And somehow, you always manage

“Okay, what about him?” you say, turning the screen towards them. Two equally disturbed looks are sent your way and you wordlessly swipe left.

“I’m never getting laid at this point,” you whine, letting John take your phone as he starts swiping for you.

Parker sighs, leaning back in her chair as she crosses her arms, giving you a perplexed look– like it's your fault nothing is happening in the romance sector of your life.

“Quit moaning– see, this is why you should date women,” she shrugs, as if you hadn’t thought of that either.

“Don’t you think I would if I could?” you retort, feeling less hopeful with each piece of advice given to you from your colleagues. 

Parker raises her hands in defeat, though you don’t miss the amused smirk on her face, clearly finding entertainment in your despair.

“Yeah, these guys ain't it– everyone is either a republican or holding a fish in their pictures–” John finally speaks up, grimacing in disgust,  “Also, this guy is thirty, who can’t use ‘there, their and they're’ at that age?

Just as he’s about to hand your phone back, someone intercepts the action.

“Is there a reason three of my residents are huddled around like a football team instead of, you know, actually working?”

Jack quirks an eyebrow, glancing between the three of you, looking like you were caught with your hands in the cookie jar. 

Squinting down at the screen of the phone, he’s confused when he’s met with the picture of a man, standing shirtless on what seems to be a fishing boat.

He glances up at John, before humming in surprise.

“Didn’t know you swung that way Shen– but hey, all the power to you. I’m, uh– what’s it called? Right– an ally!””

“It’s not mine!” John exclaims, though you suspect he’s more offended over the fact that Jack thought he was into guys that fish, rather than assuming he's gay. 

You hold back a laugh, shaking your head as you stretch your hand out towards Jack.

“It’s mine,” you say weakly, embarrassed that your boss caught you in such a vulnerable, degrading state.

Actively trying to score a date.

Jack’s expression shifts, not in a dramatic way, but you catch it– that flicker of surprise that later turns to interest.

“Oh,” he says, looking back down at the phone in his hand, then back at you. “Didn’t peg you for the fishing-boat type,”

“I’m not,” you deadpan, reaching a little more insistently for your phone. “That’s why he was getting rejected,”

He doesn’t hand it back right away, instead tilting the screen again, eyes darting across like he’s assessing injuries on a patient.

You can feel the judgement radiating off him.

“Okay, enough about my non-existent love life– can I have that back?”

“Doesn’t seem that non-existent from here,” Jack mutters, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek as he turns to show you the DM section– filled with messages you hadn’t bothered replying to.

Oh, so he can’t figure out how to lower the brightness on his phone, but he can work the Hinge DM’s?

“Hey, that’s private!” you blurt, making another grab for it, but Jack just lifts it slightly out of reach, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Give it back, Abbot–”

“No, I think I’ll be keeping this actually,” he muses, promptly putting your phone into his pocket.

You blink, looking at Parker and John for help, but when you turn around, their chairs are empty.

Traitors.

Whirling back, you turn around just in time to see his retreating figure making its way towards the medicine dispenser.

“Are you serious right now?” you call after him, already moving to follow.

Jack doesn’t even slow down, only stopping to press his pincode into the tiny screen on the automated medicine cabinet. 

“You can’t be tindering’ while on the clock–”

“It was Hinge, and I’m on my break!” you counter, annoyance growing at the way he won’t even look at you. Stepping between the cabinet and his frame, you cross your arms, hardening your gaze as much as you possibly could. “Do you want me to end up alone forever?”

Jack rolls his eyes at your hyperbole before glancing back at you. You’re close– close enough that he can see the leftover from your lunch on the side of your mouth. Without thinking, he reaches up, wiping the corner of your lips with his thumb, then stepping back as if nothing had happened.

“I doubt that’s going to happen.” he mutters dryly, his large hands landing on your shoulders as he gently pulls you out of the way. “You can have it back once you’ve assessed at least three patients in triage,”

Your brain short-circuits as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, the stroke quick, almost absentminded, followed by the warmth of his hands touching your body– and fuck, you just realized how touch starved you actually are.

Because your boss being…well, himself, should not have this effect on you.

“Three patients?” you confirm, breaking out of your spiraling thoughts.

You’d rather run the entire ER completely by yourself on Christmas, than to try and figure out why you were having fanny flutters after a glorified shove from your attending.

02:45 AM

Jack stands in the breakroom, pouring himself his third cup of coffee for the night when it vibrates again.

He tries to ignore, he really does– that insistent buzzing in the right pocket of his scrubs. It’s almost 3 AM– who in their right mind is texting at this time?

He knows it’s not his phone, no one texts him. Well, besides Robby, his psychologist, and at times, the pharmacy with a reminder for him to pick up his prescriptions.

Still, his curiosity gets the best of him, and before he knows it, he’s making sure the coast is clear and quickly digging your phone out of his pocket.

Just as he expected– several messages on your lock screen and all of them from Hinge. Jack’s eyes dart across the screen, each message sending him further reeling.

“R u up?”

“Ur sooo hot,”

“Did it hurt when you–”

Yeah, okay, that's enough. Jesus, who are these douchebags in your phone?

Jack shakes his head, going to stuff your phone back into his pocket and try to ignore the weird pit that formed in his stomach at the thought of you actually giving any of these guys a chance.

Or anyone in general, his mind echoes, but he shakes the thoughts before they can take any actual form.

Instead, he’s staring at the influx of shitty pickup-lines and decides to do you a favor. His thumb swipes over the screen, deleting the first message.

“He was short anyways,” Jack grumbles quietly to himself.

Deciding that he liked the feeling of “helping” you, he keeps going and only stops when he’s content– which coincidentally happens when your lockscreen is clear again.

Holding back a smug grin, he takes a long sip of his coffee leaning back against the countertop.

Oops.

03:18 AM

Parker Ellis does a double take when she finds you ducking behind the counter by the hub. She leans over it, peering down at you suspiciously.

“…Why are you crouching on the floor?”

You flinch in surprise, only relaxing when you look up and see that it’s just her.

“Shit, you scared me. I…” you huff,  hesitating as you look over your shoulder before answering. “I’m hiding from a patient,”

Parker hums, not as fazed as you expected her to be at the revelation.

“Yeah, been there, done that,” she reminisces, before looking at you incredulously. “But you don’t do that, so spill,”

Deciding against having to pay orthopedics a visit, you stand up straight again, still eyeing the surrounding area warily.

“Well…there’s this one patient that–”

“There you are, doc!”

In an almost comedic timing, a voice loudly interrupts.

You stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you pretend not to hear him he’ll leave you alone?

“Doc!” the voice calls again, closer this time. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere!”

That clearly did not work. You inhale slowly through your nose, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile onto your face as you turn around. 

“Mr. Williams–”

“Hey, I told you to just call me Henry,” he smirks, sauntering up to the counter and leaning against it– awfully confident for a man currently dressed in a hospital gown. “Anyways– you left before we could pick a day that works for you,”

You laugh awkwardly, briefly glancing at Parker, as to signal help with your gaze. 

“Uh– I would, I just– I think Dr. Ellis here needed a second opinion–”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. By all means, go ahead and finish up here!” she chirps, stifling a delighted grin, as she looks between you and Henry expectantly.

You make a mental note of her betrayal, vowing to never cover her shifts again.

Henry perks up immediately, sending you what you can only assume is meant to be a sexy smolder. 

…It’s not.

Henry leans in a little more, like he’s expecting you to meet him halfway, biting his lip, and you have to stop yourself from physically recoiling.

“I’m pretty flexible,” he adds, lowering his voice like it’s supposed to be charming. “You just tell me when you’re free, and I’ll make it work,”

You laugh again and it comes out strained this time.

Fuck, is this the life you’re doomed to live? At this rate you’re going to end up alone. Maybe you should just suck it up and say yes–

“Is there a problem here?” 

Your saving grace appears in the form of Jack Abbot, and you have never been more relieved to hear his voice.

Parker— the snake— chooses right now as her moment to chime in, placing a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Come on, Henry, let me take you back to your bed,”

“Wait a minute, I still need to–”

Henry’s protests fade away as Parker leads him back to his room, thankfully in the west and furthest wing of the department.

Sighing in relief, you turn to Jack with a bright smile, about to thank him, when he decides to speak up.

“Seriously? I take your phone and you pounce on the first patient your age?”

Your smile drops instantly, an offended expression forming.

 “What? I was not–”

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t shut it down, did you?” he grunts, eyebrows raised and a cynical look in his eyes.

Your mouth snaps shut, a sheepish look crossing your face, because yes, you did have a slight moment of weakness and debated hooking up with a patient. 

A girl’s gotta eat, though!

“Robby’s always nagging about patient satisfaction scores anyways,” you joke, but it falls flat, Jack’s unamused face making you have second thoughts.

“That was a joke,” you clarify, thinking it was just the late hour getting to him.

“It wasn’t very funny,” he counters, rolling his eyes.

Jesus Christ, he's sassy tonight– 

Sighing, you dig the heel of your palms into your eyes while you speak up, voice laced in exasperation.

You’d fight this battle another time.

“Sure, whatever– I’ve cleared three patients, can I have my phone back now?”

Jack purses his lips, and you’re confused about what the hold up is about. When he still doesn’t reach into his pocket, you speak up again, face scrunching up in confusion.

“Okay, have I done something?” you ask, eyes flitting across his hardened face and closed off body language. Everything screams annoyed and you have no clue why he would be angry with you.

“No, I just think you have terrible taste in men” Jack mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze.

“Really?” you scoff, face twisting in disbelief. “This is about my dating choices?”

“It’s about you bringing it to work when you should be clearing beds–”

“We have like, five rooms empty–” you retort easily, which only seems to further agitate Jack. 

“Well, we should have more– we would have more, if you would just focus and get to work!” he barks, before turning away and storming off.

You stand in the middle of the ER, mouth slightly ajar as you try to understand what just happened.

And despite everything that had just transpired, you realize you still haven’t gotten your phone back. 

03:36 AM

Jack regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's too late by then– he’s already stormed off and turning back and apologizing would probably reveal what he’s doing a terrible job of trying to hide. 

He doesn’t understand it, why someone as brilliant, beautiful and kind as you would settle for those…disappointments. 

You needed someone who would take care of you–  to make sure you ate something proper during work, an actual hearty meal, instead of those protein bars you claimed sustained you.

Someone who could understand where you were coming from when you complained about work and your patients– not an insecure idiot who would whine about the late hours you worked— saving lives daily.

You definitely needed someone who would spoil you.

Maybe pick you up and drop you off at work, someone to wine and dine you, run you baths after a particularly grueling shift, to sit by the tub and rub your damp shoulders and neck, before slipping further and–

Jack shakes his head, swallowing hard. Fuck, he was getting out of hand. 

“Get it together, man” he mutters under his breath. A passing nurse gives him a quick glance, and Jack quickly sends her a charming smile, like he wasn’t just staring into nothing, thinking about you.

04:30 AM

You stretch your arms up, suppressing a yawn as you settle down in front of an available computer, tapping your ID badge on the card reader and logging in to finally start charting.

The screen flickers alive and for a moment, you just stare at the blank page, thinking about the events that had unfolded.

Jack took your phone. Then he cockblocked a potential hookup. Then he yelled at you, and even though you’d cleared more than three patients, you still hadn't gotten your phone back, which was throwing you completely off your game.

You hadn’t even been able to do your five-minute doomscroll while on the toilet earlier.

A cup lands on your desk, stopping your train of thoughts. Blinking, your eyes snap towards the culprit.

Jack is already looking at you, before his gaze shifts to the empty screen in front of you.

“...You looked like you needed some caffeine,” he mumbles and lingers, despite his action being finished. 

In your tired, barely conciliatory state of mind— a snort slips past your lips.

You cover your mouth in horror.

Jack’s eyebrows raise in surprise, unable to resist the smile forming on his face. He points at you, and you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

“What was that?” he wheezes out through breathy laughter.

“What was what–” you say, voice unusually high pitched as you feign ignorance, though the way your cheeks turn red betray your words.

“That– you just– did you just snort?” 

It’s not loud, he’s clearly trying to keep it contained for your sake, but it breaks through anyway–  a sharp, surprised laugh that he clearly didn’t plan on letting out.

Your cheeks redden further and you huff, standing up and quickly logging out of the computer.

“I’m leaving!”

Jack moves before his mind registers what he's doing, his hand shooting out and grabbing your wrist. You freeze at the touch, stiffening just a bit.

He’s not too bothered about it, having a sudden surge of confidence, which was evident in the way he tugs you closer to him.

“Hey– it was cute,” he says softly, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes your heart pound faster in your chest and your hands grow clammy. 

“You’re just making fun of me,” you shake your head, muttering weakly, though a bashful expression still sweeps over your face.

“I’m not,” he says and it comes out too fast. Then, like he hears himself and doesn’t like how insincere it sounded, he tries to soften it. “I’m not making fun of you,”

Reluctantly, Jack lets go of your wrist and grabs the coffee cup he brought you earlier. He easily identifies the look on your face as hesitation, motioning towards the cup in his hand with his chin.

“You know, you laugh at everything when you’re tired,” he says, biting his lip as he holds back another grin.

When you don’t take it, he takes your hand and forces you to grab onto it.

You reluctantly let your fingers wrap around it, peeking into it.

“We’re still not friends,” you huff petulantly.

“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend,” he says, eyes lingering just a moment too long— before turning around at the sound of his name being called.

At his departure, you to overthink every decision you’ve ever made in your life— the ones that have led you here.

To a reality where Jack Abbot flirts with you, then leaves like it’s nothing.

06:00 AM

You’ve spent the last hour and a half of your shift avoiding Jack, going as far to write your charts on the other end of the ER.

It’s your own fault, really. Clearly being deprived of love and affection has left you overthinking everything– as if there’s any actual chance that Jack Abbot has been flirting with you.

No– there’s no way. 

If you knew, you’d have done something about it way sooner, not wasted your time on dating apps, entertaining guys that eventually end up calling their exes when wasted, and ruining any chance they had with you. 

All the good guys were either deceased or taken– and the only exception to that could not be your boss. 

Because if there was something there– anything real, anything intentional– you would’ve seen it.

You’re not oblivious, you’ve dated enough, survived enough disappointments to know what interest looks like.

And Jack?

Jack is just…

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, because the list that comes to mind doesn’t help your argument.

He’s attentive. Annoyingly so, at times.

Well, he has to be, he’s the attending, you reason.

But then you think back to the coffee he brought you, exactly the way you liked it and under the pretense in which he had brought it over. He’ noticed that you were tired– that you laugh at things that aren’t even funny, when that’s the case.

Also, your phone.

When he eventually gave it back, you had no notifications. Not that you’re that popular anywhere, but you specifically remember there being some texts you were purposefully ignoring, from some sleazy guys on Hinge. 

Did he delete them because he…

You sit up straighter, now racking your brain for every interaction you’ve ever had with the older male.

When he first realized it was your phone, the one opened and active on dating apps.

Henry– the way he was unreasonably upset after that whole fiasco, snapping at you then storming off like a child, throwing a temper tantrum.

The brief, casual touches, like it’s second nature to him to take care of you.

The final nail in the coffin is when you decide to look up, searching for him– just to end this once and for all, to convince yourself that the sleep deprivation was getting to you– when you lock eyes with him from across the department.

He blushes, before fumbling with the ipad in his hands, and then just…takes off, leaving you to stare at the spot he had just occupied.

Holy shit.

Jack Abbot liked you.

06:57 AM

The last few minutes of a shift are always the worst ones. It’s like time moves in slow motion, wanting to prolong the suffering for as long as possible.

Your phone buzzes, and you don’t think about it when you dig it out of your pocket, blinking sluggishly as you try to read the notice.

Huh, guess there’s a warning for heavy rain–

“Are you serious right now?” 

You flinch at the sharp tone of voice that’s suddenly directed at you.

Jack stands at the opening of the locker room, jaw clenched and hands on his hips as he takes in the sight of you on your damn phone, yet again.

“It’s not even seven yet, and you’re still entertaining those…losers?”

Now that you knew what his annoyance stemmed from, you could have some fun. You shrug, grabbing your jacket from the locker, and zipping it up as you speak.

“What? It’s the perfect time to go on a breakfast date–”

“You’re not going on a fucking breakfast date,” he scoffs, walking towards you.

You smile innocently, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him.

“Give me a better offer, then,”

Jack falters, stopping just a few feet away, annoyance slowly fading at your words. 

You don’t back down, looking at him expectantly.

“Well? If you’re going to reject everyone for me, then you might as well take me out as well,”

He gapes, eyes widening in realisation. 

You knew.

He clears his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets, then taking them out again and crossing his arms.

Come on, man– you're fidgeting like a dork!

“I– yeah, sure,” he splutters out, wincing at how he sounds.

“That doesn't sound very convincing, Jack,” you tease, enjoying the fact that he was a blushing mess because of you, far too much.

“Go out for breakfast with me,” he says instantly, voice breathless and hands falling to his sides, like he's ready to reach out and stop you if you try to leave now. “Please,” he adds quickly.

The last bit of control he’s been holding onto all night slips, and Jack was ninety percent sure he would beg if you asked him to.

Luckily enough, you don’t. Instead, you smile at him– that radiant smile that makes his stomach flutter with what can only be described as butterflies– just to walk right past him. 

He feels his heart drop, closing his eyes as he curses internally.

Of course you were only messing with him–

“Are you coming or not?” you call out from where you’re leaning against the doorway, still sporting that same smile.

Waiting for him.

Jack has never walked faster in his life. 

In the parking lot, he opens the passenger side door of his car for you, only to stop before he shuts it– searching your gaze.

“...You’ve deleted your account, right?”

Only as you sit on your flowered bath mat, squinting in the fluorescent light of your bathroom, contemplating another round of your head in the toilet, do you realize that your meal prep had maybe been a bit too far gone.

You’re no stranger to food poisoning — having and treating — and you know you could knock this out with Pepto, fluids and a BRAT diet in 36 hours flat.

But you don’t have 36 hours. You’re back at the Pitt in — you check your watch — five and a half hours.

You dig your phone out of your bedsheets once you’ve decided it’s safe to stand up and stagger back to your bedroom, pulling up your text thread with Mateo while you brush your teeth.

If I come in rn can someone see me for food poisoning

You weren’t holding your breath for an immediate reply, knowing how it can get on night shift, especially after the mess you left them all with at handoff. You had almost felt guilty as you left.

Almost.

But you’re pleasantly surprised when he responds immediately.

NOOOO!!!

Ya come on in, we’re super dead

(✊🪵)

—

You’d texted Mateo like he’d told you to after you checked in at Chairs, the night shift receptionist letting you know he’d tell them there was a VIP out here waiting. But you’d waved him off, albeit queasily, taking comfort in the relative emptiness of the waiting room at this time of night, hoping it won’t be too long without the fast pass.

“Now why am I seeing one of our R2s out here in Chairs?”

You open your eyes, realizing they’d closed as you tipped your head back against the wall for a moment.

Dr. Jack Abbot came through the ED’s main entrance at one point, back from a phone call or a break if you had to guess.

He looks at the receptionist like ‘what gives?’ but it’s all in jest, his smile far too sunny for the darkness of the hour as he turns his attention to you.

That the hottest doctor on either shift at the Pitt might be seeing you in the worst state of your life had never occurred to you on your way over here tonight, but you realize that might’ve been hard to do in between the deep breathing out of the open window and several almost pull-overs you had to do.

Because as Dr. Abbot, in all of his camo-panted glory, makes his way over to you, you’re struck by the fact that even in your weakened state, he’s still absolutely undeniable.

Maybe even more so.

“Dr. Abbot,” you greet.

“What’s going on?” he says, slowing his pace as he nears. You sit up straighter as he immediately begins assessing, feeling a bit exposed under his gaze in your haphazard outfit. You must look as bad as you feel, because you clock the moment his face falls.

You wince, hating every second of this, but realizing you want this over with so quickly that you can no longer care. “Food poisoning. Pretty sure.”

“Yikes, doc,” he says softly, crossing his arms. “Did you tell anyone you were coming in?”

“I texted Mateo.”

“I’m sure he just got pulled into something. Come on,” he nods toward the doors, then looks you over. “You good to come back?”

You mull it over, glancing at the bathroom in Chairs. Abbot follows your gaze, then nods again. He pats your shoulder as he makes his own way to the doors.

“Take your time and then come on back. I’ll order some Zofran.”

—

“So stupid. I didn’t even think how old it was,” you sigh to Mateo, finally seated on an examination bed while he does your vitals.

Mateo nods toward your crossed legs, which you unwind so he can get an accurate blood pressure reading.

He slips the cuff off your arm with a sympathetic smile, and you pull your sleeve back down. “Hey, at least you got the day off now. Can start that zombie show I was telling you about.”

You shake your head. “Not likely. You’ll see me at handoff.”

Mateo scoffs, looking at the clock on the wall. “In four hours? You gonna sleep here?”

You just give him a look, but you thought about it on your way here.

“Alright,” he says, finishing up your chart. “You good? Barf bag? I’ll be back with your Tylenol.”

You shake your head, lying back with your feet propped up on the bed. “Nothing left. I hope.”

“Noted. Someone will be by soonish,” he says. Then a knock on the wall beside your bed comes, and Mateo smirks at you as he opens the curtain. “Or right now.”

Dr. Abbot’s back, nodding his head at Mateo to make way in front of the monitor so he can swipe in.

“How’re we doing in here, Dr. Y/l/n? Zofran kicked in?”

You give a meager thumbs up. “Hoping it will soon.”

“Vitals are good,” Mateo says to him. “She is running a fever, though — I was about to run for some acetaminophen.”

“I brought some just in case. I’ve got her from here,” Jack says, his voice softer, directed to Mateo. “You can go check on your other patients, yeah?”

“For sure. Feel better, Y/n,” Mateo says, and you hear the curtain close again.

You lift your arm off of your eyes, blinking under more fluorescent lighting, squinting slightly as Jack makes his way over, a cup of water and a portion of Tylenol in either hand. “Think you’ll keep it down?”

You push up slightly, taking the cup of tablets, throwing them back and trading it for the cup of water, deciding the risk is worth the mitigation of the chills and aches that have begun to set in.

He takes both cups from you, and you lie back again immediately while he throws them out. “We’re gonna find out.”

“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, and you feel your own lips quirk. “I like it. Alright, I know you just wanted your Zofran, but can I bother you for an abdominal exam?”

You look down at the thick sweatshirt you fell asleep in, realizing you’re wearing absolutely nothing beneath it. “Um.”

Jack’s paused near the gloves. “Walsh is wrapped up, but I’ll ask Ellis to come in.”

“No, no,” you say. You’re a doctor, one who’s on shift in a few hours, and you can handle an attending seeing your midsection. And touching it. “You’re fine.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

He nods, satisfied only after your outright consent, and snaps a pair of gloves on — size large, you have that can’t help but notice.

You lift your sweatshirt up once he’s at your bedside before you can think too much about it, and he clears his throat.

“Let me know if anything’s tender.”

You feel the warmth of Jack’s hands through his gloves as he works his way through the quadrants with precision, pressing gently into your stomach.

With his focus trained on the exam and your own mind needing a distraction, you notice things — how his freckled arms flex periodically against the sleeves of his scrub top, the collar of the heather gray crewneck he’s wearing today preventing any good look at his chest, the way he has his badge reel clipped to his pants instead of his breast pocket.

The band you know to be graphite that he still wears on his left hand, the imprint visible through the glove.

It’s such an easy exam. Just to rule anything out. You’ve done them hundreds of times — he’s probably in the thousands.

“A med student could’ve done this,” you say, casting your eyes away from where they’d been fixated on the pale underside of his further arm, the muscle jumping as he pressed down. “You don’t have to be here.”

“We’re mid-rotation. They aren’t exactly fighting over food poisoning on the board at this point, even if it’s their favorite resident,” he says, like it means nothing. “We’re slow. Why wouldn’t I take care of one of our own?”

He holds your gaze in case you have an answer, and you don’t.

But Jack bails you out. “Do you know what it was?”

“Dinner,” you answer. “Meal prep from Monday.”

“C’mon, Monday? You know better,” he says, his tone teasing. “What time did you eat?”

“Right after shift, like eight?” you try to remember. But it’s hard to once his hands move to the lower quadrants of your abdomen, and his gloved fingertips skim the waistline of your sleep shorts. “I can’t even remember.”

“Yeah, you kinda sleepwalked out of here,” he comments, with no fanfare.

You watch his side profile, wondering at what point Jack Abbot started noticing you at handoff the way you’ve always noticed him.

He looks up. “Nothing’s tender? No pain?”

“No,” you breathe, realizing that the warmth of his hands, however brief, pressing into your stomach over and over again has created about the most relief you’ve had since you woke up.

“Good,” he says, his thumbs tucking under the bottom of your sweatshirt and pulling it back down for you. He tugs it snugly over the waistband of your shorts, covering you more than you were even when you initially laid back, his thumbs brushing your sides. “Any other symptoms?”

You shake your head, then pause. “Not gonna run me through the list?”

He smiles, and it occurs to you that it’s slightly weird to see him in the in-between, the throes of night shift.

Not bright-eyed, a breath of fresh air greeting you after a hard day at 7pm. Or on the flip side, a more somber sight to see first thing in the morning, his shadow grown in and his hair tousled. He’s settled, but not exhausted. It’s comforting.

“We could get real comfortable if you’d like, Dr. Y/l/n. But I trust that you know the symptoms I’d be worried about and would tell me if you had them.”

Your eyes meet, your heart stuttering slightly at his praise. You’d worked hard and earned everything you’d achieved, but it was no secret that the ED could feel thankless, and receiving affirmation from a doctor you admire was always a lift.

“I’ll let it slide, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Diagnosis and treatment plan?”

“Well your fever’s definitely higher than I’d like for food poisoning,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash. He puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head to the side. He looks thoughtful, “But I’m guessing everything is mostly out of your system at this point. Or hopefully… nearly there.”

You don’t swing your shifts very often, and you’ve only picked up a handful of swaps to night shift since coming to the Pitt as an intern last year.

Which means you really only cross paths with Jack at handoffs, Robby’s barbecues and street team. You detest that one of your few, extended, non-patient-related (yourself excluded) conversations with the man is about your vomiting schedule.

But you’ve watched and learned quality patient care from Dr. Abbot countless times, as he stayed over, showed up early, came in on his off days or during his SWAT shifts — to be the receiver of it is another feeling entirely.

“You know the drill. Rest, lots of fluids. The blandest food possible once you think you can stomach it. Rice, bananas, toast — nothing fun on it. Do you have any of that on hand?”

“Uh,” you wonder aloud, squinting at the mental image of your pantry. Neglected and bare, conditions conducive to the reason you landed in here tonight.

He takes your silence for what it is.

“DoorDash it then, will ya?” he asks, exasperated. “Some electrolytes, too. And Sprite. I don’t think we’re supposed to recommend that, but that’s my old favorite.”

“Alright moneybags,” you laugh, finally sitting up. “I’ll just pay some insanely high delivery fee on Sprite, then, since you say so.”

“I’ll pay for it,” he murmurs, not even looking up over the monitor while he taps your notes in. “Bill me at our next handoff. And I didn’t hear you telling Mateo you think you’re working today, right?”

Your brain has fallen a step behind in this conversation, your feet ceasing their dangling over the side of the bed as you sit frozen.

“Dr. Y/l/n?” he asks, still at the monitor.

“Well, I was — with the Zofran and everything I figured I’d be okay. That’s why I came in tonight instead of just riding it out, so I’d be good for work today,” you explain, rubbing your forehead. Your argument feels weak even to your own ears, but you feel a commitment to the Pitt, especially presently being here.

“You’re no good to anyone who comes in here while you’re sleep-deprived, dehydrated and running a fever,” Jack says, his eyes scanning your face. “You’re actually the opposite. You know that.”

The warmth you felt at his praise only moments ago evaporates at his chastisement, even if you know he’s right.

“Hey. You know that,” he says again. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Take a day. Two if you need it. I’ll stay over and help Robby and the day shift get settled,” he says. “You leave him to me.”

It’s a joke if there ever was one, and he seems pleased when you laugh at the idea of Robby giving you a hard time over a few sick days.

You concede. “At least it’s quieter in here now. Which — I’m shocked, by the way.”

“Why? ‘Cause you guys left us such a mess?” Jack quips, logging out of the computer, sliding the curtain open and waiting for you.

“Honestly, yeah. We did,” you say, grabbing your belt bag off of the chair by the bed.

“Well, that’s what we do on nights. Clean up the mess you all leave behind,” he says, reaching for the strap of your bag, draping it over your head and letting you slip an arm through it and letting it rest on your shoulder. “You should try it sometime.”

In another world, where your Zofran and Tylenol had done their jobs already, and you weren’t completely disarmed by the comfort you felt from having the night shift attending put his hands all over you and then offer to pay for your remedies like it would be foolish of him not to, you might find the wherewithal to engage — to flirt back.

Because even your exhausted brain can put together the fact that Jack Abbot is flirting with you. In your sleep shorts, and your problematic sweatshirt. With your four hours of sleep. While you talked about your vomiting habits.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” you say. “I like my normal sleep schedule too much.”

His head cocks in that way you’ve noticed it does, his grin twitching.

“And yet here you are.”

—

“She lives.”

Two days later, you grace the Pitt with your presence once again, feeling your cheeks warm as Mateo tucks his tablet under his arm to slowly applaud your entrance.

“You say that like you didn’t text me for an update a million times,” you answer, rolling your eyes as he falls into step beside you on your walk to the board.

“My attending was all over me about it,” he says quietly.

You’re feeling good to be back at work, done wasting away in bed and ready to jump back in, but your brain is groggy — slow to catch up to what he’s implying.

When you do, you turn to him, and he’s grinning, looking like he’s bursting at the seams.

“Oh?” you try.

“Did you know that man had never used DoorDash in his life until a few days ago? I had to help him,” Mateo says, leaning closer, his voice dropping a few decibels. “It was… adorable.”

You knew when leaving the ED the other night you’d never be taking Jack up on his offer.

You didn’t realize he knew it too, however, until the delivery driver had shown up at your door later that morning holding three grocery bags bursting with food and drinks, shaking your hand and thanking you profusely for the generous tip you gave on the app.

You briefly thought you might need to walk back into the Pitt and tell them your food poisoning was definitely an infection that was presenting as hallucinations as you stood in your doorway, arms suddenly full of groceries.

You wondered for only a minute who your angel was, but the six-pack of Sprite had been a dead giveaway.

“I was wondering how he’d gotten my address,” you said. “Doesn’t seem like the type to skim it off my file.”

Mateo cocks his head, and his grin is becoming a bit too much for you at 6:45 in the morning.

“He was this close,” he says, pinching two fingers together. “Seriously.”

You shake your head, tossing your braid over your shoulder as you make your way to the locker rooms. “I should go drop my stuff.”

“Mhm,” he says. “You do that. You’re so busy. Here 15 minutes early and everything.”

“Bye Teo,” you say with finality, beelining it to the lockers before anyone else who’d witnessed you a few nights ago stopped you to chat.

A few night shift nurses ask you how you’ve been feeling near the lockers while you put your stuff away and slip your fleece jacket on, affixing your badge reel and checking the whisps falling out of your braid are doing so in just the way you want, but you’re lucky you don’t cross paths with anyone else that had witnessed your plight.

Until you emerge moments later to find Jack Abbot, arms crossed and waiting against the wall across the lockers, a respectable distance away, but no doubt with his eyes trained on the door.

He smiles, post-shift tired. “Thought I saw my favorite patient.”

Feeling well enough to play ball, finally, and frankly having milled over the next time you’d see Jack in your head through two straight days of rom-coms, you take the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.

“I thought I saw my favorite attending, too, but Robby must not be in yet.”

Thoroughly pleased when his mouth drops open slightly, you aren’t surprised when he trails behind you while you walk to your preferred charting station.

“I was gonna ask how you’re feeling, but it seems there might be a cognitive exam in order,” he says in reply, leaning comfortably over the desk as you sit down, sliding your badge through the scanner. You watch the line of his shoulders as he stretches tiredly.

“Better,” you say sincerely, unable to shake the mental picture. Jack asking Mateo for help with DoorDash in the lulls of night shift, using whatever extra time he could find to schedule something thoughtful for you to wake up to. “You didn’t have to send all of that.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to. Figured you were gonna crash as soon as you got home, and going to the store when you’re sick is the worst.”

You shake your head, your smile stubborn. “Way too much Sprite.”

His lips pull up to one side. “But it helped, didn’t it?”

You roll your eyes, asking him how night shift was and enjoying the way he prattles on while you settle back in.

“Did you wanna do your handoff now?” you ask, standing up again, grabbing the tablet off the charger by on your station.

“Oh, I already handed over to Santos,” he says, still making no move to leave your station, when you figured that had been the entire reason he was here. Or at least part of it.

Some of it.

“Oh,” you say. Sweeping your eyes around the ED — it’s still relatively early and things seem, for now, to be on the rarer, quieter side.

You lean against your desk, looking at him expectantly.

“How have you been though?” he asks. “Really. That wasn’t a tiny fever.”

“Good,” you say, sensing his worry. “I promise. It broke later that day. Everything… else subsided by yesterday morning, thank god. All the stuff you sent really, really helped. So thank you.”

“I’m glad. You gotta be more careful,” he says, tapping his fingers on the desk. “You know. Brush up on your food safety education.”

You sigh, wincing. “I know, it was stupid. Just exhausted and wasn’t thinking.”

He nods, considering. “Next time you’re too tired, let me know.”

You come around, leaning against the desk next to him. You think you see Mateo paused at the front door out of the corner of your eye, but you can’t be sure, because you’re too focused on the furrow in Jack’s brow as he looks down at you.

“What are you gonna do, send me dinner this time?”

“No. I’m gonna make you dinner,” he suggests, like it’s casual. But his eyes flit across your face quickly, assessing. “At my place.”

Your lips quirk up.

“Again,” he adds, nodding, but not fast enough to hide that his cheeks are tinged pink. Christ, he’s nervous. Your stomach kicks, in the best way this time, realizing that you are making Jack Abbot nervous. “Educational purposes.”

You hum, nodding your head, too. “And this is a teaching hospital.”

“It is,” he nods. “So, what do you say?”

For all of his confidence, the way he commands a trauma bay in a crisis, runs a new pool of med students like a combat unit, wrangles an unruly pod of frat boys here to watch a buddy’s stomach get pumped, you feel another thrill zip down your spine at his sought reassurances.

He wants to hear you say it. Just like with your exam.

Jack needs a yes.

“That sounds great,” you finally say.

“Yeah?” he asks, his grin growing.

You can’t help it, yours matching, “Yeah.”

He smiles wider, hiking his backpack up higher on his shoulders, and you swear it’s like his chest puffs out just a touch.

“Alright. You gonna give me your number now, or do I have to beg Mateo for that, too?”

—

A week later — only exactly as long as it took for schedules to align and your stomach to settle (Jack’s insistence, not yours) — you’re sat at his kitchen island, watching him chop vegetables with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder.

His home is cozy, a German shepherd named Ruby curled up underneath your feet.

He hasn’t told you what’s he’s making yet, but you can piece together it doesn’t contain anything that had triggered you last week, which you find sweet.

Jack watches you get up, glancing at your water glass to see if it needs refilled, whatever story he’d been telling about Shen and an ortho consult from Park gone awry dying on his lips, his knife pausing, but his lips quirking up as you circle the island nearer to him.

“What do you need, sweetheart? Wanna open a bottle?”

“No. Well — yes,” you say, your hand closing softly over his, the knife resting on the cutting board immediately, his body making space for you between himself and the island while he wipes off his hands. “Just not yet.”

“No?” Jack says, eyes glinting.

This close, you look up at him, your hand flattening to his chest, right over his heart. He’d put on a blue button-down for you, the material soft beneath your touch. He’s still so warm.

“Hi,” you say lamely, your confidence run out.

“You feelin’ me up, doc?”

Your hand slides from his chest down to his stomach, pressing lightly with the pads of your fingers. “You had your turn.”

Jack’s smile is knowing, like he could tell you were squirming on that exam table for more reasons than one but didn’t know for sure until now. Any embarrassment you might feel is assuaged by the fact that you can tell the exchange had had a similar effect on him, confirmed by his next statement.

“I’m gonna need a few more.”

“We’ll see,” you answer, tilting your head with mischief.

“Here I thought I was being a gentleman, waiting until after dinner,” he all but whispers.

“For wine?” you tease.

“You…” he laughs. His hands find your face, and as he leans in, you know you’ll look back one day and think that it was all worth it.

Maybe it’s nerves, your heart stuttering at how strongly you already feel — but you don’t know why you say it, practically whispering against his lips, he’s so close at this point. “I can’t believe the first time you hit on me was when I was literally in the middle of food poisoning.”

But he shakes his head.

“First time you noticed,” he corrects.

His lips meet yours briefly, and he pulls back, his eyes searching for your reaction to that, and he smiles.

Then he kisses your cheek, your nose, your forehead, the top of your head.

It’s like you’re frozen — but so, so warm in his arms.