend stealing the muffins his wife made would wound his heart beyond repair.

You deflated with a small sigh. 

“No,” you admitted, a smile pulling at your lips at how quickly he brightened. “But I might leave a note saying Cheryl doesn’t get any if you don’t get a work divorce.” 

Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh, it was Cheryl?”

You nodded, giving him a confused smile. “That change things?” He hummed in thought. “Doesn’t change them, but it does explain them. She’s new to the Pitt. Doesn’t have a lot of friends, it seems. Don’t remember where she transferred from, but they had different practices, so we’ve been watching her pretty closely to make sure she follows proper procedure.” You nodded slowly, putting together the pieces in your mind. The feeling like he was watching her, the hovering and checking in, it all made sense. Not that you had doubted his intentions for even a moment. Even if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet, Jack was a man with a strict moral code, and adultery lay far outside the scope of his rules. 

“Is it going to be weird working with her? Now that you know everything she said about you?”

Jack frowned. “Nah. I’ll go to HR at the start of next shift, file an anonymous report. They’ll sort things out with her, not make a scene or embarrass her. WIth any luck the whole thing will blow over.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll make sure the work marriage is annulled, sweetheart. Can’t be a workplace bigamist, can I?” 

You sighed wearily. “You can try, but if you open that door, every woman, man, and person in between is going to try to jump your bones, doc.” You gave him an overly concerned look. “You think your old joints can handle all of that at once?”

He had the good grace to look offended at that, giving you only a moment to look pleased with yourself before his hands were on your hips, giving you a great heave to flip you both so you were pinned beneath him on your back. You yelped at the sudden motion, but one of his hands made its way behind you, bracing you to cushion your fall on the already soft couch. His full weight trapped you, pressing you firmly into the cushions.

“What was that you were saying?” he teased, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

You could feel your cheeks warm. 

“If you think I’m able to think at all like this, you don’t know me very well, Jack.”

His lips twitched again, too busy taking in your expression to give a proper reaction of his own.

She had been dating Jack Abbot for 6 months, and she truly didn’t mind the baggage that came with it. Let's be honest here. While Jack was cool and calm under pressure and charismatic as all hell… he had incredible amounts of trauma. His thoughts and memories beat the hell out of him every day, and he coped by working all the time, weekly therapy, and spending time with his girlfriend. He spoiled her to the moon and back to make his mind clearer. And she’d listen to him, surprise him with ‘lunch’ mid late-night shift, and overall just distract him from everything horrible in the world. She reminded him that there were still good things left to stick around for. 

Even through the nights when he accidentally kept her up, tossing and turning. Pacing around the kitchen. Waking up startled from nightmares. He was worth every second. She’d sleepily try to ground him by gently rubbing his freckled back. When he felt too embarrassed to look at her, she’d kiss his shoulder blade and press her cheek against it, a constant reminder that he was okay. 

But what Jack didn’t know… was that she had horrible anxiety as well. She just didn’t tell him about it. How could she? He had so many more critical reasons to be anxious and depressed. She just woke up every day at 4 am with unexplainable chest pain. When she spent nights alone, she’d lie in bed in the dark, feeling this dread take over her entire body. Her chest would tighten, and every shadow felt like it could suddenly turn and stare at her. 

She had her reasons, too. Burnout, poor eating habits, stress. But they never felt as real as Jack’s. So she swore to herself that she wouldn’t be a burden to him. Only her closest friends knew. She tried to work on it silently, scheduling her therapy appointments for days Jack wouldn’t come over. Or making excuses to be busy on specific days. 

Lately, her anxiety had been skyrocketing. She couldn’t pinpoint an exact reason within the list of things currently bugging her. But she hadn’t been on top of her eating and water, so that was a factor. And her period was coming up in a week, so there was another. She just felt off. On edge. Every breath she took was unsatisfying as she’d get random chest pain throughout the day. She was crying more often, which she was sure was also due to her cycle, but it didn’t make it suck any less. 

One night, she sat on the couch, trying to relax. It was late. She was supposed to be fast asleep by now, but the gnawing foreboding weight on her chest made her dark bedroom too stressful. She felt like she couldn’t breathe in the confines of her bedroom.

Part of her wanted to call Jack. He wasn’t on shift, and she just wanted to cry into him. But the idea of that was actually more anxiety-inducing. What if he was also having an anxious night and needed her to be strong? Plus, she feared that he’d think she was crazy. Silly, girlfriend, nothing is going to get you in the middle of the night. 

But she also… needed her boyfriend. She pulled out her phone, settling on the idea of just using him as a distraction. 

Y: you still awake, old man?

He replied almost instantly.

J: I always am, sweetheart. What are you doing up? 

Y: Nothing. Can’t sleep. Just bored.

Not a total lie. After a moment, he texted again 

J: I can come over. Or you can come over here. Whichever you prefer.

Y: what. why?

J: You like laying on me. You knock out pretty fast.

She didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sleeping on Jack was like sleeping on a big, warm bear. His chest and stomach were so pillowy. It’d be perfect. 

But she worried that if he saw her in person, she wouldn’t be able to keep her anxiety at bay. It was at a level where she couldn’t ignore the tremble in her hands.

Y: I look like a hot mess. 

J: Don’t give me that. 

Y: I’m fine. 

INCOMING CALL FROM JACK <3 

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. She didn’t answer it. She pressed the big red hang-up button.

J: ??? Everything okay.

Y: I just told you I’m fine. 

J: Sweetheart, I’m gonna call you again. And if you don’t answer this time, I’ll take that as a sign to leave you be. But I’m worried.

Oh god. She was worrying him. How could she be so stupid?! She hiccuped as she watched the phone start to vibrate in her hands.

INCOMING CALL FROM JACK <3

This time, she felt compelled to answer it.

“Hi. Hi. I’m fine.” She said a little too quickly 

There was a suspecting noise on the other end of the line.

“Well, sweetheart, I know that before you, I hadn’t dated in quite some time… but I do know that when someone says ‘I’m fine’ they usually are not.”

She leaned back against the couch as she held the phone to her ear. “It’s stupid. Just some before-bed jitters.”

There was a bit of quietness on the phone before he said,

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I’m telling you it’s nothing.”

“And I’m telling you that I want to come over and listen to you talk allllll about nothing.”

That got her to giggle a little. Oh god, he was breaking her down. She looked down at her shorts, which she was picking at with her fingers. Though doing so sent shocks through her fingertips since she had bitten or picked off all her nails to short stubs. 

This was a battle. Desire to be comforted versus sheer will. When her breath started to catch, she closed her eyes. Strong desire won over.

“Can you come over, Jackie?” Her voice wavered

“I’ll be there in ten.” 

Even though she had been expecting him, she still yelped startled when he knocked. She scurried over and opened the door. 

“Hi.” She said, smiling, still trying to keep her front strong.

He stood in a black T-shirt and grey joggers. A duffel bag was slung over his beefy shoulder with sleepover materials. Their familiar routine. He looked her over in her disheveled state. In one of his shirts and pajama shorts, her hair was a little frazzled from tossing and turning. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He murmured, walking forward and setting his duffel bag down so he could cup her face. His thumbs brushed back and forth, and she couldn’t help but lean into his touch. Her breath started to pick up again as she felt like she could cry any minute. 

It seemed like he could tell. She wasn’t strong enough to keep her face content. Instead, her lips formed a small pout, and her jaw clenched.

“Hey. Talk to me.” He quickly turned and shut the door behind him.

He guided her back towards the couch.

“I promise I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He joked affectionately.

They sat down, and she sat up straight. Almost too straight. 

“It’s nothing. I’m just really tired.” 

“Yeah?” He pulled her in so she was lying her head on his chest. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep. Here-“ he gently grabbed her calf and pulled up her legs to be folded on his lap. He scratched the back of her scalp, untangling the parts of her hair he made contact with. “How’s that?”

She nodded. This was nice. Her heart was still pattering like a hummingbird, but Jack was a source of warmth. 

He kissed her forehead, “You’re quiet tonight. Must be real tired.”

He looked down and noticed her hands were together. She was unconsciously picking at her left thumb, but there was no more nail left to possibly pick. So instead, she scraped against the red tips and little skin tags. 

“Mm, what’s this about?” He gently pried her hands apart and took a good look at her hand. 

She hated that. She quickly took it back, self-conscious. Her nails were ugly. They weren’t like other girls’s, where they looked all pretty and done up. Hers were at the point where they were too short to get acrylics. There was too little to glue onto. 

“I’m sorry.” He said softly, “I should’ve asked. Baby, can I please see your hand?”

And how was she supposed to deny him when he was so sweet? 

She shakily gave him her left hand and looked away. His rough, calloused hand held hers like it were the most fragile piece of china. As if he were in the ED, he twisted and turned it to get a good look. Though there was something about his demeanor that put her slightly at ease. He was so delicate and focused that she didn’t feel as scared to show him. 

“Mm, how come I never realized you were a nail-biter?” His thumb rubbed over the top of hers, and she winced, “Sorry, I bet it hurts. You picked it so short that your hyponichium underneath is out. That’s a sensitive area.” He kissed the pad of her thumb. 

For some reason him explaining the science behind the pain felt nice. She felt better being given context as to why it felt like electric shocks every time her nails touched anything.

He let her hand go and just gently rubbed his hand up and down her thigh. 

“We have a few options here. We can… turn on a movie. We can just lay here for a bit. Or we can… go to bed.”

She shook her head. “I can’t go to bed.”

His brows furrowed, “Why not?”

She closed her eyes. There was no option here to deflect. No excuse. No lie that she could come up with that sounded semi-reasonable. 

“I can’t breathe in there. It’s too dark, and I have this feeling that something is going to get me. And I know that sounds so totally stupid and crazy because I’m not five years old, scared of the monster in my closet. My chest has been tight for days, and I can’t sleep in there-”

Her voice started to crack, and a wave of humiliation flooded through her. He rubbed her back and put his lips to her hair. There was a look of intense focus in his eyes, as if he were trying to figure out a Rubik's Cube. His brows furrowed, but he just placed kisses on her scalp.

“And- And- I just feel like something bad’s going to happen. But I don’t know what the bad is. Usually I just take melatonin to knock myself out, but it makes me so drowsy the next day-”

“Yeah, baby, don’t do that. Don’t do that.” He whispered gruffly. After that, he pulled back to look down at her gently. “It sounds like you’re having some anxiety.”

She looked at him with a sad look in her eyes. She needed to tell him.

“I know…” She admitted, “My… my therapist gives me tips, but there are things that I don’t want to do. I don’t wanna put my face in cold water or hold an ice cube. I just wanna sleep.” 

The tears started to flow now. She covered her face with her hands, not wanting to look at him. Especially when he said-

“I didn’t know you were in therapy.” 

She had lied to him. She had kept this from him. And her heart felt like it was gonna explode out of her chest from guilt and anxiety building up. 

She nodded, “I’ve done it on and off for a while.” She hiccuped, “I- I didn’t use to have as bad of anxiety, but it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.”

He reached out and gently pulled her hands down from her face. Cupping her cheeks, he used his thumbs to brush her tears away. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this…” His gaze fell over her reddened, puffy face, “You know you can always talk to me? Yeah? It doesn’t sound ‘stupid’ or ‘crazy’ like you think. I promise.”

She shook her head, “You have enough things to deal with, Jack. I don’t wanna be another burden for you to deal with-”

“Whoa whoa whoa.” His brows raised in surprise, “You are never a burden to me. Yeah, sure, I’ve got my issues and all my shit. But that doesn’t mean yours don’t exist.”

“You have- you have the ER and SWAT and your leg-”

“And it doesn’t matter.” He brushed her hair out of her face, “At least when it comes to you. I don’t want you to play this comparison game. I have my issues, and you have yours. We can deal with them together.”

With a slow nod of her head, she did her best to understand, even though her hyperventilating had made her hands start to go a little numb. A small supportive smile crested his lips. He lightly pinched her chin. 

“Plus, I wanna take care of my girl. Always so strong for me. Let me help.” 

“Okay.” She gave in.

“There we go. I’m gonna get you some water, and we can stay out here with the lights on for as long as you need. We can turn on a movie or just talk for a bit until you’re ready to sleep in bed. Does that sound okay?”

It sounded perfect. She nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” 

He kissed the top of her head and slowly got up. But in his place, he took one of the folded blankets on the side of the couch and draped it over her shoulders. 

As he rustled in the kitchen, she felt better enough to grab the remote and at least scroll through the options. She muted the TV so the noise of hovering over different shows didn’t blast through the speakers. Heading over to the Disney icon, she scrolled through the cartoon movies.

Jack came back a few minutes later with a glass of water and a sandwich on a plate with chips on the side. 

“Didn’t know if you had eaten dinner, but knowing you, your anxiety could also be from a drop in blood sugar, so.” 

For the first time, a real, genuine smile grew on her face. She chuckled and took the plate from him so he could sit down next to her again.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” She teased 

He looked up at the TV, “What do we got here? Tangled? … I don’t remember this one.”

“What?! You’ve never seen Tangled?” 

He put his hands up. “I don’t know if I’m the target audience here, sweetheart.”

She immediately pressed play and drew her knees up, getting comfy as she took bites of the amazing sandwich. 

“It’s really good.” She murmured, covering her mouth. 

He smiled and put his hand on her knee, giving it a small squeeze. 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Towards the end of the movie, when the gang of tough guys was saving Flynn Rider, Jack found her falling fast asleep on his lap. His hands had been running through her hair for most of the movie. He actually found himself invested and immediately saw himself and her as Flynn and Rapunzel. But as she started to drool on his pant leg, he realized he’d have to finish the movie another day. 

He gently squeezed her shoulder, “Hey… Let’s get you to bed.”

Half asleep, she nodded in agreement. 

She was dead tired by the time she crawled into bed. The adrenaline from the anxiety knocked her out really well. Jack quietly slipped into bed next to her, and she instinctively reached to hold him. She rested her cheek against his chest and sprawled her leg over his waist, letting his hand run up and down her thigh. 

“Feeling better?” He murmured, sleepy himself.

“So much better. Thank you, Jack. So much…” 

a/n: omg now i want to make them have a baby

let me know if u want to be added to taglist for all jack text fics!

taglist: @escapingrealityalways @quicksilver21 @popecodysgirl @theariespov

a/n: 1/5 text fics for 1k! im at 982 right now but I couldn’t keep holding these back from u guys! enjoy my babiessss <3

This is the last place you wanted to be right now.

It was the fourth of July and while you were trying to wrangle your children into their outfits for their friends house, your son fell. It was more of a crash than a fall, missing almost every step on your back deck and hitting the patio. The scream he let out alone nearly gave you a heart attack.

So, that’s how you ended up at the Pitt.

Your husband was moonlighting the SWAT team, given why he hasn’t answered any of your phone calls.

Once you had kids you made him compromise to only help once a year. You knew he couldn’t give it up completely, Jack was addicted to helping others. But you couldn’t handle the stress of him being out in the field. So, one day a year was agreed upon. And, unfortunately that one day had to be when you were rushing your kids to the ER.

That’s why he wasn’t answering any of your calls. Luckily, Robby did, and you were able to surpass the people in the waiting room, being placed in a trauma room for some sort of peace with your seven year old son and five year old daughter. She sat pressed up against your chest, still hiccuping from the sobs she had just barely calmed down from.

She was terrified by the entire ordeal, seeing her brother in pain like that had her crying the whole way to the hospital. You were trying your best to comfort the both of them, but in reality you were barely holding it together yourself.

You knew how lucky you were to be a stay at home mom, to have the privilege provided by your husband’s career to stay home and care for them. But, some days felt impossible. Especially since it’s summer and the hottest one Pittsburgh has seen in years. As the kids got older, it was harder and harder to keep them entertained.

All you had to do was get them out the door and to their friends house, where you could have a glass of wine and gossip while they splashed around. But you couldn’t even do that. So now, here you were spending the day in the emergency department.

You held your daughter against you, rocking her back and forth, your other hand firmly in your sons, who was holding onto you for dear life.

“Mommy, where’s daddy?” Your daughter asked, muffled into our shirt.

You sighed, kissing the top of her head, “he’ll be here soon baby.” Which wasn’t a total lie, he had a shift tonight, so he had to be here at some point.

A knock sounded at the door before Robby pushed it open, "How's the super star doing?" he asked, looking at your son.

“It hurts Uncle Robby,” he said it so softly it broke your heart.

“Mommy says he’s brave though!” Your daughter butted in, attempting to make her brother feel better.

Robby nodded in agreement, checking the IV on the other side of your son’s bed, “well, we are a little backed up today so we’re still waiting on XRay.”

You pursed your lips, giving him an understanding nod.

“But, I am going to sit here with my favorite god children while mommy takes a little walk,” he said, making your son smile and your daughter perk up. She hopped off your laugh and ran over to him. He scooped her up happily.

He nodded towards the door, where he met you half way.

“Trauma 2,” he whispered.

You furrowed your brows, but decided to just listen to him, you had nothing else to lose and you were truly too exhausted to argue with him. You stepped out, closing the door behind you, taking your first deep breath of what felt like all day.

You walked around the nursing station for a moment, a bit overwhelmed by the chaos around you. You were reading the signs on each door, Robby gave you no directions and seemed to forget that you were in fact not an employee of the hospital.

You finally found your way, noticing the door was open, you let yourself in, but when you pulled the curtain back you gasped.

A very shirtless Jack whipped his head up at you, and you scoffed once your eyes landed on the resident touching his bare back.

“Oh so this is why you can’t answer your phone?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What’re you doing here?” He asked, tone laced with confusion.

“I think I could ask you the same thing,” you snapped back.

“I got grazed in the field,” he said quietly. The pretty, young, probably very smart, resident froze behind him.

“YOU WERE SHOT?” You exclaimed.

He shook his head, “grazed.”

Samira excused herself, disposing of her gloves and passing you to leave the room.

“Unbelievable,” you said under your breath before leaving your shirtless husband in the trauma room by himself. You could feel everything from the day coming to a head. You felt like an awful mother, you hadn’t eaten, it was ninety seven degrees outside, and now your husband was shirtless with a resident behind a curtain? Is this why he wanted to do SWAT so bad? Why he worked so much? Was it all a ploy? You pushed the thoughts aside and tried to focus on your son.

Jack stared after you for half a second, completely blindsided. Then his brain caught up. What were you doing in the ER?

He shoved past the curtain immediately, pulling a shirt over his head while ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he jogged down the hallway. By the time he rounded the nurses station, you were already disappearing back into the room Robby had tucked you into.

Jack pushed through the door fast enough that your daughter jumped.

“Daddy!” She launched off the bed toward him and he caught her automatically, one arm around her while his eyes immediately locked onto your son.

The panic in him shifted so fast it nearly made him dizzy.

“What happened?” he asked, crossing the room in two strides.

Your son’s face was blotchy from crying, arm wrapped carefully against his stomach while the IV sat taped to his hand. The second he saw Jack, his lip started wobbling again.

“Hey, hey, buddy…” Jack’s entire voice softened as he crouched beside the bed. “What hurts?”

“My arm,” he whispered.

Jack carefully pushed his auburn hair back from his forehead, his cheeks red and somehow emphasizing the freckles that matched his. He checked him over with practiced eyes despite the adrenaline still pounding in his veins. He looked at the splint, then the monitor, then finally at you.

You wouldn’t look at him. That almost made his stomach drop harder than seeing his son in a trauma bed.

“What happened?” he asked again, gentler this time.

“He fell off the deck,” you answered flatly, still looking at your son and not him. “Robby said they’re waiting on XRay.”

Jack inhaled sharply through his nose. He looked back at his son immediately, keeping his expression calm despite the horror creeping up his spine. “You scared mommy pretty bad, huh?”

His son nodded miserably.

Your daughter was still clinging to Jack’s neck, sniffling quietly into his shoulder. Jack kissed the side of her head automatically before standing again, “you okay, peanut?”

“I cried,” she admitted sadly, “I was worried about JJ,” her tiny voice wobbled.

“I can tell you were brave though,” he said reassuringly.

That finally got the tiniest smile out of her. Jack looked at you again but you still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Can you stay with them for one second?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged, “been with them all day.”

Jack sighed and carefully handed your daughter back to you before stepping out of the room.

The second the door shut behind him, Robby looked up from the nurses station knowingly.

“Well,” Robby said, “you look like you’re about to throw up.”

Jack scrubbed both hands down his face, “she thinks—” he started before stopping himself with a groan. “Jesus Christ.”

Robby leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Probably don’t love that she walked in on you half naked with Samira.”

“It wasn’t— how did you even know that?” He asked

“Oh, word spreads fast at the nurses station. And I know what it wasn’t,” Robby interrupted. “Does she?”

Jack’s jaw tightened, “no.”

Robby sighed. “She’s had the kids alone all day, Jack. Your son gets hurt, she can’t reach you, she ends up here exhausted out of her mind, and then she sees that.”

Jack leaned his palms against the counter, guilt washing over him in waves now that the initial panic about his son was easing.

“What even happened?” Robby asked.

“Samira was helping me clean up because I couldn’t reach the wound,” he said in a low voice,gesturing to his shoulder.

Robby nodded once, “then go tell your wife that.”

Jack looked back toward the room.

“She looked embarrassed,” he admitted quietly. “Not angry. Which is arguably worse.”

That made Robby soften a little. Jack exhaled hard.

Samira was young. Pretty. Brilliant. Confident. The kind of woman who was never overwhelmed by the thought of what to make for lunch or covered in popsicle stains and sunscreen. Meanwhile you’d spent the day carrying two terrified children through an ER after your plans blew apart.

Jack suddenly felt sick thinking about the look on your face.

“You’re supposed to start in a few hours, right?” Robby asked.

Jack nodded distractedly.

“Go home.”

Jack blinked. “What?”

“I’ll cover your first few hours. And Santos owes me a favor anyway.” Robby pointed toward the room. “Your wife needs her husband more than the hospital needs another attending tonight.”

Jack stared at him for a second before nodding slowly, “thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Robby muttered. “You still gotta fix it.”

By the time Jack walked back into the room, XRay had already come and gone.

Your son had finally calmed down enough to watch cartoons on the small TV while your daughter had curled up asleep against your chest.

You looked exhausted.

Jack’s chest physically ached at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You gave a small nod but kept your attention on your daughter. Jack sat carefully beside your son first, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“They said they think it’s just a fracture, buddy. You got lucky,” Jack said pushing his hair off his forehead.

“Can I still swim tomorrow?” He asked with bright eyes.

Jack smiled a little despite himself. “Probably not tomorrow.”

His son sighed dramatically and Jack looked over at you again, “I took the night off.”

That finally got your attention, “you did?” You tried not to let the hopefulness you felt seep into your tone.

Before he could answer, the door pushed open revealing Whitaker.

“I’ve been sent to relieve you both for a minute,” he turned to your son, “is it okay if I hang with you for a minute bud?”

JJ nodded shyly and you passed your daughter to Whitaker, he took a seat and you mumbled a thanks to him, knowing Robby assigned him this duty.

You followed Jack out into the hallway and into a small on call room right around the corner. He pulled the door shut before turning and looking at you.

“I should’ve answered my phone.”

You looked down immediately, “you were working.”

“I still should’ve answered.”

Silence settled between you. Jack moved closer carefully, and sat on the small cot, patting the spot next to him. You sat down and exhaled, rolling your shoulders back.

“You wanna tell me what that was out there?”

You swallowed hard.

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

You laughed once under your breath, tired and humorless.

“I just felt stupid.”

Jack frowned immediately.

“Why would you feel stupid?”

Your eyes finally lifted to his.

“Because she’s beautiful,” you admitted quietly. “And young. And smart. And you were standing there shirtless with her behind a curtain while I look…” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, “…like this. I wasn’t paying attention and he fell and now he’s hurt. I should’ve been watching him, and—“ your voice broke as you spoke so you stopped, taking a shaky breath.

Jack looked genuinely confused for a second before his face completely melted. “Baby.”

The nickname alone nearly cracked your composure.

“That’s what this is about?”

You looked away again, embarrassed now that you’d actually said it out loud.

Jack reached over carefully, taking your free hand, “I got grazed.”

“That somehow does not help your case.”

He actually laughed softly at that before shaking his head, “she walked in looking for a patient, I was trying to clean the sound but I couldn’t see or reach it, so she helped me. That’s it.”

You nodded once, still not looking convinced.

Jack leaned closer, “hey.”

Your eyes met his again.

“I do not see her. She’s nothing more than a coworker.”

Your expression softened just slightly.

“But I see you everywhere,” he said quietly. “In every room of my house. In my kids. In my entire life.”

Your eyes immediately glassed over, “Jack…”

“You think I want twenty-five year old resident?” he asked gently. “I want my wife. The one who keeps our entire world running while I play cowboy with SWAT once a year.”

Despite yourself, you huffed out a tiny laugh and Jack squeezed your hand.

“You’re allowed to feel insecure sometimes,” he murmured, “but don’t ever think for a second I’m admiring anyone but you.”

Your face crumpled a little then, exhaustion finally catching up to you.

Jack leaned over immediately, pressing a kiss against your forehead carefully so he wouldn’t wake your daughter.

“I’m sorry I scared you today,” he whispered.

And for the first time all day, you finally let yourself lean into him. Jack stayed there for another moment, his forehead resting against yours while your breathing finally started to slow.

His thumb rubbed softly against your knuckles.

“You know this wasn’t your fault, right?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard. “I should’ve been watching him better.”

“No.” His answer came instantly.

You pulled back slightly, eyes glossy. “Jack—”

“He tripped on the deck stairs,” he said gently. “That’s what kids do. They fall. They get hurt. It doesn’t mean you failed him. He’s a kid. You work so hard to take care of them both. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You looked down at your lap, voice barely above a whisper. “It felt like I did.”

Jack’s chest tightened painfully. He shifted closer on the cot until his knee pressed against yours, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, your eyes lifted.

“You are an incredible mother,” he said firmly. “Do you hear me?”

Your lip trembled again.

“Our kids are happy. They’re safe. They’re loved beyond belief.” His expression softened. “JJ was only calm because of you, you make him feel safe.”

“And our little girl,” he continued quietly, “calmed down the second you held her.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You walked into an ER alone with two terrified kids and somehow kept both of them together while you were scared out of your mind.”

A tear slipped down your cheek and he brushed it away carefully. “You didn’t fail today,” he whispered, “you handled it like super mom.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned into him again, your forehead falling against his shoulder. Jack wrapped an arm around you immediately, holding you close.

“And I’m done with SWAT,” he said softly into your hair.

You stilled. “Jack…”

“I mean it,” he said it gently, but with enough firmness to know there was no room for discussion.

You pulled back enough to look at him, “but you love it.”

“I love adrenaline,” he corrected gently. “I love helping people.” His hand slid up your back slowly. “But not enough to keep scaring my wife every time my phone stops working.”

Your eyes welled again immediately, “I don’t want you giving it up because of me.”

“It’s because of us,” he said firmly. “Because today made me realize something.” He glanced toward the hallway where your kids were waiting. “I already have the most important people I’m ever gonna save.”

Your face crumpled a little at that. Jack smiled softly and kissed your forehead again.

“So no more SWAT,” he promised. “No more one-day-a-year compromise. I’m done.”

You searched his face carefully like you were trying to see if he meant it.

“You swear?” You asked quietly.

“I swear,” he answered confidently.

The tension in your shoulders finally eased for the first time all day. He stood then, holding a hand out toward you.

“C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s go get our babies.”

The second you both walked back into the room, your daughter perked up in Whitaker’s lap, now awake.

“Daddy!”

Jack grinned immediately, opening his arms just in time for her to launch herself at him for the second time today.

“Hey, peanut.”

Whitaker looked relieved to hand her over. “She’s bossy.”

“She gets that from her mother,” Jack replied easily.

You rolled your eyes while JJ sat up straighter in bed.

“Are you staying?” he asked hopefully.

Jack looked over at you once before smiling at his son.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m going home with you guys,” jack answered as Whitaker slid out the door, leaving just your family.

JJ’s entire face lit up. “Really?!”

“Really.”

Your daughter gasped dramatically. “No hospital work?”

Jack shook his head, “nope.”

JJ looked at Jack suspiciously, “so… since you’re coming home…”

Jack narrowed his eyes playfully. “What?”

“Can we get ice cream?” He asked sweetly, “since it’s mommy’s favorite.”

You laughed for the first time all day, “oh very thoughtful of you baby.”

Jack looked over at you, smiling when he saw your laugh.

Then he looked back at his son dramatically, “buddy, after the day we’ve had?” He stood, still holding your daughter against his hip. “I think ice cream is medically necessary.”

Both kids erupted immediately.

“YES!”

Your daughter clapped excitedly while JJ nearly bounced despite the cast.

“You hear that?” Jack said seriously to his son. “Doctor’s orders.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. Jack caught your eye from across the room. And for the first time since the phone calls went unanswered earlier that day, everything finally felt okay again.

Tags (the Pitt): @sexychickenmagnet @thehockeynerd30

The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.

The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".

That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.

But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.

One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.

The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.

"I can carry—" you start to say.

"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.

You press your lips together, then follow him.

The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.

Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."

You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.

With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.

He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.

You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.

Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."

"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.

Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.

Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.

"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.

"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."

You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"

Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.

The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.

Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.

Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.

Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.

Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.

And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.

The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.

The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.

By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.

He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.

You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.

You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.

It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.

This couldn't be farther from that.

Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.

"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"

Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.

"Jack!"

His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.

"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"

She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."

Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."

Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.

"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"

"Jeremy?"

"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.

"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.

Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?

"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"

"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."

"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."

You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—

He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.

"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.

But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.

Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.

"Yeah, we met in med school."

"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."

Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.

"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.

"I did."

"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."

"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.

You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.

And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.

"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.

"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.

Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.

Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.

"Oh, I've already been there."

Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."

Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"

Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.

"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."

Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.

You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.

"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.

"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.

Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"

He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.

"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."

You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"

Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."

"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."

Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."

"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.

"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.

You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.

For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.

Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."

"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.

Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.

He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.

The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.

When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.

You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.

By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.

You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.

A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—

A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.

Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"

Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."

You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."

Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."

You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"

He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."

"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.

Jack stills next to you.

Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."

"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."

He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."

He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.

"...Goodnight, Jack."

Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.

How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—

God.

The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.

You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.

Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.

The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.

Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.

Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.

He doesn't.

A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.

"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.

But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"

You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.

He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.

Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.

The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.

You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.

You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.

When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.

The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.

You stride over to him.

"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.

You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."

Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.

He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."

Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."

"What—"

You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."

Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.

Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.

It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—

His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.

As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.

He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"

You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.

"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."

Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."

"I told you. Nothing."

"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.

"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"

Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."

"No," he says. "I really don't."

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."

Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."

Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.

Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."

Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?

Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"

You shrug.

"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.

"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."

Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"

You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."

You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.

"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."

"What?"

"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."

"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.

"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"

There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.

"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.

You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."

The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"

You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"

You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."

His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."

"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"

Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."

Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."

His mind is spinning. You love him.

"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.

"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.

It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.

Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.

She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.

So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.

Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?

But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.

She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.

And Jack—

Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.

Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.

"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.

Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.

Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.

"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."

He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.

"That bad?" he asks.

"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."

Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."

Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?

Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"

"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.

"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.

"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."

Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.

"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."

Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.

"Did you see her at rounds?"

Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"

Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."

Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."

Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.

You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.

So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.

Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.

After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—

Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.

In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.

His shoulder throbs harder.

"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.

Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.

"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.

"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.

That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"

"I—"

"Since when do you do that?"

Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."

Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.

"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."

Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."

You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."

"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.

The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.

And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.

"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.

He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"

Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.

Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.

"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."

"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.

"You're crying."

"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.

"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."

"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."

You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.

He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."

"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."

He fights the urge to look away.

"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.

"I know."

"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.

He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.

Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."

You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"

"I won't go," he promises.

"Jack—"

"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.

"Really?"

He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."

You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.

You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."

Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"

"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.

"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."

Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.

"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.

"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.

The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.

"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"

You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"

He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."

You close the chart immediately. "Okay."

The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.

You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.

His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.

You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.

"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.

"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.

"I am careful."

You don't answer him.

He sighs. "…Careful-ish."

You almost smile. Almost.

"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.

"No problem."

He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.

After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.

You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.

For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—

You could make it work.

A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.

Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.

Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.

You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.

The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.

One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.

"Breakfast," Jack says.

You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.

His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.

You stare after him, chest twisting.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.

You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."

"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."

She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—

You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—

"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.

You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."

Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.

"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.

You nod once. "Yeah."

But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.

Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."

You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"

"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."

You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.

Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.

As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.

"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.

"The sedation should still hold," she states.

You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.

And then—

His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.

"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."

The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.

"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.

Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.

"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.

This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.

You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.

Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hula Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.

Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.

You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.

"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.

"Mm," she mutters.

Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.

"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.

Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."

"I can walk," you say.

"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."

"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.

"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.

He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.

"I'm fine."

He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.

"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.

"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"

You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."

"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.

"No."

"Nausea? Dizziness?"

"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.

He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.

"That bad?"

"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."

He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."

"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."

He doesn't answer you.

You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."

"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.

"Don't call him."

"What?"

"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."

"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."

"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."

Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."

You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.

You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"

Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."

The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.

You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.

Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.

He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.

"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.

"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."

Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.

His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—

"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"

You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."

His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.

"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.

Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."

You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.

His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."

"Jack—"

He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."

Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.

"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.

"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"

You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."

He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."

"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."

"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.

You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.

"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.

"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.

You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.

"What?"

"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.

"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."

Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.

Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.

He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."

You study him quietly.

"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."

His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."

You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."

You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.

As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.

"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.

Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."

"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.

"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."

Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."

Jack’s jaw clenches.

"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."

"I'm pissed."

"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."

Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.

Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."

"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.

"Then trust her."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.

Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."

Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.

Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."

That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.

Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."

Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.

Jack stays with you through it all.

From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.

When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.

You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.

Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."

You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.

And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.

"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.

Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"

You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."

Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"

"No," Jack interjects immediately.

Trinity blinks at him.

He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."

Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.

"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.

You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."

"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."

You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."

He huffs. "Still."

Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.

By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.

"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.

"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—

Well. His hand is comforting.

Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.

"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.

He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."

His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."

You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."

He shrugs in response.

The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.

Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.

He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.

You stop. "What are you doing?"

"You can sleep in my bed."

"What?"

"It’s better for your ribs."

You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."

"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.

You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.

Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."

Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."

You blink.

"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."

"You still have a head injury."

"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.

"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.

You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."

"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."

Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."

Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."

"Jack," you protest.

"What?"

"Your back’s gonna hurt."

He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.

You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.

With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."

Jack looks up.

Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."

His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."

And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.

He steps back first. "I'll be right back."

You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.

"…Jack."

He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.

You stare at him. "What are you doing?"

He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."

"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.

He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.

You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."

He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.

You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."

Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.

Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.

Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.

You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.

"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.

You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.

The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.

By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.

Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.

For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.

You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—

Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.

You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.

You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—

You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.

I should’ve never agreed to this.

The hope curdles again.

Going back to work takes another week.

Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.

You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.

It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.

The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.

One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"

"No," Jack says flatly.

Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.

Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.

You groan immediately.

Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"

"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.

"Seriously?" you sigh.

Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."

You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."

"You’re still recovering," he counters.

"I’m fine."

Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."

Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"

Both of you turn to look at him.

"It’s a two-person thing."

Silence hangs in the air.

"…Oh," you say slowly.

Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."

"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.

You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.

"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.

You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.

He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."

You nod. "Okay."

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.

a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD

Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.

It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.

Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?

You have to be.

But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.

You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.

"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.

You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.

He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."

You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."

"You're not," he says.

"I might."

"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."

Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.

He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.

"What's this?"

"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."

Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"

"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.

You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."

He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.

The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.

By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?

"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.

You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.

Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.

"You've got this," Jack says.

"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.

He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.

"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.

You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.

"Repeat it," he says.

You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.

"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."

You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.

Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."

You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.

When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.

After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.

During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.

By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.

As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.

"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.

You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"

You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."

He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."

He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"

"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"

Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."

Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.

A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.

"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.

"Oh no," you shake your head.

"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.

"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," you say shyly.

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.

Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"

Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.

"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."

He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.

As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.

"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."

"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.

"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"

"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."

You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"

He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.

You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"

You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."

He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.

"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.

"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."

"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."

He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."

You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.

Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.

As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.

"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."

For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.

Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.

He clears his throat. "I wanted to."

You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.

"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"

Jack swallows hard and nods.

You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.

You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.

Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—

"SURPRISE!"

You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.

"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.

Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’

Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."

"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"

Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.

He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."

Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.

"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."

"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.

You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.

His arms wrap around you automatically.

"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.

His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.

You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.

Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.

He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.

After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.

"Tired?" he asks.

"A little."

"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.

You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.

"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."

Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."

"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.

"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.

Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.

The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.

Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.

"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"

"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."

"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.

"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.

There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"

Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.

Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.

"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.

"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"

"I am," she laughs.

"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.

She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."

Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.

Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.

Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.

"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."

"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.

"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.

You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."

"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"

After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.

Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.

As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.

Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.

She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"

The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."

Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.

As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"

You turn to her again. "That depends."

A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"

You frown at her.

She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."

You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."

"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"

"Really?"

"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."

Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.

"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."

You blink.

"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."

"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.

"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."

You fall silent.

"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.

Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."

Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.

"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."

The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.

You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.

Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.

"Oh no," you murmur immediately.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.

"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.

Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.

His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.

Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."

Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.

The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.

"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."

"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.

"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."

Laughter erupts around the room.

"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.

Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."

"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.

"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."

"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.

"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"

You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.

Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."

"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.

"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."

Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."

The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.

Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.

The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.

He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?

Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"

The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.

"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"

He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"

The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.

"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.

Then he drops your hand again.

A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.

Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.

"Two seltzers and two beers."

"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"

You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"

"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.

You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.

Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.

You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.

"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.

"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.

Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.

"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.

You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.

As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"

He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.

You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"

He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"

"Yeah?"

"It looked that way."

You frown at him.

"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."

Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"

"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.

"What are you talking about?"

He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."

Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."

His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."

You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."

"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."

"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."

He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."

Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."

His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."

"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."

He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."

You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"

He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"

"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.

His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"

Then the doorknob rattles

Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.

But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.

Without thinking, you react.

It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.

Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.

He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.

Jack groans at the sound.

The door opens behind you—

"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.

You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.

The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.

It tastes sharp.

But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.

You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.

He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.

"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.

Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.

He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."

"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"

"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."

Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.

You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."

The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.

"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.

She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"

You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."

Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.

Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.

"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."

At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.

"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.

She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.

Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"

You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."

Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."

For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.

Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”

You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.

Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.

"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."

You blink. "What?"

Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."

"…Who?"

She's silent.

"No way."

She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"

"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.

Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."

You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."

"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.

"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."

"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."

The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.

For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.

It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,

You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.

"You good?" Robby asks.

There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.

"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."

"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.

You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."

You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.

"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."

"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.

Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."

You bite your lip harshly.

"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"

"It's gone too far now and I—"

You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.

You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.

But it doesn’t.

Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.

next part

“Hey, sweet girl.” His voice was gentle as always, soft. “How are you doing?”

You stared unseeing at the TV. “I’m okay.”

It was the same answer you always gave him. The same lie you told him and yourself every day. Your pain had dulled into something more manageable, but your life was still disrupted, too damaged for you to feel happy with it.

“I was calling because I wanted to see you. Maybe have you over for dinner tomorrow night? I can make your favorite.”

Your grip tightened on the phone as you considered the invitation. “At the house?” you finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“And will Robby be there?”

The silence stretched for a beat, then he said, “That’s the idea.”

“No.” The word came out sharp, irritated.

“No?” He managed to sound almost offended.

“Did I stutter?” You immediately regretted snapping and took a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not upset with you. You did nothing wrong. I’m glad you went home and you and Robby made up. But if he wants to fix this, he has to fix it. Not you.”

You could picture him running a hand through his curls, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he considered his response. “I’m just trying to—”

“Make things easier for him?” you finished for him, though you were positive that wasn’t what he was about to say. “That’s what you do when you love someone. You try to fix things. It’s one of the many things I love about you. But this actually has nothing to do with you. Something you made very clear when you went home. I accepted that and you need to as well. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle. If it’s too much, don’t feel like you owe me anything.” The words caught in your throat. “I need to go.”

“Wait—”

You ended the call before he could say anything else and dropped the phone into your lap. You turned off the TV, plunging the room into near-darkness, the only light in the room filtering in from the kitchen. The phone buzzed in your lap. You glanced down to see a text from Jack. I love you. We both do. You didn’t bother responding.

You tried to force your mind to think about anything but Jack telling you he was going home. But Robby’s angry face the last time you’d seen him. But your thoughts kept circling back. What else could you do when your whole world had collapsed but remember the end?

You’d gotten your revenge on Chelsea and her minions, publicly calling them out, making sure everyone knew what they had done. The boys had insisted on celebrating, so you’d sat at Sam’s bar and smiled and laughed at the appropriate moments. But it had all felt hollow. Because at the end of the day, you still went home to an empty apartment. Still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for someone that wasn’t there.

You weren’t angry at Jack for going home. For choosing his partner that he’d been with for years, that knew him more intimately than you could ever hope to. Not really. But sometimes, just sometimes, you wish he’d chosen to stay here with you. That you had been worth even a second’s hesitation on his part. Maybe it was time to just move on from it all.

Robby sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed as Jack paced the length of the living room. The call had gone as badly as Robby had feared it might. The silence that followed was thick with tension.

“This is all my fault,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “Sit down, Jack. You’re going to hurt your leg.”

Jack stopped pacing and dropped into one of the chairs. “I shouldn’t have pushed her. We should have known she’d react like this.”

“It’s not your fault. She’s mad at me,” Robby insisted. “I’m the one who fucked up.”

“I knew she wasn’t ready. I just…” Jack sighed. “I miss her, man. I miss the three of us together. I thought if we could just get you two in the same room maybe you could start working things out.”

Robby leaned back. “I know. I was hoping for the same thing. What if I’ve lost her, Jack? What if she never forgives me?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. “She loves you. I know she does. But what you did…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I know. I know how bad it is.” Robby closed his eyes, shame washing over him. “I hurt her so badly. I hurt both of you because I was too terrified she would hurt me first.”

“Yeah, you did. But you want to fix it. You’re trying to fix it. That counts for something.”

Robby turned his head to face him. “Not enough, apparently. So, what do I do now if she won’t come over for dinner?”

“You need to show her you’re serious. That you’re willing to put in the work. Hell, we both do at this point. I’m pretty sure she’s no happier with me at the moment,” Jack said.

“So what? Flowers? Candy? Hell, I’ll buy her fucking pony at this point if you think it would help.” The words came out more bitter than Robby had intended.

Jack rolled his eyes. “No ponies. No animals period while we’re on the topic. Gestures. Things that show you’re thinking about her, that you listen to her. The kind of things she always does for us without being asked.” He leaned forward to make sure his partner was really listening. “She loves making people feel seen. That’s why what you did hurt so much. You made her feel invisible. Like everything she thought you knew about her was wrong.”

Robby swallowed hard. He had reduced you to the worst possible version of yourself based on nothing but his own insecurities. “Where do I start?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“You start with little things. Show her you’re paying attention. That you’re thinking about her. That you’re trying to be better.”

“And then what?” Robby was desperate for a map, instructions that might get him back to where he’d been before he threw it all away.

Jack shrugged. “Then you hope it’s enough to get her to give you the chance to do the big things.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then you keep trying.”

The knock came just after eight in the morning. You were already up and drinking your second cup of coffee. Sleep had been restless as of late, and you’d rolled out of bed just after five when it became clear you weren’t getting anymore rest. You grabbed Jack’s hoodie draped over the back of a chair and slid it on as you headed for the door. Through the peephole, you saw a delivery person holding a large bouquet of flowers. Your heart did that traitorous leap again as you opened the door.

The woman said your name and once you’d confirmed, handed over a massive arrangement of spring flowers. The scent of lilacs invaded your senses. “For you.”

“Thanks,” you managed, taking the flowers from her. “Just a second, let me get you a tip.”

She waved you off with a smile. “Already taken care of. Have a nice day.”

You stood in the doorway for a moment, arms full of flowers. You set the bouquet on the counter and searched for a card amongst the blooms. The only thing you found listed only your name and address, no greeting, no message. No apology. You snapped a picture and sent it to Jack. You or Robby?

Mike. Mine will be there later.

You rolled your eyes and set your phone on the counter beside the vase. The flowers were gorgeous, no question, but they meant nothing. Not really. A generic arrangement he could have ordered by calling almost any flower shop in town. A phone call where he’d evidently provided your name, address and his credit card number but couldn’t be bothered with a message.

You received another smaller arrangement of tea roses from Jack that afternoon. Peach and pink along with a lovely message apologizing for the dinner invitation. All of it signed off with an I love you, Jack. You sent a simple thank you text as your gaze turned once more to the arrangement from Robby. You sighed and wandered into the living room to get some work done.

The next morning started the same way, with a knock on the door and a delivery. Breakfast this time. You texted on and off with Jack and had a brief call with him before he started his shift.

Another morning and another knock. This time, when you opened the door, you were surprised to find your landlord. He handed you a piece of paper. “Here.”

You glanced at the paper and frowned. “What is this?”

“Rent’s paid. Three months.”

You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your rent. It’s been paid in full for the next three months.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh obviously already done with the conversation.

“By who?” you asked, though you were certain you already knew the answer.

He leaned forward and tapped the paper in your hand. “Says right there. M. Robinavitch.” You tried not to cringe as he horribly butchered the pronunciation of Robby’s name. “The boyfriend, right?”

“Not the boyfriend,” you corrected automatically. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He nodded but was already on his way down the hall. You closed your door and leaned against it, mind racing. “Michael Robinavitch, you’re a fucking idiot.” You grabbed your keys and headed out, pushing the thought from your mind. An apology delivered via money order wasn’t an apology at all.

In the days that followed, you continued to talk with Jack both by call and text. He didn’t mention Robby again, instead simply checking in, asking how you were, filling each other in on your days. Robby, by contrast, remained silent. No calls, no texts. Just more flowers and gifts that never seemed to quit coming. A first edition of your favorite book. A bottle of an expensive whiskey you’d mentioned loving the taste of. A scarf in your favorite color. You accepted them all, used them even. But you didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t acknowledge the gifts in any way. It wasn’t out of spite or anger, not anymore. It was simpler than that. You were waiting. Waiting for the one thing you hadn’t received yet. A sincere apology.

A week after the flowers had arrived, a small package was delivered to your door. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with no shipping label, just your name written across the front in Robby’s distinctive handwriting. You took it inside, staring at it before curiosity won out. You tore open the paper to find a small box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet was a silver chain with a small caduceus symbol.

You lifted it carefully, the metal cool against your fingers. It was beautiful, delicate. Simple but elegant and exactly the kind of thing you liked to wear every day. He certainly knew your taste. It was the kind of gift that showed thought, that acknowledged who you were and what mattered to you. You closed the lid and set the box on the shelf beside your tattoo fund jar that you kept for some reason despite no longer having a need for it. You left the gift there without another glance.

A knock sounded late afternoon of the next day. You’d gotten used to the pattern by now. A knock followed by a delivery with no note. You opened the door without checking the peephole first. Instead of a delivery person, you found a man in a suit holding a manilla envelope. He read your name off the front.

“That’s me,” you confirmed.

He handed you the envelope. No sooner had your fingers closed around it then he snapped a picture with his phone. “Consider yourself served. Have a nice day.”

He didn’t even give you a chance to respond before he turned and walked away. You closed the door and tore into the envelope, having a suspicion of what was inside and you were correct. Your family was suing you for what they felt was their due from your grandfather’s estate. They were alleging undue influence and diminished capacity claiming pops hadn’t been in his right mind when he changed his will to leave everything to you.

Your eyebrow ticked ever higher as you read through the papers. They were claiming you had isolated your grandfather from the rest of the family. That you’d manipulated him into changing the will. That you’d taken advantage of an elderly man’s confusion for your own gain.

Fucking assholes. You headed to the corner where you kept your printer/scanner and fed the papers into it. You called Max as you watched the document feed through the machine. He answered on the third ring.

“As anticipated, I’ve been served. They’re contesting the will.”

There was a moment of silence before he sighed. “I see. They’re stupider than I thought. Was there anything surprising in the filing?”

“Not that I could see. I’m scanning it to send to you as we speak.”

“Good. I’ll read over it and get back to you. Like I said, this is nothing to be concerned about. There were provisions in place for all of this. Your grandfather was thorough.” After a beat, he added, “I am sorry for this, though. You deserve better.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “The universe seems to disagree with you at the moment. I’ll get this sent to you in just a bit. Thanks, Max.”

Your phone rang just after ten that night, Jack’s name lighting up the screen. You didn’t hesitate to answer, knowing he was at work and likely wouldn’t have long to talk. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, sweetheart. How are you doing?” His voice was warm, though he sounded tired.

“I’m okay. Just a lot going on.” You had no intention of sharing any details about your grandfather’s estate. Not when they were still unaware you’d even inherited it.

Someone called his name in the background. “Just a minute,” he said before returning his attention to you. “Listen, I just have a second but I was wondering if you wanted to meet for breakfast tomorrow after my shift.”

“Just us?” you asked.

“Yeah. Just me and my girl.”

“Seven thirty at the usual place?” you asked, not even thinking of declining. You’d missed him.

“Sounds great. See you then.”

The diner looked the same as always, not that you’d expected anything different. You’d arrived a little early, content to get in an extra cup of coffee. You just taken the first sip of your second cup when Jack walked in. He’d stripped his scrub top leaving him in cargos and his t-shirt. He looked tired but his face broke into a wide smile when his gaze landed on you.

He pressed a quick kiss to your lips before sliding into the booth across from you, reaching for the menu. How he didn’t have it memorized by now, you had no idea. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up.”

“You’re like five minutes late. I got here early,” you told him.

He nodded, gaze flicking over you, taking you in. “You look tired.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, I’ve been sleeping like shit so…”

The waitress appeared and took your orders before disappearing once more.

Jack leaned forward slightly. “I miss you.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “I miss you too. Both of you, if I’m being honest.”

Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Hope maybe, or relief. “Mike’s trying. The gifts, the rent, he’s doing everything he can think of to show you he’s sorry.”

You sighed and pushed your mug away from you. This is what you’d been afraid of when you accepted his invitation. It’s why you hadn’t pushed to see him sooner. “No, Jack. He’s trying to buy me. He called me a whore because I took things from you and then slept with you. He’s not going to get me back by spending his money.”

You stood, grabbing your bag from the seat beside you. You stopped at his side of the table and leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate embrace. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, a flush creeping across his cheeks.

“I love you, Jack.” Your voice was steady despite the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “But this isn’t fair to you. Maybe we should just put all of this on hold for a while.”

You turned to leave but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His thumb moved in a slow circle against the inside of it, his touch gentle but insistent.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Please don’t do that. I’ll shut up about Mike.”

You looked at his hand on your wrist then back to his face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His grip didn’t loosen. “Then stay.”

You hesitated before nodding once. “Scoot.”

He hastily slid over, still holding onto your wrist, not letting go until you settled in the seat beside him. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about him. I asked because I wanted to see you. Because I’ve missed you. Every day without you feels wrong.”

The honesty in his voice had you swallowing a lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

You made your way through the room and dropped into the empty chair with a sigh. “Tell me.”

Dom pushed your coffee toward you. “Caffeinate while we talk.”

You dutifully sipped while staring at them pointedly over the top of the cup.

They exchanged a glance before Rick leaned forward. “It was Chelsea.”

“As in our Chelsea? My ex-roommate? Bitch we barely tolerate but somehow still associate with? That Chelsea?”

“No. Chelsea Clinton,” Dom said with a blank look. “Of course, we mean that Chelsea.”

“She was the one in the video,” Rick added.

“That doesn’t make any sense. It didn’t look anything like her. And what about the dress and the bracelet?” Your voice came out louder than you’d intended, drawing looks from some nearby tables.

“We’ll explain everything,” Dom assured you.

You took a breath and nodded. “Right. Okay.”

“You remember the night we went out for dinner, that big group of us and you wore the dress with the bracelet? You told everyone Robby had gotten them for you,” he said. When you nodded, he continued. “She went out the next day and bought the same dress and bracelet.”

Your brow furrowed. “But that was—”

“Months ago, yes.” Rick nodded. “She’s been planning this for a long time.”

You took a minute to process that. “How did you find this out?”

“Sam,” Dom said with a smirk.

Your brows shot up. “Sam? How the hell did he know?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “All he had to do was smile pretty at Justine and she spilled everything. You know she’s had the biggest crush on him for years.”

“Justine.” Your voice was flat as you said the name. “So, Chelsea and Justine. Who else?”

“Daphne.”

You huffed in annoyance. “Should have guessed.”

“Sam was at the party where it happened,” Rick said. “He didn’t think anything of it other than, you know, the usual thoughts one has when someone of your acquaintance is giving public head.”

“Jesus,” you said, wincing at the image.