lola!

Reading on a windy beach, you discover, is less a leisurely seaside activity and more a long-standing personal feud between you and the Mediterranean climate. 

You lift your magazine. The wind instantly slaps your hair directly into your eyeballs. You tuck it behind your ear. Another gust undoes the effort two seconds later.

You’ve convinced the island is purposefully heckling you. Perhaps some Greek god you pissed off in another life.

The open page flutters lazily in your lap, corners lifting and settling again, the glossy print catching sunlight in quick flashes, and at this point the whole thing feels more ornamental than informative.

Not that it really matters. You haven’t actually absorbed a single sentence.

Instead your attention keeps slipping down the shoreline where Dr. Abbot and Dr. Robinavitch are standing near the water.

Jack remains on the darker band of sand where the waves compress everything flat. Earlier in the week he explained, very plainly, that prosthetics don’t sink and flex like a real foot does, which makes loose sand unpredictable.

So he stands right where the ocean keeps the ground firm, tide washing forward and retreating around his feet in slow intervals. 

Meanwhile you’re staring at the same paragraph you were staring at before, trying to remember what page you’re on and failing. 

And the task becomes significantly harder when you factor in the additional complication of Dr. Abbot’s physique. Which is, to put it politely, extremely distracting.

There are several far less polite descriptions currently doing slow laps around your brain that you’re making only a very half-hearted attempt to wrangle back into something respectable. 

Because seriously, how does someone even acquire pecs like that? Is there a class? A sign-up sheet? Do you collect punch cards at the gym until eventually a trainer appears out of nowhere and goes congratulations, sir, you’ve unlocked Advanced Chest Geometry?

The thought would almost be academic if it didn’t immediately lead somewhere less professional.

Namely the realization that he would probably look very good hovering over you. The breadth of his shoulders, the long plane of his back, all of it forming the kind of structure that seems, purely hypothetically, like it would benefit from a few well-placed scratch marks.

Thankfully, your sunglasses are large and, in Jack’s words, “obnoxious” enough to provide some degree of visual privacy.

They cover half your face, which means whatever extremely not-safe-for-work message your eyes are currently broadcasting in his direction remains safely concealed behind tinted lenses.

Mel, who is perched in the chair beside you with one leg tucked beneath her, suddenly turns her head.

“Out of curiosity,” she says, squinting toward you against the brightness. “Are you aware that you keep staring at Abbot?”

Shit.

Immediately you realize the fatal flaw in your sunglasses strategy, which is that from Mel’s angle, she can still see your eyes perfectly fine from the side, completely unobstructed, your entire operation exposed.

You turn to face her.

The wind has blown a scattering of sand across her cheeks, tiny pale grains stuck there like freckles.

You push your sunglasses up briefly to sweep your hair out of your face, buying yourself a moment to look like you’re thoughtfully considering her question.

There isn’t really any point in lying to her.

“I mean… can you blame me?”

Mel glances back toward Abbot, giving him a slow, methodical once-over, the kind that feels less appreciative and more clinical.

“I don’t think I understand the premise of the question,” she says.

“Okay, hypothetical,” you say, sitting up a little.  “You know when you encounter something extremely aesthetically pleasing and your brain just sort of… locks onto it? Like it would actually be irresponsible not to look?”

“You mean like scenery?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Exactly. Thank you.” You gesture vaguely toward Jack with the lazy authority of someone presenting a landmark. “That is a very impressive piece of scenery.”

Mel looks at him again.

“He’s a person.”

“Sure, technically.” Your gaze follows him as he turns slightly, the water moving around his ankles, shoulders shifting under the sun. “But calling him just a person feels reductive. Like calling the Sistine Chapel a ceiling. Or the Mona Lisa a lady sitting down.”

Mel stares at you.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she finally announces. “Ever, really.”

You shrug, sliding your sunglasses back down your nose as the wind grabs another handful of your hair.

“I get that a lot.”

You sink a little deeper into the chair, the canvas warm against the back of your thighs. 

Down by the shoreline Abbot and Robby finally start heading back toward the loose constellation of towels and bags everyone abandoned earlier.

Sunshine catches on the line of sweat sliding down Jack’s neck, tracing a slow path across the expanse of his chest, tiny shining rivulets threading through the scatter of dark chest hair before vanishing beneath the waistband of his swim trunks.

You swallow. Your tongue flicks across your lips without thinking. They feel suddenly dry, parched almost. Probably the sun. Or the salt air. 

Definitely environmental factors and not the fact that the man appears to have been carved specifically for dramatic beach lighting.

Robby breaks off first, veering toward the cooler with the purposeful stride of a man thinking about cold beer, leaving Abbot to continue forward alone.

He stops directly in front of your chair, turning to say something to Whitaker somewhere behind you, and in doing so he blocks the sun entirely, a broad warm shadow falling over you, the wind cutting off too.

Which would be pleasant if the exchange didn’t also mean that, from where you’re sitting, your line of sight now lands very squarely at the level of his swim trunks. And his abs. And the narrow trail of hair beginning just below his navel and following the sweat into his shorts.

You wonder, briefly and very seriously, if he would object to you following that little trail with your tongue, just once, purely out of scientific curiosity, a sort of field study in —

“— you with me?”

You jolt, the thought snapping in half like a rubber band.

“Sorry — what?”

Jack is watching you now. Not openly amused exactly, but observant, arms folded loosely across his chest as his gaze dips downward toward where you’re sitting. 

Which, given the previous direction of your attention, feels incriminating.

“I asked if you’d seen Whitaker’s phone.”

“Oh. No. I — no.”

His gaze lingers for half a second. Then he crouches down in front of you, suddenly right there at eye level. It feels like a tactical maneuver. You’re certain he’s closing distance in a very calm ambush.

“You know your sunglasses are see-through, right?”

You think maybe you stop breathing.

“What?”

“I can see your eyes,” he says, using his forefinger to tap on the side of your knee. “Very clearly, actually.”

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your sunglasses.

“…you can?”

Abbot’s mouth twitches in a restrained, almost private way.

“Not exactly subtle,” he quips.

“I was reading.”

He gestures toward your lap.

“Your magazine’s upside down.”

You glance down.

It is.

You stare at it for a moment. The wind lifts the corner of the page in a smug little flutter, like it’s personally delighted to be involved in your public humiliation.

You slowly close the magazine.

“Well,” you say, and there is dignity in your voice, real dignity, you put it there intentionally, “that’s… actually how you’re supposed to read it in Europe.”

“Upside down?”

“It’s a regional thing.”

“Uh-huh.” His gaze dips down to your legs. When it comes back up, there's something in his face that makes the afternoon feel several degrees hotter than it already is. “Should I turn around,” he asks mildly, “or were you getting everything you needed from that angle?”

You die.

Briefly, but completely. You are in the active process of leaving your body, dissociating into the sun, formulating a serious plan involving a fake name and a one-way ferry, when Mel — Mel, who you have known for years, Mel, who you have trusted — opens her mouth.

“Oh she was getting everything she needed,” she says helpfully.

“Mel.” It comes out strangled, barely a name at all.

Abbot’s gaze flicks briefly between the two of you. The corner of his mouth tilts. A wicked little thing.

“Good,” he says mildly, patting the side of your leg before moving to where Robby had laid claim over two chairs closer to the water.

You are throwing these damn sunglasses directly into the Aegean.

Possibly yourself as well.

You wake up hours later, disoriented, in an empty bed. A fleeting memory flits through your mind—Jack’s warm fingers brushing against your cheek as he slipped away. The space beside you is still faintly warm, so he hasn't been gone long.

You stretch slightly, feeling a subtle easing in your body. The fever fog that has haunted you has thinned; your joints still ache, but the pain has softened, and when you sit up, the room no longer tilts or sways.

You pause, bracing yourself for a wave of discomfort or dizziness, but nothing comes. Instead, you let out a slow breath, one you hadn’t realised you were holding.

You're through the worst of it.

The house is quiet, just the low hum of appliances and the faint, comforting clink of ceramic from the kitchen. Carefully, you swing your legs over the side of the bed. You move slowly, but steadily, bare feet padding across the floor. Each step feels deliberate, like your body is reminding you not to get cocky.

Jack stands at the counter, already dressed and wearing his prosthetic. He’s poured himself a cup of coffee, and as you enter the room, he looks up at the sound of movement. And for half a second, his face gives him away—relief, clear and unguarded—then it's gone, smoothed into something calm.

"You're up," he says.

"Don't get too excited," you reply, voice still scratchy but more robust than it was yesterday. "I can stand. It's a low bar." You slide into a chair before your legs can argue otherwise.

He huffs a quiet laugh and slides a steaming mug of coffee toward you without a word. You wrap both hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into your palms.

It’s easy, for a fleeting moment, to imagine afternoons like this—shared silence, coffee waiting, and Jack attending to you with a casual care that feels immensely significant.

You don’t let yourself stay there.

“I should head back later,” you say lightly, attempting to downplay the heaviness in your heart. “Ride out the last of it at my place.”

Jack’s response is immediate. “You don’t have to,” he says. “You can stay. At least another day.”

The offer lands heavily, its weight tugging at something tender and overworked inside you. Your heart, still fatigued, protests at the effort it takes to ignore it. You swallow the instinctive ‘yes’ that threatens to escape and instead paste on a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Thanks, but I should probably check that my roommate didn't leave the oven on all night," you say, trying to keep the mood light. “Or if she left the window open again. Last time we had pigeons. Plural.”

Jack studies you over the rim of his mug, his eyes measuring something unspoken between you. His gaze searches yours, weighing whether to challenge or let it go, but in the end, he relents.

"Let me take you home at least," he says. It’s phrased casually, but there’s something firm underneath it. It's not a question.

You open your mouth to protest—I’m fine, I can order an Uber—then close it again. The truth is, you’re still tired. Still a little shaky. And part of you doesn’t want to be alone quite yet.

“Okay,” you say finally, a reluctant acceptance creeping into your voice. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

The drive is quiet, only broken by the soft murmur of radio hosts drifting from the speakers. The city moves past the windows in soft blurs of grey, and you watch as familiar streets slide by. Jack drives carefully, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console.

"You feeling okay?" he asks, glancing at you briefly.

“Yeah,” you say, the answer forming more easily now. “Tired, but feeling significantly less like death.”

He exhales something almost like a laugh. “Good.” A pause. Then, he adds quieter. “I’m glad.”

When he pulls up outside your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine idles. The moment stretches.

“Thank you. For taking care of me,” you finally say, breaking the silence.

His gaze flicks to you then, steady and sincere. “Anytime.”

Hesitating for just a moment, you reach for the door and push it open before doubt can worm its way back in. The brisk air outside is colder than you expect, a stark contrast to the warmth inside the car.

Jack waits until you’re inside before pulling away.

Up in your apartment, the quiet feels amplified, almost overwhelming in its emptiness. You set your bag down, lean back against the door, and take a moment to breathe, grounding yourself. You close your eyes, trying to centre your thoughts, but your chest feels inexplicably tight.

You tell yourself he was just being kind. That it’s natural to feel concern for someone unwell. That people were watching in the ER. That that’s why he drove you home.

You struggle to find a suitable excuse for him bringing you to his house, for staying, for the way he watched you breathe like it mattered. Every explanation circles back to the same fragile word.

Kindness. He was just being kind.

You repeat it in your mind like a mantra, over and over, until the syllables lose their meaning and no longer feel true.

Over the next few days, you recover in slow increments. The coughing dulls, the chills fade, and your voice gradually starts to sound more like your own. Jack checks in daily—nothing dramatic, nothing heavy. Just simple texts.

How’s your head? You eating? Take your meds?

You respond honestly, but you don’t share the emptiness of your apartment or how you keep replaying the comforting weight of his arm around you, or how nice it felt to be taken care of.

By the time your next night shift rolls around, you’re functional.

Not great. Not fully recovered.

But upright. And breathing. And pretending that’s enough.  

Pretending is your forte after all.

“You’re back!” Parker sidles up beside you at the hub, eyes flicking up to the board before landing squarely on you with evident relief. “Thank god.”

Your brows knit together as you turn to face her, arms crossing automatically. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t bother to mask her frustration. “Abbot’s been a nightmare to work with,” she says. “Distracted. Snappy. I swear he was checking his phone every two minutes. He even had Lena hold onto it just in case he was busy.”

You blink in surprise. "Oh."

Parker gives you a look. “I’ve never seen a guy so worried about someone with the flu,” she continues. “And that doesn’t even cover the day you came in sick."

Your stomach does a small, traitorous dip.

“Don’t know how you managed to sneak that past him,” she adds with a grin, clearly misreading the situation, and thinking you snuck out of the house after he left. “But he was a wreck that night. Total mess. He even had Robby come in hours early so he could go home to you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t known that.

You quickly school your face into a neutral expression and reach for a tablet, grateful for the excuse to redirect the focus away from this conversation. “I don’t think he was that worried,” you say, aiming for casual. He couldn't have been. It was probably just an act to keep this lie going. “It was just the flu. He wasn't that worried."

Parker hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You shoot her a look. “Well, I'm back and I’m good.”

“Good,” she says brightly. “Because I can’t handle seeing his worried little frown all shift. It’s upsetting. And frankly, it kills the vibe.”

Before you can respond, the speakers crackle. Trauma alert. Heart attack, mid-50s.

You glance up just as Jack strides in beside you, already attuned to the urgency of the situation. His gaze flicks to you—quick, sharp—assessing your readiness. When he sees you standing steady, tablet in hand, colour back in your cheeks, he visibly relaxes; the tension in his shoulders eases just the slightest bit.

“You good?” he asks, low.

“Yeah,” you assure him. “Promise.”

He nods once, satisfied enough to move on, but not before his hand briefly brushes your elbow—grounding, unnecessary, and comfortingly familiar.

The call unfolds smoothly. You and Jack work seamlessly together, slipping back into an easy rhythm. He hands you the BP cuff before you ask. You anticipate his questions, fill in details without stepping on his toes. When the patient winces, Jack’s attention is split—half on the monitor, half flicking to you, like he’s making sure you’re not pushing yourself.

You catch him doing it. Again and again.

“I’m fine,” you murmur under your breath at one point, adjusting the IV line with practised hands.

“I know,” he says just as quietly. “Humour me.”

The patient notices, too. Gives you a knowing smile. “You two work well together,” he says.

Jack answers automatically. “She's a great doctor.”

You can’t help but notice Bridget, hovering on the periphery, biting her lip to suppress a smile as she watches the interaction unfold.

Later, as you clear the call and step away from the rig, Jack finally exhales fully, tension releasing from him. He looks at you like he’s been holding something in all shift.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

Rolling your eyes, you can't help but feel fond despite the annoyance. “I survived. See? No hovering required.”

A hint of a smile escapes him.

In the middle of a week already testing your patience in every possible direction—work, roommate, sickness—fate decides to push a little harder.

It’s a wet, freezing, grey evening, the kind that makes merely existing outside feel like punishment. You’re regretting your decision to venture out even more when the bus gives a sickly sputter, then a series of choking gasps, before it finally dies.

It's not your stop. Not even close. After a few excruciating minutes of anticipation, the driver announces in a weary tone that they’ve experienced an “engine failure”—an official term that translates into your language as: get out, everyone, and good luck finding your way home. And for you, this means: you’re in deep trouble.

The emergency stop is in a neighbourhood you only recognise because you’ve looked up ER wait-times here once (long live study procrastination)—long, loud, not exactly the sort of place you want to be stuck alone in after 6 PM.

People scatter toward the nearest bus stop, but the next bus won’t arrive for an agonising forty minutes, and the Uber wait-time is an excruciating hour. You can almost hear your wallet wailing at the thought of the fare while your sanity threatens to unravel completely. Staring at the useless little map on your phone feels futile as you weigh your options—and your desperate situation.

Reluctantly, you call Jack.

Not because you want to, but because you’re desperate. It’s his night off, and with his work-life balance already dangling by a thread, the last thing you want is to turn him into your personal rescue service. You already feel like you intrude on every corner of his life, but you have no other options, and you really, really cannot be late.

He answers halfway through the first ring, his voice warm but tinged with alertness. “Hey,” he greets, instantly gauging that something’s amiss. “What’s wrong?

“I, um…” You pull your bag closer to your side, acutely aware of the scattered figures around you. The sidewalk feels emptier with each passing moment, only a few souls left waiting for their rides.

“Could you… can you come get me?”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end. “Where are you?”

You give the cross-streets.

Dead silence follows.

“Why the hell are you there? I thought you were working tonight?” he asks—not loud, just tight.

“I am. The bus broke down,” you mutter quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine, it’s just—my next connection doesn’t come for forty minutes, and I’m going to be late, and I—”

“Stay where you are,” he commands immediately. There’s a jangle of keys, a shift in movement that speaks volumes. “Don’t walk around. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

The line clicks shut, leaving you to hug yourself closer against the chill. Ten long, agonising minutes stretch out, headlights gliding over puddles while you fidget anxiously. Then, finally, his car pulls in sharply, stopping with a slight skid. Jack is out before you have a chance to fully rise from the bench, and his expression—God, he looks furious.

“What the hell is this commute?” he demands as you slide into the warmth of the car. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

You fasten your seatbelt, the click sounding louder in the tense silence. “It’s not always—”

He slams the door harder than usual, takes a breath, and dives into the driver’s seat, shutting his own door with a similar intensity. His jaw clenches and flexes as he starts the engine. “This is a forty-minute detour from your normal route,” he states as he pulls out into traffic.

You stare down at your lap, your heart sinking as you feel his eyes flicker toward you, searching. “You do this every night?” he presses.

No answer.

"Every morning?” His voice is edged with concern now, but you’re unsure what reaction the truth would elicit.

Jack exhales heavily. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

"I'm sorry for calling you," you murmur.

“Hey.” He glances over at you, and in his eyes, the anger begins to dissolve into something softer. “No, no. Sweetheart, I’m not mad at you. You can call me anytime.” His tone softens as he pulls onto the main road, still moving quickly but with more control now. “I just—if I’d known it was like this, I would’ve driven you.”

You try not to read into it. But God, it’s hard not to. The car hums, steady under his hands as he turns towards the Pitt. He drives a little slower now, like his pulse has finally caught up. The car hums around you, warm and steady, and the small coil of panic in your chest loosens.

The road smooths out, streetlights streaking past in lazy lines. Jack drums his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel before letting out a resigned sigh. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “You're really living up to your nickname, Trouble."

You blink at him, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Wow. So this is my fault?”

“Obviously. This screams personal vendetta."

You nod solemnly, playing along. “I did sense a hostile vibe from the engine.”

He shoots you a look that’s both incredulous and amused. “Don’t joke about engines. Too soon.”

“Sorry. My bad.” You pause. “But if it helps, when the driver said ‘engine failure,’ I briefly considered standing up and yelling, ‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’”

Jack groans. “I would’ve left you there.”

“Untrue. You’d have rescued me and pretended not to know me.”

“Hmm, I don't know about that,” he replies, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

Another light. He brakes a little harder than necessary, then catches himself.

“You scared me,” he admits, the weight of his words hanging between you.

You swallow, the openness of the moment catching you off guard. “Sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Silence looms, but you power through it, not wanting to let the gravity of the situation linger too long.

“Good news, though,” you say brightly. “If we’re ever in a zombie apocalypse, I now know three main exits and one suspicious alley to escape down.”

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “That’s… comforting.”

“I bring value to this partnership," you tease, the tension easing just a touch again.

He shakes his head, a reluctant smile breaking free despite the circumstances. “Next time, I’m driving you. No buses. No apocalypse training on my watch.”

You grin, sinking back into the comfort of the seat. “Look at that. One near-death experience, and I get upgraded transport.”

“Don’t push it,” he says, but there’s warmth in it.

The car keeps moving, steady and safe, and the night suddenly feels a lot less hostile.

The email hits your inbox at 3:20 PM, right as you’re dragging yourself out of bed for another night shift—brain fuzzy, your soul hovering somewhere between awake and asleep, but notably more intact than it’s been in a week.

The lingering ache of being sick has mostly packed up and left; no fever, no bone-deep exhaustion, just the manageable, familiar tiredness of someone who works nights and makes questionable life choices. Enough that Jack has finally stopped hovering at work, no longer watching you like you might keel over if you blink too hard.

Your roommate, Talia, insisted on playing the same Sabrina Carpenter song on repeat most of the morning, so instead of sleeping, you’re now able to recite it word for word—backwards, if necessary—in multiple emotional tones.

Still, you feel… mostly good. Functional. The kind of okay that means you can make it through a shift without medical supervision or concerned looks from a certain doctor who pretends not to worry and fails spectacularly at it.

The email lands like it knew all of this and thought you can't have it too good.

HR Follow-Up Required — Marriage Verification & Cohabitation Status

You stare at it. At your wall. At the email again.

Then you text Jack.

YOU: Did we accidentally commit another policy violation in our sleep or something?

Jack: Not unless you fought another patient on my day off. It’s a follow-up. 5:50, outside HR.

You groan into your pillow, drag the covers over your face in a last, futile act of protest, then roll out of bed anyway.

Your rubber band waits on the nightstand. Picked by Jack after someone in the ER clocked your conspicuously ringless fingers and decided it was a topic for public discussion. You slip it into your bag.

Your real ring—the one you both picked out in a haze of exhaustion and bad coffee and… something else you refuse to name—slides onto your finger instead. It settles there, familiar, grounding.

Just in case HR demands proof, like some medieval marriage inquisition complete with torches and sworn testimony.

When you arrive at the HR office, Jack is leaning against the wall, his hair still damp from a stress-induced shower, you guess. Yours was.

Seeing you, his posture relaxes slightly. “You good?” he asks.

“No,” you reply flatly.

“Good. We’re on the same page.” He opens the door, his shoulder brushing yours in a fleeting moment of solidarity. The fluorescent lights inside still buzz like they’re trying to warn you to turn around. You ignore them.

Gina looks exactly the same—professional, rigid, already tired of this. "Doctors Abbot and Y/L/N,” she nods curtly in acknowledgement. “Let’s proceed.”

You and Jack take your seats, your knees bumping lightly beneath the table—light, steady contact. You don’t move away. Neither does he. You're too tired to ponder its meaning.

Gina lifts a thicker folder this time, the heaviness of it mirroring the weight in your chest. “We’ve reviewed your submitted documents. Everything looks good. However…”

Ah, the dreaded ‘however’.

“…We require further information.”

Jack nods politely. “Of course.”

She flips open a checklist that looks like it was designed specifically to ruin your week. “First point: cohabitation.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of the word, but you manage to maintain a composed expression—tired but neutral, a facade you've mastered over the last few weeks.

“You currently still list separate addresses,” Gina continues, her tone brisk, leaving little room for interpretation. “Given your marital status, this discrepancy raises concerns for the COI committee. You mentioned last time that you were moving in together—can you provide us with an estimated move-in date?

Before you can gather your thoughts or swallow your rising panic, Jack interjects with a measured tone. “We’re still finalising logistics.”

Gina’s gaze sharpens, her brow slightly furrowing. “I’ll need you to have a date by the end of this week,” she presses. “To avoid any complications with your submissions.”

A whole week. Luxurious. Generous. Insane.

Jack's jaw goes tight. “We’ll have a date by Friday.”

You steal a glance at him, but he doesn’t meet your gaze—his focus is locked on Gina. But, his knee presses more firmly against yours, a silent gesture that tells you he understands the weight of the situation, that he’s right there with you.

“Good,” Gina says, like she’s assigning homework, not deciding the fate of your careers. She tries something resembling a smile to soften the air, though it feels forced, and her eyes drift to your hands. “May I see your rings?”

You're not sure whether this is part of the interrogation or just her attempting to show interest like normal people do. Either way, it feels weird.

Jack, steady as ever, raises his hand. You join him, your hand trembling only slightly, thankfully. The weight of the ring feels suddenly heavier under her gaze.

“Looks good. Please ensure you’re wearing rubber substitutes in the ED.”

With that, she flips open another folder, “We’ve reviewed the documentation you previously submitted,” she says.

You and Jack exchange a subtle glance.

“Your timeline and personal statements have been added to the file,” she continues. “However, the COI committee has some follow-up questions due to the proximity and supervision overlap.”

Jack’s posture stiffens, a flicker of concern ghosting across his features. “Such as?” he asks carefully.

Gina slides a page across the desk. “They require supporting evidence.”

Your brows shoot up involuntarily. Supporting evidence? For a marriage? Is this HR or Homeland Security?

Gina leans forward, her tone clinical. “Photos together that predate the marriage. Proof of joint decision-making. Any texts or emails that chronicle the evolution of your relationship. And most crucially—documentation confirming your living arrangements moving forward.”

Jack maintains his calm facade, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying the storm of emotions beneath. “What kind of documentation?” he asks.

“A signed statement of cohabitation,” she states. “Along with the new shared address and the date of your move.”

Your brain short-circuits. This is no longer theoretical. No longer a loophole or a technicality. It’s real, sharp-edged and official. This was supposed to be temporary, and now you have to move in together. Just the thought sends you spiralling into a desire to crawl under the table and vanish.

“We’ll handle the administrative updates,” Jack replies.

Gina nods. “Please do. The committee expects everything to be submitted by the end of the week.”

Sure. Why not? What’s next? A home visit to validate your life together?

With a finality that echoes throughout the room, Gina closes the thick folder. The sound is solid, final—an exclamation mark on this unsettling discussion. “That’s all.”

Relief washes over you, and you nearly exhale the tension you've been holding since you walked in.

You leave the room, and the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a wave of uncertainty washes over you. Your knees wobble slightly—not to the point of collapse, but enough that Jack instinctively catches you by the elbow, concern etched in his features. “You okay?” he asks, his tone laced with genuine worry.

“I mean… define ‘okay.’”

He huffs a tiny laugh. “Fair.”

“She wants a move-in date this week,” you say, the weight of the situation settling heavily between you.

“Yeah,” he concurs, nodding. “But let’s not forget the silver lining—she also complimented our rings,” he says, his expression deadpan but the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. “A rare gesture of goodwill. I think I’ll frame it as a keepsake.”

You snort, unable to suppress your amusement. It’s a surprising relief to laugh with him at a moment when everything feels overwhelming, and the walls seem to close in around you.

At that exact moment, a nurse walks by. "Oh! Congrats again!” she beams, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You two are seriously the cutest couple." Her gaze shifts to you, and she winks, adding, “I know quite a few people who were disappointed when they found out you snatched up this guy.”

You catch Jack’s reaction—the abrupt stillness in his posture, the way his chin dips slightly. For a fleeting moment, you swear you see a hint of colour bloom on his cheeks.

You smile politely, trying to brush off the compliment. “Thank you,” you say, though it doesn’t quite capture the flutter of uncertainty in your chest.

As the nurse walks away with a cheerful grin, you and Jack lean against the wall. He mutters, half-joking, “We’re doomed.”

You shake your head, trying to inject some lightness into the air. “We’re improvising impressively,” you counter.

He raises an eyebrow at you.

With a nudge of your shoulder against his, you offer him a playful look. “Hey, at least you know you still have options after the dust settles.”

His jaw ticks. He looks ahead and doesn't answer, besides a low hum. You arch a brow. Interesting reaction, but you know it's probably just because he doesn't want to discuss that with you.

Perhaps it forces him to think about what he’s giving up by continuing this charade with you.

You let out a resigned sigh. “Shift?” you suggest, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Shift,” he agrees with a solemn nod. “And afterwards… we need to talk about moving in. Properly.”

At the mention of the impending conversation, your heart performs an Olympic-level flip in your chest. You strive to keep your voice steady and calm. “Okay.”

He nudges your shoulder again as you walk toward the locker rooms—light, casual, and seemingly unnecessary. To anyone observing, it might appear as a friendly gesture. But to you, at that moment, it means everything.

The shift unfolds like it always does.

A string of traumas. A combative patient. Two codes. An endless, relentless stream of congratulations you’re both too tired to deflect. You hope those die down soon.

By the time dawn bleeds through the skylights, your scrubs smell like antiseptic and coffee, you’ve run on adrenaline fumes for hours, and your brain feels soft around the edges. Most of the ER is in the slow-motion limbo between night and day shift. Lena passes by, calling a soft, “Good work,” like she can smell the burnout steaming off your body.

Jack is at the hub, leaning on one forearm as he signs off the last chart.

That blank post-chaos expression sits on his face—the one he only gets after he’s run entirely out of adrenaline and is operating on quiet, stubborn will.

You drift over, shoes dragging on the tile.

He lifts his gaze as you close the distance, as if he’s perpetually attuned to your presence. “You okay?” he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Think so,” you say, though the weariness clings to your words. “And you?”

His nod is small and automatic. A lie, but a polite one. You can read the truth in the way he stands too rigidly, how he leans onto his left leg to alleviate the strain on his prosthetic.

“Come on,” he murmurs, logging out. “Let’s escape before someone congratulates us again. I'll drive you home.”

“Bold of you to assume we’ll make it all the way to the parking lot unscathed.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he mutters, guiding you toward the door with a soft nudge against your shoulder that feels suspiciously like checking whether you’ll topple.

You’re too tired to pretend the proximity isn’t comforting.

In the hallway, a nurse from the day shift calls, “Congrats again, you two! Seriously, cutest couple in the department!”

You both resist the impulse to react besides a polite nod, maintaining your pace.

Jack murmurs, “I wasn’t aware we’d entered a department-wide popularity contest.”

“Oh, but we’re winning,” you say. “Easily.”

“I regret everything,” he replies, but there’s the faintest smile in his voice.

You hit the parking lot in dawn light that feels too gentle for the night you’ve had. Both of you move like your skeletons are one millimetre out of alignment.

Jack unlocks the car, and you slide into the passenger seat, grateful for the warmth of the seat heater already cranked up. For several streets, silence envelops you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine and the soft jazz emanating from the radio. You lean back, allowing the warmth to seep into your sore muscles, letting the quiet settle like a blanket.

He glances over, breaking the silence. “You’re quiet,” he observes.

“So are you.”

“Because if I start talking,” he says with a half-smile, “I might fall asleep mid-sentence.”

You give him a look. “Extremely reassuring from the person driving the car.”

He glances back. “You still have energy to sass me. That’s comforting.”

“I can sass and be half-dead," you argue. "It’s called multitasking.”

His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile, but faltering as exhaustion tugs at him. He exhales, a long, deliberate breath—revealing that his thoughts are churning beneath the surface.

“So,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “about what Gina said.”

You focus intently on the windshield, tense anticipation coiling in your stomach. “The unified household thing?” you ask, bracing yourself.

“Yeah.”

Your stomach tightens—not panic, just the weight of this is happening whether we prepared for it or not. When the two of you agreed to this ruse, moving in had not even been at play. And now, you have to lest the lie gets caught and your life gets ruined.

The sun glints off the steering wheel. Jack turns it with one hand, the motion easy and tired and familiar. “We need one address,” he continues, a trace of seriousness creeping into his voice. “A real one.”

“Right,” you respond, nodding slowly.

“And we need it soon.”

"Mm."

“And the logical choice is—”

“Your place,” you finish for him, your breath hitching in your throat. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the space between you, the warmth of the car, and the way your chest feels impossibly full.

You can feel his gaze on the side of your head. “Your roommate is…” he begins.

You make a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “A menace to public safety,” you supply.

“That’s one word for it," he chuckles, shaking his head.

You trace a foggy line on the window with your finger. “And you live ten minutes from the hospital," you add, weighing the pros and cons in your mind.

He nods once. “I do.”

“And you have… space," you acknowledge.

“Yes." Then, after a beat, he adds, lower, “And I don’t mind sharing it.”

He really needs to stop speaking like that. It makes your heart trip, stumble, crash, the whole shebang. He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, a tiny nervous gesture you rarely catch from him. “Doesn't hurt,” he adds, “that you might get actual sleep there.”

So, he had overheard you complaining to Shen about Sabrina earlier. Or maybe he just knew it from your dark circles. Either way, he's right.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Sunlight spills over both of you. You look at him—really look. Tired. Messy hair from the shift. That soft, worn-out fondness he doesn’t realise is written across his face whenever he looks at you right after dawn. Or maybe you’re imagining it, but you let yourself have this one for once.

“I don’t want to upend your life,” you say.

He huffs softly. “It’s not an upheaval.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” you retort, brow furrowing.

“It’s honest.”

You study him, heart racing, seeing him in this moment—tired, soft around the edges, his focus on you showcasing how much he truly cares.

This was supposed to be temporary.

And yet. The decision settles in your chest, warm and inevitable. Of course, you’re moving in with him. There was never any other option.

“Okay,” you finally say, attempting to sound casual.

He turns to you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. “Okay?” he echoes, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” You give a slight shrug, as if the decision is obvious—a simple matter of practicality. “Okay. Your place."

Something unknots in his shoulders—a slow release he must’ve been holding since the HR meeting.

You add, turning your head to avoid his face, "Just for a bit—I'll find somewhere to stay after this is over.” You don't want to see the relief he must be feeling after hearing you saying that.

You can feel his gaze on you but the light changes and he faces forward again, turning the wheel. "You can have the bigger closet,” he says casually, like it’s nothing at all. Like he didn't hear what you said.

“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not taking your closet.” You won't be there for long so it doesn't make sense to rearrange his entire life for a couple of months.

“Then we’ll share," he counters, his expression unwavering.

His suggestion makes your pulse quicken. “You’re impossible,” you murmur, shaking your head with a smile.

she selects a strapless black dress covered in lace, tailored perfectly to her frame. her hair is styled half up half down, resting behind her shoulders to accentuate her collarbone. something about growing her hair long again has made her feel younger. a little giddy, even, to be standing in front of the mirror, curling her hair and applying lipstick like she’s just a girl getting ready for a date.

which, technically, she is. but there’s something about this particular butterflies-in-her-stomach feeling – it’s different than the one she remembers. maybe it’s just because it’s been thirty years, maybe it’s something else.

dana ends up not really having to say anything about it at all.

robby is the first one to catch dana’s eye when they walk in the room. he politely excuses himself from a conversation to greet them.

“you look beautiful,” he says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. 

“you don’t look too bad yourself,” she answers, eyeing him up and down in a motherly way. “the tux suits you.”

dana turns to the woman on her arm and smiles. “robby is our chief attending. robby, this is...” 

her mind goes blank; she’s not entirely sure how to continue. she should’ve just said “this is my date” instead of overthinking it.

but then the woman swoops in for the save by extending her hand to robby. 

“hi, i’m julia, the girlfriend,” she adds, squeezing dana's hand in reassurance.

The Pittsburgh Convention Center is already buzzing when you arrive. Doctors of all ages scurry in the doors—most wearing the resigned look these events always inspire.

You can't remember the last time you were awake at this hour while heading towards work instead of stumbling home for sleep. But for once, you're well-rested at 8 AM. A rare assigned night off, followed by another scheduled night off, meant you even started binging Stranger Things again. Finally able to catch up on the latest season—in between studying, of course, now that the board exam is only a few months away.

The line for sign-in snakes all the way to the doors, so you opt to wait outside for Robby. Being the chief attending means he gets dragged to these things more often than anyone. You don’t envy him, but at least it means you won't be suffering alone. You hadn’t exactly volunteered for this convention—your name had been the lucky one drawn for “resident attendance,” which is hospital-speak for punishment with free muffins. But you haven’t seen Robby much since switching from days to nights, so at least now you’ll get a chance to catch up.

You lean against the cold brick wall, thumb flicking absentmindedly at your screen as you relish in the warm sunlight. There’s an overflow of cat videos on your screen, courtesy of your best friend, Olivia, who stole your phone last night when hers died. Cute, sure, but after fifty in a row, the novelty dies.

"Hey, Trouble." A warm and low voice greets you. "Get into any fights while you were waiting?"

You freeze for half a second—just long enough for your thumb to completely miss the video and scroll past three in a blur. It's not Robby's voice. And nobody calls you that besides Abbot. Your stomach dips, a quiet swoop you pretend not to feel. Without even seeing him, you can already picture the smug curve of his mouth (and those soft lips you definitely haven't thought about in embarrassing detail).

You look up—and sure enough, there it is. That irritating smirk. Tackle one (or two) volatile patients, and suddenly you're branded for life.

"Oh, real original," you deadpan, hoping the dryness of your voice hides the way your heartbeat just began sprinting. "Why are you here?"

Abbot huffs a laugh. "Well, don't look too happy to see me." He pushes one of the heavy glass doors open with his shoulder, and you make a conscious effort not to look at his arms. They fall down the slope of his broad shoulders anyway.

"I'm just surprised. Didn't think you could survive direct sunlight," you say as you fall into step beside him.

"Ha. Ha." His voice is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Robby got cornered by Gloria and approximately six inches of paperwork. Some emergency error he needed to fix. So I got voluntold."

"Oh," you say, then shrug. "Well, look on the bright side—you're here with me. Could have been Parker."

Abbot scoffs, throwing you an amused look. "Yeah, still not convinced that's the bright side."

"Hey!" you swat his shoulder. He rubs it dramatically, though you barely touched him. Your fingers still buzz from the contact, traitors that they are. It's just due to static, not anything else.

Missing Robby is a disappointment, sure—but getting Abbot is… something else entirely. He has this way of filling a room, a kind of steady warmth that shouldn’t be distracting but absolutely is. After years of only brief overlaps (shift swaps and the occasional post-shift drink), working beside him has brought back a kind of awareness you thought would’ve faded by now. The fact that he meets your deadpan humour with the same dry spark doesn't have to mean anything. Doesn't mean anything. He's your attending; you're his resident. Nothing more, nothing less.

Inside, the air smells like bad coffee, and those cheap blueberry muffins every CME event pretends are breakfast. You and Abbot step into the registration line behind a group of doctors loudly complaining about its slowness. He leans toward you, just enough that your shoulder brushes his. You absolutely do not adjust your stance to keep it there. "Ten bucks says she'll make us sign something pointless."

"She?"

He nods towards the clerk—mid-60s, glasses dangling from a chain, a tired expression carved by years of bureaucratic suffering.

You shake your head. "I’m not betting on a guaranteed loss."

He shrugs, nudging your shoulder as he leans back. "Boring."

You move forward slowly, and when it's finally your turn, the clerk barely glances up. "Scan your badges."

You both hold out your IDs. The tablet beeps, processes, and then loads a screen full of boxes:

Partner A: Supervising Clinician Partner B: Attached Clinician Household Group/Joint Liability

You huff softly. "I still don't understand why they insist on calling it a household."

Abbot shakes his head with a light shrug. "Bureaucratic loophole that makes tracking attendance easier. Hospitals love that shit."

"Sign here and here," the clerk says, tapping the bottom of the screen.

He signs first—refined, controlled, like everything he does. You try to sign neatly, but his attention flicks to your hand, and your signature comes out fast and messy. His mouth twitches, amused.

The tablet glitches. Flickers. Resets. Then displays:

CONGRATS! Form Submitted Successfully Record #: 0401-PA-JG-1229

He frowns. "Congrats on… what?”

The clerk stamps your lanyards without looking up. “Congrats. Next.”

“You heard her,” he says, glancing at you. “Apparently, we’re champions at paperwork.”

You pocket your badge with a shrug, put on the lanyard, and follow him toward a hall with vendors pushing pens and stress-ball kidneys in the doorway. Neither of you notices:

The tiny Pittsburgh County Seal in the screen’s corner

The phrase Self-Uniting Certification Receipt under your signatures

The integrated QR code quietly scanning your IDs into the county’s system

Or the fact that Joint Liability Household Group is a shared template for training pairs and marriage filings because someone in IT loves “streamlining".

Abbot grabs a cup of coffee. You take a muffin, mostly so your hands have something to do. And together, blissfully unaware, you walk into the convention—

accidentally married.

The Pitt always smells like bad coffee, disinfectant, and whatever food some ill-advised intern decided to microwave. You’re not fully clocked in mentally; the lights are too bright, your scrubs feel stiff from the dryer, and you've already spotted half the day shift's charts stacked like a Jenga tower waiting to fall on the counter. You’d rather be home under a blanket, binging Stranger Things, and absolutely not replaying a certain someone brushing his knee against yours.

Unfortunately, that's not how life works. You scan the board at the hub, getting yourself up to date, when Parker and Shen appear beside you wearing identical, deeply suspicious grins.

"Hey, you," Parker chirps, way too brightly for someone clocking in for a 12-hour shift. “How was the convention?"

Shen sips from a mug that says “#1 Dad” even though he doesn’t have kids.

You narrow your eyes, glancing between them before you answer. "It was fine. Nothing special." You pause. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Shen shrugs with feigned nonchalance. "We heard you went with Abbot instead of Robby."

“…Yes?"

“And how was that?” Parker leans in, still with that grin on her face, like she knows something.

“It was fine?” You try to keep your tone even, as if your face isn’t growing warmer by the second. Nothing happened—nothing worth blushing over. A knee brush. A laugh aimed at you. A look you’ve been trying very hard not to think about. You’re not blushing because of him. You’re blushing because they’re ridiculous.

Before either can answer and interrogate you further, the universe decides to intervene, sending you salvation in the form of Abbot.

"Hey, Trouble." He appears, hands holding onto the stethoscope around his neck. He nods at the other two. "Shen. Ellis."

They both smile wider, like someone just confirmed a conspiracy theory, before disappearing in opposite directions with zero subtlety.

He watches their retreat with narrowed eyes. "What was that?"

"No idea," you shrug. "They're… them." Your voice comes out too casual, and you have to fight the urge to look anywhere but directly at him. Smooth.

He hums. "Concerning."

"Deeply," you say. "Rounds?"

"Yes," he replies, heading after you.

The shift explodes after that—fractures, heart attacks, appendicitis, and even a man blaming his chest pain on a ghost. Abbot moves through the chaos like he was built for it. Quiet instructions, steady hands, and the dry comments only you seem to hear. The transition from day shift to night had been hard, but his calm presence had made it easier than it had any right to be. He trusts your assessments, backs your decisions, glances over at you in that silent is-that-patient-serious way that always pulls a reluctant smile out of you even when you're stressed out.

You don’t think about the way he looks at you in the chaos or how that steady attention always finds you first. You don’t think about it, because that would make it something.

Something you can't afford to think about.

Hours later, you finally collapse in the break room, unwrap a sandwich, and reach for your phone—

—and freeze.

Inbox: 1 unread message — HR Department.

You tap it open.

Mr. and Mrs. Abbot, Congratulations on your marriage. Please report to HR after your shift ends.

Your stomach drops straight through the linoleum.

"What?" you whisper.

You reread it. Then reread it again. By the fifth read, there’s no denying it.

You're fucking married to Abbot.

Or at least HR really, truly, believes you are.

You stand so fast the chair screeches on the floor, your sandwich discarded on the table as you peek out of the break room like you're evading snipers. And given the nosiness of the ER, you practically are.

You catch sight of greying hair and bee-line over to him, murmuring," Can we talk in private?"

His brows knit slightly, attention sharpening the way it does when something’s wrong, but he doesn’t protest as he follows you. You head for the one place no one lingers—the utilities closet. He closes the door behind the two of you.

"What's going on?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching your face for answers. He's worried, you realise. And you also suddenly realise you’re standing very, very close, but you don't have time to freak out about that right now.

"Have you seen the email?" you whisper frantically.

“What email?”

“This one!” You thrust your phone at him like it’s radioactive.

He takes it, reading in silence. His features go from neutral, to incredulous, then… amused. A tiny, disbelieving huff of laughter escapes him. Then, a muttered, “Oh shit.”

Your panic spikes as you take the phone back. "What are we gonna do?" The words tumble out too fast.

Abbot rubs the back of his neck—thinking, calm, maddeningly unbothered compared to your spiralling. “This is—yeah. This is fucked up,” he admits.

“You think?” You gesture wildly at your phone, nearly hitting a mop bucket.

He sees the way your shoulders shake, the tremor in your exhale and his hands land on your shoulders—warm, steadying, confident in a way that pierces straight through your panic. “Hey. Breathe. We’ll figure it out.” His head moves until he catches your eye.

You blink up at him. His voice is low, steady, and grounding. “Meet me after shift in the cafeteria. We’ll talk everything through, okay?” His thumbs rub slow, calming circles before he seems to realise it and stops—but the warmth lingers anyway.

You force a breath in. Then another. He’s not panicking. He’s not angry. Somehow, that makes your heartbeat slow. You'll figure it out. “Okay.”

For a moment, the two of you just… stare. Too close. Too quiet. Too something you refuse to name.

Then—

The door swings open. You and Abbot jump apart like teenagers caught making out.

“Oh—sorry,” Bridget, a nice enough nurse when she doesn't possess the worst timing in the world, says. She pauses in the doorway with a crate of disinfectant, her eyebrows climbing practically to her hairline. “Didn’t know this closet was… occupied.”

Abbot clears his throat. “We were just leaving.”

“You were just—yeah. Sure.”

Abbot breezes past him. You follow, cheeks burning. Bridget watches the two of you go, holding a bottle of disinfectant like she'd just been handed the juicest gossip ever. And knowing the ER, it won't take long for this to spread.

Wonderful.

The second you and Abbot walk out of the utility closet and disappear into separate exam rooms—your faces slightly scrunched, steps a little too fast—Bridget doesn't even pretend to be subtle. She sets the disinfectant on the counter with a dramatic thunk. Across the hub, Lena and Shen glance up. Parker freezes mid-step with a glove halfway on. Bridget stares at them, then points directly at the closed closet door.

“Okay,” she says loudly, “someone explain to me why they were in there alone.”

Parker perks up instantly. “Wait—together?”

Lena swivels her chair. “Doctors don’t go into that closet unless something is either on fire or… spicy.”

Shen taps his finger against his chin. “What closet? The one with the mops or the scary mannequin?”

“The mop one,” Bridget says.

“Oh yeah,” Lena nods. “That’s definitely the kissing closet.”

Parker’s eyes go wide at the implication. “They weren’t—were they kissing?”

“I didn’t see kissing.” Bridget shrugs. “But I saw distance-adjustment.”

Shen raises an eyebrow. “Distance-adjustment?”

Bridget mimics two people jumping apart. “The ‘we were standing too close for coworkers’ shuffle. Pretty sure his hands were on her shoulders.”

Shen whistles. “Hot.”

Lena starts tapping a pen against her clipboard, brain already spiralling. “Okay, but listen—she went to the convention with him, right?”

“Yep,” Parker says. “And they also came in at the same time, earlier. Like five seconds apart.”

Bridget leans forward, lowering her voice. “Guys. I’m changing my bet. They hooked up this weekend.”

Parker frowns, “No way. They’re pining. Too afraid to make the first move.”

Shen disagrees, "They have definitely been together for months.”

Lena glances down the hall and nudges Shen. “Look.” You and Abbot reappear, keeping a careful foot of space between you. A very suspicious foot. She murmurs, “Yep. That’s a couple trying too hard not to be a couple.”

And as Abbot hands you a chart, Parker whispers, “Okay. I agree. That is absolutely two people trying not to touch each other. I’m changing my bet.”

Shen snorts.

The cafeteria hums with the low, constant drone of a hospital that never sleeps. Families huddle over styrofoam containers. Interns speed-walk toward the coffee machines. And you sit in the far corner, fingers wrapped around your tea like it's a lifeline. Still keeping up with your attempt to lessen your caffeine intake after shift. Admirable, stupid, and mostly painful. Coming off a 12-hour shift and having to wait for HR to open is not ideal on a criminally low amount of caffeine. But if you want to make something a habit, you have to keep at it even in times of crisis. Yawn. Blink. Regret your life choices.

Across from you sits a cup of coffee for Abbot—black, bitter, and demonically strong. You don’t know how he drinks it, but you know he does. You know too much about him, more than a resident who’s only been on his shift for months should. The way his lips press together when he's worried, how his “breaks” are just quick bites, the way he leans against counters when he’s thinking, his dry humour that matches yours. Dangerous knowledge. But knowing things doesn’t mean wanting things. You keep repeating that like repetition will make it true.

Ten minutes have passed since you got off. Ten minutes of spiralling. Ten minutes of re-opening the PDF, zooming in, checking signatures, timestamps and metadata. The verdict is the same every time.

You're legally married.

To Jack Abbot. Your attending. Your walking, talking career complication.

And the more you stare at the email, the more your stomach twists—because what if he hates you for what you're about to tell him?

Just as your pulse spikes again, the chair across scrapes softly against the floor.

"Trouble," Abbot greets as he slides into the seat, and you push the cup toward him with a stiff hand.

He takes a sip and groans softly, because apparently he likes drinking melted asphalt, and then the two of you sit in heavy silence. Letting the reality of the situation ooze between you like a spill no one wants to clean up. Decompressing after a long night that suddenly got much longer. His shoulders slump; yours tense. You can almost feel the air thickening around the word married.

"So…" he says after a moment, leaning back, brow furrowed. "It's obviously a mistake. We just tell HR the tablet glitched and get it annulled."

You inhale shakily. "…We can't."

He freezes, coffee halfway to his lips. His eyes lift to yours, searching. Concerned. And guilt punches your sternum.

You hate that you're the one who has to tell him this. Hate that he even has to sit here and discuss it because of you, rather than just emailing HR that it was a mistake.

Your hands tremble as you slide the phone across the table. "They already filed everything," you say quietly. "Like—everything."

He scrolls. You watch every microexpression as he processes:

Marital status updated Insurance merged Spousal beneficiary auto-linked Emergency contact changed COI review pending

His brow furrows. "You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters.

"I wish," you whisper. You feel a sick twist in your gut. "If we claim it was an accident, HR launches a full conflict-of-interest investigation and checks your evaluations for bias. They might even freeze my GME file until it's resolved, which would delay my residency. Plus, payroll already processed it; undoing it triggers an automatic audit alert."

Abbot's jaw locks. You've never seen him look so… furious? The flicker of anger makes your stomach drop—until you realise it's not at you. Is it for you?

He blinks. Absorbing. Calculating. The silence between you tightens like a noose.

So you continue, "I-I can't go through that—I'm three months from finishing. I'll lose my offer, my attending start date, all of it." You rub your eyes hard. "This was supposed to be the boring part of residency, not… this. I'm so sorry, I never wanted to drag you into this, make it your problem—" You breathe hard through your nose, trying to stop your word vomiting.

Abbot sets your phone down carefully, like it's explosive, but his eyes lift to yours immediately, steady as always. "This isn't your fault."

You don't respond.

Maybe not initially. But now? It's your career on the line, not his.

He straightens slightly, "Okay. Then… we pretend."

Your breath catches. "Pretend?"

He nods, calm. "For a few months. We stay married on paper until the system's cycle and the COI flag clears. We avoid audits, ethics reviews, GME interference, and get through evaluations. Then, once it's safe… we quietly file for divorce."

You blink at him. He's so… steady about it, and you can't help but notice his use of we. So unflinchingly willing to do this when it's just for you and not him.

"But won't people notice?" you ask, because you can't ask the thing that's clawing at your ribs. Why are you doing this for me?

"Nobody has to know," he says. "We're not doing this to fool the ER—we're doing it to avoid blowing up your entire career."

Oh. It makes sense now. He's only doing this because no one besides HR has to know.

Your throat tightens anyway.

Abbot's voice softens. "Trouble… I'm not letting you lose your future over a tablet glitch. Not when you've decided to stay in the ER—who knows, maybe I’ll finally get a night off for a change."

His bad attempt at humour still manages to make your lips twitch. "You own a police scanner and come in when no one's called you."

"Still," he shrugs, and there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes that he's managed to pull you out of your panic.

You search his face for any dishonesty. Any hint that he isn't just saying it to be kind. But there's none. He's actually willing to do this for you. Not reluctantly. Not with resentment. Just pure commitment.

"…Okay," you decide. "We pretend." You nod like this is easy. Like pretending hasn’t already been your speciality where he’s concerned.

Abbot gives you a tiny, unexpected smile that hits harder than the caffeine withdrawal. "Partners in crime," he murmurs, lifting his coffee in a toast.

"Don't call it a crime," you whisper back, clinking your tea against it. "It's already bad enough."

He smirks. "Right. Partners in bureaucratic survival." He sets his coffee down, rubs a hand over his face, and exhales. "We need rules. If we're doing this, it has to be airtight."

You straighten a little, palms clammy around your cup. "Right."

“Alright,” he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. “Rule one: No one finds out. HR only."

"Not even Robby?"

He hesitates. "Not even Robby."

You take a breath, thinking. “Okay. Then rule two… We keep acting normal at work. Like nothing’s changed.”

Abbot nods. “Good. Professional boundaries stay the same. I’m your attending, you’re my resident. That doesn’t change.” He says it firmly, but there’s the faintest flicker at the end. Like the words don’t sit entirely flat in his mouth.

"Rule three," you say before you can think too hard about it. “We have to sync our stories. HR is going to ask questions. They always do with COI cases.”

He groans quietly, rubbing his forehead. “They’re going to ask when we got together.”

“And how long we’ve been together.”

“And why we didn’t tell anyone sooner.”

“And who proposed,” you say grimly.

He looks up at you. “Who did propose?”

You blink. “I—… I don’t know.”

“Well,” he says pragmatically, “you’re the one who panicked and dragged me into a utility closet today, so I'm voting for you.”

“Hey!”

He laughs, warm and tired and annoyingly charming. You throw a napkin at him.

“Okay, okay.”He swats it away, still smiling. “We’ll decide later. For now—rule four: We coordinate finances.”

Your stomach drops. “Finances?”

“HR merged our tax profile,” he reminds you. “Joint filing, spousal insurance, beneficiary assignment—we can’t contradict any of that.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “We’re going to have to list each other on our W-2s.” This suddenly feels a little too real. And then it hits you—this could have been Robby. You trust Robby, sure, but with Abbot it feels different. Somehow steadier, safer, like you know you can lean on him even without knowing him that well. Like you know, he won't let you fall.

“I know.” He sips his coffee grimly. “Till death or divorce do us part… or tax season ends.”

You groan into your hands, hating how you could find that funny when the world is crumbling around you.

“Rule five,” he continues gently, “If HR asks for proof of relationship, we provide minimal, consistent details. Nothing elaborate.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Something simple. Something believable.” A beat. “Coffee. We bonded over coffee.”

You stare. “…You hate the way I make coffee.”

“I do,” he agrees. “But HR likes cute stories.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. It softens the edges of the dread. “Okay,” you say, voice steadier. “Rule six: We keep it temporary. Until the system resets, GME does the next cycle, HR stops monitoring the paperwork, and I'm an attending."

“And then we file for divorce,” Abbot finishes gently. “Clean. Quiet. No fallout.”

You nod. You nod even though something inside you folds sharply at the idea. But you ignore it. Push it down. Let it sink beneath the surface like a stone.

He leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Okay,” he says. “Then we have a plan. We stick to the rules, no matter what. We get through this.”

You try to exhale all the tension out. “Yeah,” you say. “We get through this.”

He nods, slow and sure, then glances at the clock. “We should head up. Don't want to make HR wait.”

“Right.” You stand, gathering your cup, your nerves fraying at every edge. You're about to go lie to HR, no big deal… At least you have Abbot with you. “Thanks, Abbo—”

He steps in closer, just a fraction. A quiet correction, warm but firm, “Jack.”

Your breath stutters. “I—what?"

"Call me Jack," he repeats.

"I-I’m not… No one but Robby calls you that.”

"You're my wife now," he says, voice low enough that only you can hear it, his eyes trained on your face. He'd aimed for humour, but it got caught on something on its way out. He clears his throat. Then, softer, "Try it."

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a name. It shouldn’t feel like stepping over a line you’ve been avoiding for months. You look up at him, throat suddenly too tight. He waits—patient, steady, infuriatingly gentle. He'd just called you his wife, and now he wants you to break the one rule you set up to protect yourself.

"…Jack," you say, barely above a whisper.

Something flickers across his expression—subtle, sharp, gone too fast to name. But it’s there. A glimmer. A shift. A ripple you don’t have the training to diagnose.

He exhales once, slowly. “There you go.” And then he steps back, like the moment didn’t just tilt the whole damn room.

“Let’s go,” he says, voice neutral again. “Before HR thinks we’re honeymooning.”

You follow, pulse hammering, the name still warm on your tongue. He told you to call him Jack. And you did. But in your head, he stays Abbot.

It’s easier to pretend you’re not falling for someone if you never let their first name touch you. And you’re still pretending. You have to.

The HR office feels colder than the rest of the hospital. It's all laminate wood, beige walls, and fluorescent lights buzzing like a warning.

You and Abbot sit in two hard-backed chairs across from the desk, trying to look normal. Like married people. Like two people who got married without disclosing a prior relationship—and are only worried about that part, not about a lie that could destroy careers. You glance at him; he meets your eyes with a half-smile. It’s quiet, but it tells you he’s got this—and you can handle it too.

Gina, the HR representative assigned to your case, doesn't bother smiling. She folds her hands, gaze sharp and posture rigid. She nods at Abbot. "Doctor Abbot." She turns to you. "Doctor Y/L/N—or should I update the records to say Abbot, too?"

Your eyes widen in panic, but you manage to hide it by blinking hard. "No. I-uh… I've decided to keep my last name." You hesitate, not sure if that was the right answer to quell suspicions. "For now. At least."

You catch Abbot's mouth twitching at the corner of your eye—he’s trying not to laugh at you. You nudge your shoulder against his, a small, quiet retaliation, "Though this one has been trying to change my mind. Right, Jack?" You keep your smile easy, like this is harmless teasing and not the kind of joke that makes something traitorous flicker low in your chest.

He meets your gaze steadily, completely unshaken, and lets a small nod escape. "Right." His attention shifts to Gina with the same calm assurance he gives patients: deliberate, measured, in control.

Gina doesn't smile back. She nods once, precisely, then opens a binder. "Let's start with the obvious: this is an unusual situation."

"We're aware," you say softly, stomach twisting.

"Yes," she replies, tone dry. "I imagine you are." She taps the printed marriage license—your marriage license—as it inconveniences her personally. "Now, first issue: neither of you disclosed your relationship."

Because there is no relationship. Never was. But Gina can't know that. You and Abbot exchange a quick glance.

"Right," he says. "About that—"

She lifts a hand to cut him off. "Hospital policy requires disclosure within thirty days of a romantic relationship. You've been working together closely for months. And you submitted a marriage certificate with no prior notification."

You swallow. "We're… private about our personal lives." It sounds every bit the bad excuse it is. There's no hiding it.

Gina's eyebrows rise with disbelief so loud she doesn't need to verbalise it. "Many couples are private," she counters. "But they still comply with policy. You two did not. This puts the hospital at risk for conflicts of interest, claims of favouritism, liability issues—need I continue?"

God, she's scary.

You shake your head. "No, ma'am."

“Good.” She tries—tries—to soften her tone, but the attempt dies somewhere between her diaphragm and her clipboard. "And look—I'm not accusing you of bad intent. But from our perspective? This looks rushed. It looks concealed. And it looks like you were avoiding filing the proper paperwork until you couldn't avoid it any longer."

Abbot stiffens beside you. "That wasn't our intention."

"Intent doesn't matter," Gina replies. "Compliance does."

Your throat feels too tight. Your pulse is too loud. Abbot glances toward you, a subtle shift in posture as if positioning himself between you and whatever fallout could come next.

Gina shuffles some forms, her expression unflinching. “That leads to the second issue: as of now, we have no filed documentation indicating the nature of your relationship prior to… this.” She gestures at the marriage license. “That’s a serious omission.”

Can she see how heavily you're breathing? Does she know you're lying?

You force your voice steady. “What happens now?”

“Well,” Gina says, leaning back. “We will need full documentation for our COI review. Including a timeline of when your relationship began.”

Your lungs stop working. Maybe if you're lucky, Abbot has a breathing tube in his bag.

She continues, unimpressed, “And before you ask: yes, the timeline matters." She looks through her files. "Doctor Abbot oversees the night shift,” she says, glancing at him, “but Doctor Robinavitch was your supervising attending physician on day shift, correct?”

You nod. “Correct.”

“As long as Doctor Abbot was not your direct supervisory attending physician at the time your relationship began, we shouldn’t have a problem. But moving forward, Doctor Abbot cannot supervise you. Evaluations or sign-offs on procedures must be from another attending."

Okay, well, that sucks. But you can live with it. And if you place the 'relationship' as beginning before you moved to night shift, you might actually get away with this unscathed.

“And where,” Gina continues, “are you two currently living? I assume together?”

You jolt slightly, not expecting that question to come. Which, when you think about it, is silly. Of course, she was going to ask.

Abbot answers just a beat too fast, "We're… coordinating that."

Her eyes narrow. "Meaning you're not living together yet."

You swallow. "We've been… in the process."

“That should have been disclosed as well.” Her tone sharpens. “Married couples typically have a shared address. Without one, this becomes even more irregular on paper.”

Abbot shifts. “We’ll update the file once we finalise it.”

Gina writes something down. You can’t tell if it’s good or bad. “Very well. Next steps: You’ll submit a written statement of your relationship history and a joint address once the decision is made. The COI committee will review everything and determine if adjustments to scheduling are required. They might also review previous cases to ensure there has been no bias.”

Your stomach sinks. Reassignment? You've just gotten used to night shift and the people there.

"And, Doctor Y/L/N," she adds pointedly, looking at you, "as a resident nearing completion, this type of oversight can reflect poorly if not handled properly."

You go cold. Abbot visibly bristles—to you at least. There's a flare of his nostrils, a tightening of his fist. It's just an attending caring for his resident, you tell yourself—a normal reaction from a colleague to a threat wrapped in a warning.

He keeps his voice even. "We'll submit everything promptly."

Gina nods. "See that you do. You're dismissed."

You both stand a little too fast, a little too stiff. As you leave her office and enter the hallway, Abbot mutters under his breath,"…Well. That could've gone worse."

You raise your eyebrows, staring at him in disbelief. "How? She basically said 'Nice marriage, file your paperwork, or we'll ruin your lives."

Abbot grimaces. "Yeah, okay. Fair."

"We need a plan. A real plan. Fast."

He nods. "Then first thing after we sleep, we sit down and draft a timeline. Come over to mine before shift starts. I'll text you the address."

Your stomach flips. Annoying. Predictable. Impossible to ignore. And absolutely not romantic. Nope. Just adrenaline and stress and… something else you refuse to name.

He looks serious. Committed. Your partner in this insanity. You're still not sure why he has agreed when it isn't his ass on the firing line, but you guess that is him in a nutshell. Behind that mask of dry comments and steady hands, he's too caring, too considerate, too… him.

"Okay," you breathe. You begin walking towards the exit together. "I can't believe you told her we're moving in together."

"At least I wasn't sitting there like a popsicle."

You glare at him. "I wasn't frozen. I just wasn't expecting that question."

"Maybe she'll forget it," he continues, but by the look he gives you, he's aware that it isn't likely.

Still, you answer, "Maybe."

You stop outside the doors. "Hey," he says. "We'll get through this." His eyes find yours, hazel glinting even more green in the daylight. "Together."

Your heartbeat stutters. You want to make a joke, lighten the mood, but are at a loss for words. So all that comes out is, "…Yeah. Together."

You don't tell him that's the part that scares you the most.

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It isn’t until you’re getting back from a twilight shift, on one of Frank’s off days, that you both end up in the same room properly.

Frank’s on the floor, sitting against the couch with his knees up and his face buried in his hands.

Your chest squeezes.

You hover in the doorway, then force yourself to step inside. There’s no other way to get to your room. “I can go,” you say quietly. “If you want space.”

He shakes his head without looking up. “No. Stay. Please.”

You sink down beside him, leaving a careful inch of distance. Neither of you speak at first.

Finally, Frank breaks.

“I hate this,” he says, voice raw. “I hate avoiding you. I hate us both being uncomfortable in our own house. I hate feeling like I-like I messed us up again.”

Our house. You think you might cry.

Your throat tightens. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

“I pushed,” He replies miserably. “And I’m sorry.”

You lean your head onto his shoulder, closing the gap between you both tentatively. He doesn’t move away. He exhales slowly, and rests his cheek against the top of your head.

And just like that, the nine-day standoff dissolves.

*****

Your brother is the last person he expects to bump into in Pittsburgh. Your family have always lived in Philadelphia, have never even so much come through to visit you.

Not that you have a problem with it. In fact, as far as he knows, you’d be perfectly happy to never see them again.

A couple of years your senior, you’ve never been able to measure up to Timothy. He’s always been smarter, more outgoing, funnier in their eyes. Every scrap of attention you’ve ever had in your life has been begged for, while Tim was handed everything in spades.

Each time Frank interacts with your family, he gets closer and closer to violence.

He doesn’t understand how they can be so awful to you. Even when the both of you had gotten engaged, they had found a way to make it about themselves.

“Finally, sweetie. Something to tell the girls at the club.”

“You know, I never thought it would be you getting married before Timmy.”

“You’ll need to lose a few pounds before then - don’t want him to run a mile before you even make it down the aisle.”

The last one makes Frank’s teeth hurt. He did run a mile. But not because of how you look. You’re always perfect to him. Because he couldn’t handle disappointing you. So he broke your heart instead.

Even if the two of you had gotten married, there’s no way your side of the family would’ve even been there, much less involved. You’d told him that on the first night.

“Frankie?” You hum, head resting against his chest. Your engagement ring is glinting in the moonlight, and he’s caught you admiring it more than once tonight.

“Hm?”

“Would I be a terrible person if I didn’t invite my family?”

His arm curls around you a little, while you turn to glance up at him. “No. You’d be a totally sane, reasonable person who wants to enjoy her wedding, and not worry about Timothy making it all about himself.”

You seem a little unconvinced. “They’d be so angry.”

“So? How many times have they left you out of family plans? Made you feel shitty because you didn’t want to scam people out of money on Wall Street like your brother? Sweetheart, if I thought there was the smallest chance that they wouldn’t ruin your day, I’d say to invite them. But they’d make you miserable, and you know it.”

“I don’t want them around our kids,” You reply, voice becoming more certain with each passing second. “Not ever.”

Frank just nods, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Whatever you want, I’ll make happen. Okay? That includes Timothy getting a surprise in his bed a la The Godfather.”

At this, you snort. “You’re such a dork.”

“And yet, you still agreed to marry me.”

So seeing Timothy now, after over a year, knocks him off balance. He’s mostly annoyed. At the way your family has treated you your whole life, and at the fact that he wasn’t there to protect you from it.

Of course Timothy would materialise the week Frank finally feels like he’s getting his life back together. Getting back on track with you.

Timothy spots him at the same time. His eyes go wide, his smile slow and delighted, almost cruel. Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Francis?” He calls, making a beeline across the bustling Pittsburgh street. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Frank stiffens. “Timothy.” Normally, Frank would correct someone calling him Francis. But Frank honestly feels a little too friendly for your brother, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Timothy strides up, suit immaculate, hair perfect, and the cologne that gives you headaches reeking from his pores. He gives Frank a once-over that isn’t quite rude but definitely isn’t friendly.

“So,” Tim says, clasping his hands in front of him. “Still… what was it again? Family medicine?”

“Emergency medicine,” Frank corrects. “Still saving lives and all that, yeah. Not quite as glamorous as ruining them on Wall Street though.”

Timothy laughs just a little too loud. It sounds abrasive and aggressive, even though his smile is wide. “Always had that sharp tongue.”

Frank says nothing. He’s thinking about you, and how much you hate these little digs, how every visit to your family ended with tears and shouting. How he used to kiss your forehead and promise you’d never have to see them again if you didn’t want to.

How Frank broke you anyway.

“Actually, this is perfect timing,” He says. “I wanted to extend an invitation.”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “To what? Your next Ponzi scheme?”

Timothy chuckles. “No, no. My wedding, Frank. I’m getting married in a few weeks. Thought my sister might like to see you.”

Frank blinks. “…Right.”

He thinks he might be sick. Timothy obviously knows about the break-up. You wouldn’t have been able to hide that, given you were meant to be married by now. But he clearly has no idea of anything that’s followed. The friendship, the relapse… the truce. Timothy thinks he’s just inviting a bitter ex, purely to mess with your head.

He wants to tell him that you’re living together. Let him infer from that what he wants, but he knows it isn’t his place.

Instead, he bites his tongue, and forces a smile. “That would be nice, Timothy. I’ll be there.”

*****

“Your brother invited me to his wedding.”

You freeze with your mug halfway to your lips, while The Kardashians argue in the background. It’s one of your guilty pleasures, and while Frank claims he doesn’t like it, you’ve caught him invested more than once. “He what?”

He shrugs, shoulder stiff and tense. “Caught him not that far from the hospital. I didn’t know his fiancé was from here. Said they’re having the wedding here to be closer to her family.” He shifts his weight, avoiding your eyes. “Look, I’m not going. It was a power play. He wanted to feel like he got something over you, and I won’t give him that.”

You swallow, setting your mug down. “Frank…”

“And I don’t want to make things weird for you,” He adds. “Or stir anything up with your family. Or-”

“Frank.” You say it gently this time. A murmur. “It might actually be… nice. If you came.”

He blinks, startled. “Nice?”

You nod, lip between your teeth. “You’re the only person on that guest list who’s not going to try and make me feel like shit for the entire day. I could use an ally.”

Frank watches you for a long moment. “You’re sure?”

You manage a smile. “I’m sure.”

He exhales slowly. “Then I’ll be there.”

And he is. Which is how the wedding day goes from bad to worse.

Your parents barely mask their distaste. Your aunts whisper behind your back. The cousins you haven’t seen in years make passive-aggressive comments about how brave it is to bring an ex.

The only reprieve of the day is seeing Timothy’s face when you get out of the cab with Frank, linking your arm through his as he helps you up the stairs.

It’s not the bitter reunion he’d been hoping for. Instead, it’s like the two of you never broke up.

The ceremony itself is fine. You sit near the back, Frank drawing light patterns onto the back of your hand. It’s calming. You’re surprised he remembers that about you.

But when dinner rolls around, you’re placed with some aunts and uncles, while Frank is dumped at the worst table in the whole venue.

You do your best to play along, smile politely, and not throw yourself into the nearest decorative fountain. But every time you turn around, someone else is giving you a sympathetic pat on the arm and a murmured, “You’ll find someone someday, sweetheart. Such a shame, having to bring an ex.”

By the time you escape your assigned table, your jaw aches from all the clenching.

Placed directly by the toilets, you can immediately tell that Frank’s table barely made the cut for the guest list. Thankfully, by the time you weave your way through the endless crowds, his neighbours on each side seem to have dispersed. Letting out a heavy sigh, you drop into the seat to his left, while he pushes his wine glass in your direction.

“You look like you need this,” He murmurs.

“Thanks,” You reply, downing it in one. It doesn’t help. Not even a little. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ve had five different people ask me why my ex is here already, with such fucking sympathy that I can’t stand it.”

“M’sorry,” He mumbles, reaching out to drag his thumb across your knuckles, grip loose. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be - you’re the only reason I haven’t jumped off the roof of this fucking place yet.”

Frank looks at you, as if debating whether or not he should speak again. “Your mom cornered me earlier. Asked if we were back together.”

You groan, dropping your head to rest on your palms. “Did she also mention that I needed to hurry up and get pregnant before my fertile window closed? Because I got that one this morning.”

“Jesus,” He sighs. “They’re… something.

“Don’t worry, you can say awful. They can’t hear you from here. Unfortunately.”

“Are you really okay?”

You swallow. “I just need five minutes without one of them telling me I should have brought a real date.”

Frank’s eyes flick to you. “So I don’t count?”

It’s almost a joke, but his eyes are serious.

“You count too much,” You blurt without thinking. “Sorry- that was, uh, that was weird.”

A silence falls, while you both examine the other, trying to work out where you stand.

“C’mon - let’s dance,” He finally murmurs, reaching out to lace his fingers through yours, but you immediately shake your head.

“Absolutely fucking not. Not in front of them.” You retract from his touch, glancing back over at the family table. The one you weren’t seated at.

“I don’t mean in front of them,” He replies softly. “Out in the hall.”

You hesitate, still unsure, and he leans forward, voice low. “Come on.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because if one more person looks at you like a wounded animal, you’re going to lose it.” He stands, smoothing his shirt out of habit, and holds a hand out for you to take. “Hallway. Now.”

You follow him out the side door, weaving past waiters and guests too drunk to notice. The hallway outside is almost empty, quiet except for the muffled swell of strings.

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders finally dropping.

“Better?” he asks.

“A bit.”

Without a word, he steps closer and holds out his hand.

Your raise an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”

“Come on.” His voice softens, dripping with honey. “You wanted to avoid dancing in there. Here’s the alternative.”

You look at his hand, and slip your fingers into his.

He draws you in gently, one hand settling at your waist, the other warm in yours. He starts moving the two of you in a slow sway, and you rest your head against his shoulder.

It’s not romantic. More of a comfort.

“I’m sorry about recently,” You breathe. “I’ve been messing you about.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frank insists.

“I-I…” You go to speak, before the words die on your tongue. This feels like too momentous a conversation to have in the hallway of a wedding neither of you want to be at. “I miss you.”

Frank doesn’t reply, giving you the space to process your thoughts.

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel the way I feel about you for another person.” Your tongue feels heavy, resistant to the honesty. “But I’m scared.”

“I know,” He mumbles, eyes concerned as he glances down. “I’m sorry.”

“S’not your fault. I just- I think I need some time. I want to get back to where we were, eventually. But… I’d just- I’d need you to go at my pace. And I don’t know if that’s too much-”

“It’s not.” Nothing you could ever ask of him would be too much.

*****

Frank hadn’t meant to take you to the diner you’d spent your first date at. But fate works in mysterious ways. Pulling over the Uber after ditching the wedding early, you both gorge yourselves on cheeseburgers and milkshakes as a reward for dealing with your family, before making the short walk home afterwards. You lace your hand through his, before pressing the softest kiss to his cheek at the door, and padding through to your bedroom.

Frank’s not sure he’s going to get much sleep tonight. Not with a glimmer of hope, real hope, blooming in his chest for the first time in a year.

Sure, it might take time, but he can win you back.

He knows he can.

A knock sounds at his door. Brow furrowing a little, his first thought is that something must be wrong. He gets up and pulls it open, revealing you on the other side. You’re picking at a hangnail on your thumb, eyes worried as your gaze snaps to his.

“Couldn’t sleep,” You whisper, eyes shining a little. You look like you’re about to cry.

“Is everything okay-”

“I want to be with you,” You burst out, obviously unable to keep it in any longer.

When you’d told Frank you needed time to think things over, he’d been anticipating a month or two. Maybe longer… closer to a year. Not four hours. “Sweetheart, I-”

“No,” You interject, hands trembling slightly. “I just- I need to get this out.” When he nods, you continue. “W-When you left, I thought my life was over. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, I could barely even make it to work.”

His expression falls a little, guilt flooding through his veins, and you stumble on. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse than you already do,” You murmur. “But I was miserable, Frankie. All I wanted was to see you again, and I couldn’t. And then, when you came back, and I was with Mike-”

Frank bites back a grimace.

“-I couldn’t stop thinking about you. How I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but you. Which scared the absolute shit out of me. I mean- I was living with another man, and I couldn’t get my ex out of my head. It was pathetic. But uh, even my best times in the period we were apart - none of them came close to our worst.”

He can tell that you’re on a roll now, caught up in getting the last year off your chest. You’ve now pushed past him into the bedroom, pacing up and down while you gesture.

“I know that I’ve messed you around, and I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can live like this anymore. Pretending that I don’t still l-”

“Don’t,” Frank suddenly speaks, voice firm.

Your eyes widen a little, cocking your head in confusion. “What?”

He looks almost scared. Tired, young, and scared.

“Don’t say you love me - not until you mean it again.” Frank doesn’t doubt your feelings. But he’s also not sure he could handle you telling him that you loved him, only to change your mind again in the morning. He’d deserve it, sure. But he thinks it might kill him.

“I mean it, Frankie,” You murmur, reaching out to take his hand. “You know I do.’

Frank lets out a shuddering breath, eyes closing as he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Just - let me make it up to you before you go saying things like that again, okay? Let me earn it again. Please, honey.”

He’s never stopped loving you, but if the two of you are ever going to get back to the way you were, you’re going to need a strong foundation. And Frank’s not up for cutting a single corner.

“Y-yeah, of course,” You reply softly. “Whatever you need. I-I don’t know when I’ll be ready for things to be like they were, but I want to try. If you’ll have me.”

“God, of course I will.”

A silence falls, as the two of you try and digest the past few minutes. How everything has just changed in an instant. “Can-can I sleep in here tonight?”

“Yeah, honey. C’mere.”

He leads you to the bed, and you both crawl under the covers, settling against each other. Your breathing evens out, syncing with his, and you’re both suddenly hit with the same thought.

What now?

He wants to kiss you. More than anything. But you’d just said you wanted to take things slow, and he doesn’t know where your line is. He’s leaving it to you to set whatever boundaries you need from him. Until then, he’s happy just to be in your company.

You’re the one that initiates it. Of course you are. Frank’s on cloud nine right now - he’d be a fool to push, to risk ruining this. Your cheek is turned, resting against the pillow as you mould your lips against his.

He smiles against your mouth, reaching out to cup the back of your neck, tongue probing just slightly. You comply immediately, sighing into his movements and trying to draw as close to him as possible.

“Is this okay?” You mumble between kisses.

“More than,” He breathes. His hands shift a little, settling on your waist. “Missed you so much, sweet girl.”

“Missed you too, Frankie.” Your voice is hoarse, back arching into his touch as he begins to work his way downwards. First your neck - sucking at your pulse point in a way that’s sure to bruise tomorrow. Then, along your collarbone and down the valley of your breasts. He misses nothing, nipping and soothing while you keen under him.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know that?”

You go to deny immediately, but the way your thighs clench tells him you like it. Humming slightly, he situates himself between your legs, a last glance up to check you’re okay.

This is the way things are supposed to be.

You and him together, without your fucking family, or anyone interfering. It hits him in waves, that dizzy, impossible luck of it all. To lose you, and somehow gain you again. He’s scared to move too fast, scared to breathe wrong, scared of anything that might disrupt whatever miracle delivered you back to him.

The noise you make when he dips his head is obscene. A low moan that goes straight between his legs. “That’s it, baby, c’mon-”

He teases his thumb through your folds, continuing to kiss and suck at your clit.

“G-god, fuck-” Your breathing comes in short, sharp gasps as you try and ground yourself, fairly unsuccessfully. Your legs tremble, hips bucking as it starts to become too much. “P-please, Frankie, please, gotta cum-”

He smiles against you, a small laugh escaping that vibrates against your clit. “Didn’t expect you to be so desperate, honey-”

“Shut up and fuck me,” You interject, mustering as much bite as you can, which currently is not much. Barely pausing, Frank moves back up your body in a single fluid movement, lining himself up. You feel the emptiness for just a second, before he pushes in.

It starts slow. Romantic even. Deep, measured thrusts as the two of you rock together. More than sex. A melding of two souls.

The kiss is sloppy. All teeth and tongue and saliva, and want.

His hands are laced through yours, a desperate attempt to be as close as possible. This is the first time since Pittfest that things have felt well and truly right.

If he died right now, Frank Langdon would die a happy man.

He can feel the tension rising, the way your legs tighten around his waist, changing the angle so he’s hitting just a little deeper.

he loves you he loves you he loves you he loves you

Your voice cuts off in a cry as you come, nails digging into the flesh of Frank’s back. It doesn’t take him long to follow, a few more pumps as he works you through it. A low groan slips from his throat, as he lowers himself to your level, lips pressed to your temple in a sloppy kiss.

“I love you, honey,” He breathes, before raising a hand when you go to speak. “Not yet. Don’t say it yet. Gotta make sure you really mean it.”

You let out a small huff. “Frankie-”

“Humour me?” His eyes are so earnest, so wide, that you can’t help but nod.

“Okay. Fine. You can win me back.”

“That’s my girl,” He grins, adjusting so he’s lying flat. You curl against him, head on his bicep, hand splayed out across his abdomen. “Should probably get you cleaned up-”

“Don’t want you to get up,” You mumble, almost inaudibly. “Just stay with me.”