Bella

A stray guard with a shotgun turned the getaway into a bloodbath and you were the one who took the hit.

Now, you were lying across the leather backseat of Craig’s truck, your head resting heavily in Pope’s lap.

He sat rigid. His hand was pressed firmly against the jagged tear in your ribs, dark blood spilling over his knuckles.

He was staring at your face.

And he saw it.

A thin line of crimson began to pool at the corner of your lips, slipping over your chin and tracking a messy path down your neck.

It wasn't just a graze on your ribs.

Something inside was broken.

Something shifted in Pope’s eyes.

"Craig, I need you to go faster," Pope's voice vibrated with intensity.

"I'm going as fast as I can, man!" Craig yelled. "The cops are all over the highway, I gotta take the back roads—"

"Craig." This time, Pope’s voice cracked. "Please."

Baz glanced back from the front passenger seat, his eyes widening as his gaze landed on the blood smeared across your mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, Craig, man, c'mon."

Pope took the hem of his own shirt, his hands shaking, actually shaking, as he gently wiped the blood from your lips. But the moment he wiped it away, more welled up, bright and warm.

"H-Hey," Pope murmured, his voice dropping into a desperate tone. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cold skin. "Princess. Look at me. Open your eyes. Look at Pope."

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. The pain in your chest was a crushing weight, making it impossible to draw air. You choked in a wet cough, and more blood spilled past your teeth.

"Don't do that," Pope unblinking eyes were suddenly glossy, swimming with panic. He clamped his hand over yours, squeezing until it hurt. "You breathe. You stay. You hear me?"

Beside Pope, Deran was on the phone with Smurf, telling her to have the medical kit ready. He turned and his face losing all its color as he saw you. "Is she suffocating? Baz, what do we do?!"

"Keep her head up!" Baz ordered. "Don't let her choke on it! Craig, if you don't get us to Smurf's house in two minutes, you're fucking dead! "

"I'm hitting a hundred and ten, man!" Craig screamed.

Pope slid his arm beneath your shoulders, carefully pulling your upper body up against his chest. He didn't care about the stains covering his clothes. He just gathered you into his arms, holding you like you were made of glass.

"I've got you," he muttered frantically against your hair, as he felt your body grow heavier. His grip so tight it was almost suffocating. "I've got you, princess. Don't leave me here."

You couldn't form words, but you managed to squeeze his fingers. Pope let out a ragged, shaking breath as the truck finally violently whipped into Smurf’s driveway.

Pope didn’t wait. He kicked the door open, his arms securely wrapped around your shaking form. He carried you inside.

Smurf was already coming down the hall, her sharp eyes taking in the scene instantly. Her gaze drifted from the blood on your ribs to the terrifying crimson smear coating your mouth and chin.

Her maternal composure didn't break, but her jaw tightened.

"Pu-Put her on the island," Smurf commanded, her voice cutting through the panic like ice. "Deran, lock the gates. Craig, get the oxygen tank from the garage... now."

Pope laid you down on the cold kitchen island, but he refused to step back. His hands stayed glued to your shoulders, keeping you elevated just enough so you wouldn't choke.

"She's bleeding from the inside, Smurf," Baz said. "The shot may fractured a rib. It might have punctured a lung."

"I know," Smurf said calmly, though her fingers moved with frantic speed as she hooked up the portable oxygen mask Craig had just slammed onto the counter.

She pressed the plastic mask over your nose and mouth. "Breathe, sweetheart. Deep breaths for Smurf."

The oxygen helped, but the pain was agonizing. You let out a choked gasp, coughing violently. The mask immediately fogged with a fresh spray of blood.

Deran looked like he was going to vomit.

"Get the chest tube," Baz muttered to Smurf, his hands shaking slightly as he prepped an alcohol swab. "If her lung is collapsing, we have to relieve the pressure or she’s gone."

"No," Craig choked out, backing away a step, his eyes wide as he looked at the surgical instruments. "No, we need a doctor. We need to take her to a real hospital, Smurf! Look at her, she’s drowning!"

"We take her to a hospital, the cops pick us up before she’s even out of triage!" Baz snapped, his adrenaline turning into pure aggression. "Think, Craig!"

"I don't give a shit about the cops!" Craig screamed, slamming his fist into the refrigerator. "She's dying!"

"Shut up!" Pope’s scream vibrated through the entire kitchen.

The room went dead silent. Craig froze. Pope was leaning over you. He was entirely focused on your fading gaze.

"Hold her down," Pope whispered.

Baz moved instantly, pinning your arms. Deran stepped forward and heavily secured your legs.

Smurf didn't hesitate. She located the space between your ribs, wiped it with iodine, and looked up at Pope. "Keep her still, baby."

Pope leaned his weight over your upper body, his face inches from yours. "It’s going to hurt," he whispered. "It’s going to hurt so bad, princess. But we have you, okay?"

When Smurf made the incision to insert the tube, an agonizing scream was choked out of your throat.

Your body violently arched, fighting against the restraint, but the Cody brothers became a human vice.

Deran was using his strength to keep your lower body pinned.

Baz leaned his weight into your side, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked furiously in his cheek.

Pope kept his forehead pressed against yours, taking the brunt of your agony, letting you squeeze his hand until the bones clicked. "Breathe," he chanted like a prayer, his voice breaking over and over. "Come on. Breathe."

A sharp hiss of escaping air and a rush of dark blood into the drainage tube signaled the release of the pressure.

Your chest suddenly expanded, a clean draft of oxygen finally rushing into your lungs. And the violent trembling in your limbs slowly began to subside.

_

An hour later, the kitchen was a bloody battlefield. Smurf had cleaned you up, stitched the outer wound, and helped the boys move you to the massive couch in the living room, the oxygen tank humming quietly beside you.

The house was on complete lockdown.

Baz was out, staring into the dark pool, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the night. Craig and Deran were sitting on the floor right beside the couch, exhausted and pale, refusing to leave your side.

And Andrew hadn't moved an inch.

He sat on the floor, his hand resting gently on top of your hair. Every time your breathing hitched, his entire body went rigid, relaxing only when your chest rose and fell in a steady, healing rhythm.

You weakly opened your eyes, the haze of the painkillers making everything soft.

You looked at him.

Andrew’s face was still stained with your blood, his eyes shadowed and tired. He carefully took his thumb and wiped away a dried speck of crimson from the corner of your lip.

"You're safe," he whispered. "A doctor is coming, you're going to be okay."

​You managed a weak smile, your hand moving slowly across the blanket to find his.

Andrew didn't hesitate. He took your hand in his, wrapping his fingers between yours. He pressed your knuckles firmly against his cheek, leaning into your skin, his eyes closing for a moment as if he were finally letting out the breath he’d been holding since the backseat of the truck.

​He stayed like that, just feeling your pulse against his face.

Then, he rested his forearm right next to your pillow. He leaned his head down on his arm, his face just inches from yours, his eyes fixed on your face with protective devotion.

He didn't have the words to tell you how close he came to breaking, or how much it meant that you were still breathing.

The California sun was doing its best to bake everyone alive, even with the constant splashing coming from the pool.

It was a quiet day at the Cody house, which just meant no one was currently bleeding or planning a heist in the kitchen.

You were lounged on a deck chair, the heat making you fee lazy. In your lap sat a stubborn navel orange. You’d been picking at the skin for a minute, but between your sunscreen slicked fingers and a lack of nails, you were losing the battle.

Without looking up, you felt a presence shift beside you.

Andrew.

He just sat there on the edge of the lounger, his eyes fixed on the water where J and Deran were arguing over something.

You didn’t even have to ask. You simply nudged your hand toward him, the orange resting in your palm.

His hand moved automatically. Andrew’s fingers were moving in seconds. He stripped the rind away in a few perfect spirals, his thumb digging in just enough to clear the pith without bruising the fruit.

He kept his gaze on the horizon of the backyard, his jaw tight in that way it always was, surveying the perimeter like he was expecting a strike team.

But his touch with you? Quiet. Attentive. Grounded.

Within seconds, he was nudging your hand back. The orange was perfectly cleaned, split into two neat halves, and placed back into your palm.

"Thanks, baby," you murmured, popping a slice into your mouth.

He finally looked at you then. His eyes softened, just a fraction, the kind of look he saved only for the people he’d decided were worth protecting.

It was his version of a love poem. He didn't need to be told you were struggling; he just saw a need and fixed it before it could become an inconvenience.

"Too much sun," he said. "Go inside soon."

"I will," you promised, reaching out to offer him a slice.

He leaned in, his frame blocking out the glare of the afternoon sun and shielding you entirely from the rest of the backyard.

His lips caught yours in a slow kiss that tasted faintly of citrus and salt. It was deliberate and grounding, his hand coming up to rest gently against the back of your neck.

When he finally pulled away completely, he took the orange slice from your fingers with a smirk, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary.

He ate the fruit, the two of you sitting in a small pocket of peace while the rest of the Cody brothers moved loudly around you.

He was a dangerous man but he was the man who made sure you never had to break the skin of an orange yourself.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

the first days were difficult. waking up at odd hours, the feeding and bathing routine, and the crying because she is a baby and is still discovering the world threw you off, but week after week, with robby sharing the responsibilities with you and the help of youtube tutorials, the routine turned smooth like peanut butter.

“wanna do something fun, sweetie?” you ask baby jane, getting a gummy smile back.

taking that as a “yes”, you set her back on the bassinet you and robby keep in the living room, and make your way to the linen closet to fetch sheets and pillows.

you rearrange the sofa units to make a little tent with the biggest sheet you own, fluffing random cushions and throw pillows, setting janie’s body pillow in the middle, finishing it off with fairy lights. and just like that, a pillow fort was born.

robby arrives from the market to a quiet house. he comes in through the garage, setting the groceries down on a kitchen island before coming in and looking for you. the sight that greets him is enough to make him rethink the decision he worked so hard to follow through: you, laying in the middle of the fort on your side, half hugging baby jane as you watch ms. rachel on your ipad, with grace, his german shepard and artie, your orange cat, guarding you.

“got room for one more?” you hear your husband say, and beckon him with your hand.

robby settles behind you, hugging you tight as he kisses your temple. he caresses janie’s head, with a feather light touch that warms your heart.

silence settles between you and you know robby is deep in thought. “i can hear you thinking.” you tease.

he sighs, kisses your neck and asks you to turn around. “i know we never talked about this, and that this was supposed to be temporary, but i’ve been thinking about it for a while, and i wanted to know if you want to try and adopt jane.”

you mouth an “oh”, shocked, and robby starts to backtrack when he sees your reaction. you hold his hand, a silent sign for him to wait. you have thought about it, of course you have, but never expected robby to feel the same.

“you sure?”

“yes.” he nods. “it won’t be easy, they don’t usually let temporary fosters adopt, but i know some people, we have steady jobs and people who can vouch for us…” he trails, looking at you expectantly.

“alright,” you nod your head, “let’s do this.”

It’s the early morning, and for once, Jack isn’t coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed. 

His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes. 

“Hi,” you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice. 

He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible. 

You’d blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasn’t that date. 

Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. It’s harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you won’t complain. 

Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but you’re terrified he’s imagining her right now. 

He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding. 

It was one of the first things you noticed about him—how cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little. 

You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it. 

“Such a pretty sound, baby,” he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you. 

He spends so much time working you open and pliant for him—tugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties. 

“Jack,” you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else. 

He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. You’re warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, “So goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?”

He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.

“Jack—yeah, I-I did,” you manage to answer.

With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud. 

The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you. 

At first, the fullness is what you’ve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, there’s a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldn’t belong to him.  As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. It’s a sensation you’ve gotten used to, but today, it feels different—just another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again. 

Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry. 

Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away. 

“That was a good one, huh?” he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.  You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that won’t spill collecting on your waterline. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass. 

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine,” he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Less busy than usual.”

He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.  “I’m really tired,” he declares softly.

You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter. 

“You should get some sleep then, my love,” you whisper, “I gotta get up soon anyway.”

--

You’ve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldn’t be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived. 

As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.  The lump in the back of your throat doesn’t exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat. 

Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than him—dark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed. 

Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse. 

For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. It’s not that you expect him to just be okay; you’re not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing. 

So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you. 

Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. It’s a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen. 

“Hi,” you greet him. 

Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.

“Hey,” he answers when he pulls away.  He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet. 

As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you. 

“Drink up,” he says. 

The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word ‘disassociation’ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it. 

When you look at Jack, his face doesn’t mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesn’t take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.

Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.

Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like you’re imagining all these issues, because he just won’t say or show that there is something wrong. 

So you pour a little oil into the fire. 

“Any plans for the weekend?” you ask. “I saw that you’re not working.”

His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.  You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea. 

“Nope, not really,” he answers then. Lie.

“Yeah?” you go on, knowing that you’re treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side. 

“Yes,” he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.  “Actually,” he continues, “Maybe I’ll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.” Lie. 

“Oh,” you reply dumbly. 

You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling. 

“Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t start riding, too,” he vows quietly.  He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it. 

You smile weakly, and he accepts that. 

The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his ‘break’ that he won’t get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either. 

You’re incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadn’t turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other. 

The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.  “Have a good shift,” you mumble when you pull away.  His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he answers, “Will try.”

The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash. 

--

On Thursday morning, things come to a boil. 

Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.  You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.  Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him you’re there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence. 

It’s almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.  “Jack?”

You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows. “Sweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you don’t miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel. 

“I took the day off,” you reply. 

He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories he’ll never shake replaying in his mind. 

“Wish I had done that,” he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do. 

You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you can’t come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.

“Can you let me in?”

Your choice of words almost makes you laugh—after all, that is all you’ve wanted for the last few days. 

The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jack’s eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.

“My love…,” you mumble, and he looks away instantly. 

“Just a bad shift,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor. 

You shake your head and take his hand.  “It’s not just that, is it?” 

You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jack’s eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: there’s anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one you’d do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days. 

But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings. 

You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today. 

“Let’s get you into bed,” you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish he’d go back to being angry at you. 

“Do you want to eat something, my love?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. 

“Can I keep you company?” you continue. 

You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.

“I’d like that,” he mutters then. 

His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below. 

You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say. 

“I know tomorrow will be hard for you,” you begin.  Jack’s entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face. 

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t talk about it.”

Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly. His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts. 

“Alright,” you whisper against your better judgment. “Just… just get some rest, honey.”

--

Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bed—not the way you’re used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jack’s arms on both hands, but today, it’s a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains. 

His side on the mattress isn’t even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep. 

As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jack’s neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest you’ve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday. 

It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.  As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness. 

He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “I love it when it’s just us.” With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.  “Me, too,” you had mumbled fondly. 

Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.  Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadn’t known the date of his wife’s passing yet.  

You know it’s wrong to be so jealous of a dead woman—and Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.  But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer. 

Selfishly, you think you wouldn’t want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as he’d mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happiness—or if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind at all. 

The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself. 

You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated. 

On the first, you didn’t even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him. 

A year later, you thought you were prepared—you were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (—this time around, you had convinced him not to work all day—), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life. 

Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, couple’s massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadn’t screamed at you—it might’ve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d want to do something like that on a day like this.

Which is why you didn’t come up with any plans this year. 

But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain. 

The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesn’t. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bones—it practically settles in your lungs to the point where you’re not sure anymore whether you’re still breathing.

You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you don’t remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm. 

Jack isn’t home. 

You are. 

He is chasing a ghost you’ll never be able to replace. 

As you get into your car and drive, it’s an obvious guess where he is. 

--

Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises you—it’s too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey. 

The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wife’s one per month.  It could be more than your rent, and she’d deserve every penny. 

He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. It’s obvious that he is in pain. You don’t know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him. 

The bouquet you’re holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him. You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny. 

“Hi,” is all you can manage. 

Jack flinches—and you wish you hadn’t come. You almost wish he had never even met you. 

Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground. 

Jack’s mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out. 

“I…”  You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.  “I hope it’s okay that I came,” you mumble then. 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw. 

“I’ll come home soon,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out. 

Your heart sinks. 

“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.”

“No.”  His answer is final. It’s not cold or disapproving, just desperate—but so are you. 

“Jack, please,” you beg. “Let me stay. Just… let me help you.”

He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like he’s trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. You’re the car going ninety. 

“My love, please,” you repeat, taking a step towards him. “I… Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about her—”

“No,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, do you really think—”  He stops himself and shakes his head.  Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.

“Do I really think what?” you prompt bitterly. “Do I really think that I… that I deserve to know her? That I’m the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I don’t know, Jack, you obviously don’t.”

His mouth falls open. 

“What?” he croaks. 

You shrug helplessly.  “You don’t want me here,” you reply.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “But not… not because I think you don’t deserve to know her, but because… because you don’t deserve this weight on your shoulders. My grief—my fucking… never-ending grief…”

As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, you’re left to stare at him. 

“I… I just don’t want you to see me like this and think… think that I…”  He shakes his head. 

“That you want her instead of me,” you finish for him. 

“That’s not the case,” he says sharply. 

“Isn’t it?” you counter. 

“No,” he hisses. “She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to bring her back. You’re here.”

“Yeah, but if you could—”

“But I can’t!”  His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.  “She’ll never come back. Never.”

“But you’ll never stop loving her,” you whisper.

“How can I?” he snaps. “I… I vowed to love her until death do us part, and now—now she is dead, and we’re apart, but I’m still here. And I fell for you.”

He takes a deep breath. “Every day, I’m fucking terrified that I make you feel like… like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, I’ve fucking done that. And you look at me like… like I’m wounded. You treat me like I’m someone to take care of, so I behave like it.”

“But you don’t let me take care of you,” you reply. “You don’t let me in. You don’t let me help.”

“Because if I do, I’ll have to start talking about her to you. I’ll have to tell you how much I love her and that—I can’t fucking do that to you!” he answers.

“But I’m asking you to do that,” you spit out. “I’d rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I don’t even get to feel second best next to her.”

The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time. 

“Fuck, Jack,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes are glassy as he looks at you. 

“You’re not second best,” he mutters. “You matter as deeply to me as she does. I just don’t know how to show you that.”

“Maybe start letting me in,” you whisper. “Treat me like I’m worth your time. Don’t lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.” You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.  “Let me be part of your grief.”

His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard. 

“Did you buy them for her?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah,” you mumble.  As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe you’re overstepping. Maybe you’re being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding. 

“They’re… I don’t know what kind of flowers she liked, or… if she liked them at all, but they’re chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,” you explain. 

“She would’ve liked them,” he answers quickly. “She liked all flowers.”

He reaches out but stops himself.  “Do you… do you want to…”  He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear. 

Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.  Beloved wife.

You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you. 

“I didn’t get her any,” he mumbles. 

You straighten up and return to his side. 

“Why not?” you ask. 

He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you. “It felt disrespectful to you.”

For a second, it’s like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases. 

“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t care if you get her a million flowers—I’ll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her… her successor.”

“I do,” he vows, “I do see you.”

in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty

Gloria had scheduled each resident to be on the mid-day or mid-night shift for a month. Today was your first mid-day shift; you’d start at noon and go until midnight. Typically, you were a Night shift resident and preferred to work at night. You had little social life and were content to spend your nights in the hospital working with everyone.

There weren’t friends you met up with to get coffee, there weren’t parents to call to check in, there wasn’t anything like that. Though it helped you graduate and get lots of opportunities, you had realized that spending so much time studying and keeping to yourself had very real consequences. Many of the friends you once had didn’t speak to you anymore, they put in the same effort you did, which was next to none. It wasn’t all bad; you had your friends on the Night shift, sometimes grabbing an ice cream at nine in the morning because it was a treat after a very long day. Or…night.

The blizzard of fluffy snow outside turned into a blizzard of bodies in chairs. People were taking up so much more space with their puffy jackets, and some had snowpants on. Piles of snow gear appeared on chairs, and mothers who looked half-dead, though they weren’t patients, held many toques and mittens. Pushing past, you made it to security and found your way back into the Pitt.

It was in full swing; no one had the time to greet you. This wasn’t the very first time the shift was occurring; other residences had their month of doom. However, it was still hard to get used to.

You settled in and looked around for a moment, wondering where to begin since everyone was already with their patients. Dana made her way back to the desk, smiling at you once she saw you.

“Now look who is so late, Robby is already ticked off, y’know?” She shook her head, immediately grabbed the phone, and began dialling a number.

“It’s my-”

“Hey, where the fuck have you been?” Robby suddenly appeared from behind you, “You think you can just waltz in here?” Obviously, something had happened this morning.

Honestly, you were surprised by the level of hostility; he should have known, since it was the first day of the month. “I'm on the id-day shift this month.” You said plainly, already losing the energy to hash it out with Robby.

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh…” was all he could manage for a moment, “Never mind then, come with me, I have a case for you.” He blew past you, not looking over his shoulder once.

Your relationship with Robby was complicated. You used to work during the day; it worked out that way; you didn’t have any preference. However, after a while, you had begun to notice the small ways in which Robby would treat you differently. He’d always pull you away from current patients to work on hard cases, ones that could have benefited from someone else’s perspective. Anytime you were having a hard day, stuck on a case, or not feeling your best, you could tell he judged you.

It was hard to talk to people about it, for many, Robby was their favourite, or at least someone they were scared to talk shit about. You found yourself second-guessing everything you knew and everything about you. He had eroded your confidence so slowly you didn’t realize until it was almost gone.

That all came to a head when you overheard him speaking to Dana. You were about to turn into the break room, but for some reason, you stopped in your tracks, wanting to listen to the conversation before entering.

“-Isn’t tough enough, she doesn’t have it,” Robby said.

“You’re too hard on her, you don’t give her a moment to breathe,” Dana replied.

“My job is to be hard on her. It’s my job to put pressure on her because she needs to know what she’s getting into,” you could hear what sounded like the coffee pot being placed down more aggressively than normal, “I can’t have a weak link, and I think it’s y/n.”

At that moment, your blood went cold. Not only did he speak so lowly of you, but he didn’t even use your title. Your first name sounded foreign, and for a moment, you genuinely believed he was talking about someone else. That shock lingered for a moment too long because before you could move, Robby came flying out of the staff room, running into you and spilling his coffee down your scrubs.

“y/n- I-” he stood for a moment, knowing what you had just heard.

You started him down, not even looking at Dana when she left the room, “call me Doctor l/n, Dr. Robinivich,” you spat before walking to the machine to get new scrubs.

Shortly after you moved to the night shift.

Walking in behind Robby, you were greeted by an extremely incapacitated middle-aged man wearing golf attire. His eyes were barely open, and he was constantly muttering about something you could not pick up. Robby moved to the other side of the bed and pulled up his digital chart. It seemed as though this man had just been moved into the back rooms.

“They had to sedate him on the ride over here, I guess he was an angry drunk.” Robby said as he slipped on a new pair of gloves, “Friends came by and…well…” he sighed, “I actually don’t know if they’re his friends; they wanted to see if they could go back to the course or something.”

“Huh,” you took off the stethoscope from around your neck and quickly listened to the man’s heartbeat.

“You ever golf?” Robby asked; he was never one for sitting through tension.

“Heartbeat and lungs sound good, and no.” You answered plainly, then moved on to a general scan of his body to see if anything else was wrong. As much as you could stomach the awkward silence, there was a limit to how much you could take. “There’s no adrenaline, so…no signs of discomfort in the four quadrants…” You trailed off, hoping that was a good enough answer for him to consider it small talk.

“Yeah,” Robby nodded, “makes sense,” he peeled off his gloves, moving one hand to rub the back of his neck, “what are you thinking?” he nodded toward the patient.

“Well,” you sighed and crossed your arms, taking one last good look at the man who was slowly coming to. “I think we need to first figure out how much alcohol was taken and see if any other drugs were taken. I feel like there is something else here.”

Robby nodded, making his way to the door. With his gloveless hand, he opened the door for you. Before the two of you could depart, he pivoted to face you, “Let me know when the labs come back, alright?” He stuck his hand under the automatic sanitizer dispenser.

“Will do,” you give him a tight lip smile before turning away to find another patient. As you reached the front desk, you heard the doors open, and you could hardly hide your shocked face at the tall man being wheeled in.

“A twenty-five-year-old man collapsed in pain, complaining of a searing pain in his chest as well as his back. ECG is normal on the way here, with decent blood pressure.” They pushed in quickly, swerving after hearing which trauma room was open. Robby trailed in behind you, still letting you lead. “Gave him aspirin-”

“This seems more than a heart attack,” you moved  to one side of the patient while Robby moved to the other, taking off his stethoscope and checking his heart and lungs.

The paramedic rolled his eyes, “gave him aspirin and heparin when the aspirin had little to no effect.” Robby stressed that door-to-balloon time was the only important stat for the Pitt; patient satisfaction and the rest of the stats were not their concern in the slightest.

“Did you check the BP in both arms or one?” you asked, “We need to stabilize the blood pressure right away.” As you moved around the room, calling for different medications, you kept looking back to the two parademics, “Did you check both arms, yes or fucking no?”

“I didn’t check the other,” one said, looking at the other, who also shook his head.

Robby, ever the teacher, asked, “Why is that needed?”

​“Because these fucking idiots were too focused on treating a heart attack to help the stats instead of realizing this is an aortic dissection, you gave blood thinners to someone who is already internally bleeding!” Right as you finished, all the machines began to scream, “Asystole!”

You jumped up, beginning chest compressions right away, “I needed an OR yesterday, we need to stabilize and get him into surgery now.” The pads were on his chest, someone yelled clearly. Your hands flew off his chest as his entire body pulsed with the electric current. “Resuming compressions- did he have any medical conditions, hypertension?” You spared a quick glance at the paramedics.

“He-he just collapsed, was in too much pain to really talk-”

“Get the fuck out, I’ll curse you two out later- I need an amp of epi and-” you let out a groan from the compressions, already feeling your brow begin to sweat, “I need to-”

Perlah reached for the phone, “OR is ready-”

“Let’s move!” You threw your leg over the man and continued compression. Everyone in the room began to push you out and past the medical desk. Everyone in the ED paused for a moment, watching you continue compression as your hair fell into your face from the force. Those pushing the gurney managed to get those in the elevator out.

Before the doors closed, the last thing you heard was Robby, “Get back to work!”

You probably should have stayed to scrub in; you weren’t yet married to the ED, but to you, you were engaged, waiting to be wed. The ED was your favourite: it was fast and unpredictable, its own world. The adrenaline high you got was closest to hard drugs as you’ll ever be; well, illegally distributed hard drugs that is. It felt euphoric to make decisions in the moment that could impact a person’s life, for better or for worse. Whittaker once said he liked being there for people, and on what is most likely their worst day, he couldn’t have said it better.

There was pressure to get a more well-rounded residency before picking a fellowship, but there were things that were too slow for you. There needed to be a reason to push, something had to be chasing you. Abbot had noticed early on your pull to the ED, taking every chance to be stationed there. It seemed he understood the need for, it was chasing you to be the thing that pushed you forward. He didn’t know about your past, even though you spent a lot of time with him at night, but he knew there was a specific type of person who went through specific things for them to be interested in working at night in the ED, and he liked you for it.

While you didn’t know about his past either, you knew the basics. You knew he served but liked to talk very little about it, you knew about his late wife, you didn’t know what he was like before he saw a therapist, but you knew he was a better person because of it. He was kind yet firm when he needed to be. He took the time to get to know each person in the ED beyond their first name and one fun fact to remember them by. For most people, conversations typically stick to one topic. You always spoke about the weather with Dana and your shared favourite artist with Dr. Ellis. Maybe Abbot had those relationships with other people, but not you.

The one moment that stuck with you the most was one winter night. A blizzard had struck Pittsburgh, and people were ordered to stay indoors. Roads and shops were closed; the blizzard was not letting up at three in the morning. A few patients were rolled in, thinking they were the hero, going for a run, and slipping on the ice. Teenagers who guessed correctly that it would be a snow day so they got in bikinis and jumped into the snowbanks at the ends of their driveways.

You were sitting in the break room, sipping a hot chocolate you made from the powder that someone had brought, knowing you would all be here for a while. Abbot walked in, nodding your direction. He seemed to stop dead in his tracks, “is that…” he trailed off and looked over to the tin, “you’re drinking hot chocolate?” he laughed, “what are you, twelve years old?” he took another look at your mug, before you could even get in a comeback he placed his hands on his knees as he doubled over in laughter, “with fucking marshmellows, now that is amazing?”

“Someone brought the stuff!” you sounded like you were twelve, trying to come up with an excuse to avoid being made fun of even further, “you can judge me all you want, but whose here enjoying a little moment of peace?” you asked, adding a “hmm?” to the end of it.

Abbot nodded with that stupid smile on his face. He didn’t say a word, but he reached over and flicked the kettle back on. “If you can’t beat ‘em, I guess,” he sighed and leaned against the counter, facing you. “You drive here?”

You took the mug away from your lips, shaking your head, “subway,” you took a sip before placing the cup down, “you?”

Abbot pulled back one side of his mouth, “drove.”

You both waited in silence for a moment, neither saying anything because there was nothing to say. In that moment of silence, you both dropped into your own little worlds, not feeling the need to keep up with the small talk.

“How are our swimmers in the snow doing?” he asked once the kettle had clicked off, referring to the teenagers who had most likely come in an hour ago; time was relative.

You nodded, “Good, yeah, I think they’re just waiting for discharge papers.”

Abbot muttered a quick nice before making his cup, “where are the-”

“The cupboard right in front of you,” you laughed.

“Perfect,” he whispered and opened the cabinet to grab the marshmallows. “Wanna do something?” he asked.

That something could mean anything, it could be let's ditch this place and go make-out in my car, let's go to the roof and catch snowflakes on our tongues, let's pull a prank on-

“Did you hear me?” he waved a hand in front of your face, giving you a smile.

“What?” You physically shook your head to shake those thoughts away.

“Wanna go give them some hot chocolate? I don’t know when they’ll be able to actually leave this place.” Abbot filled the kettle up and flicked it back on, “It was three of them, right?”

You couldn’t contain your smile, standing with your mug in your hands. You walked over to the paper cups and grabbed three. “Right,” you muttered, grabbing the tin and preemptively portioning out three drinks.

“Powder first?” Abbot questioned, “You’re crazy.”

“You’ve never seen crazy, my friend,” you giggled, turning to face him while the sound of boiling water began to grow louder. In that moment, your eyes drifted behind Abbot, “Actually, maybe you have seen crazy.”

He laughed, “I have, and I like it,” was all he added for a moment. “I can tell you like crazy as well, and I respect you for it. It takes a certain breed of person to do this, and I don’t think you’re told enough that you’re doing a really great job.”

All you could do was stand there with your mouth hung open, “What?” you breathed.

He shrugged, “I see you, the way you command the traumas, the way you keep cool in all the chaos. Not everybody can do that, not everybody wants to do that.” The kettle clicked off, but neither of you moved. He could see the way you grew uncomfortable from the praise, “No one ever told you that before? That you’re good at what you do?”

“No,” you wanted to say more, but the words died on your tongue.

“Then I’ll have to do it more often,” he then turned and poured the water in.

While the snow hammered down, you and Abbot stood in the small patient room with the three teenagers, engaging them in small talk as the five of you sipped your hot chocolate. It was hard to really pay attention to the teens talking; your mind continuously wandered back to the conversation in the break room. Your eyes slipped over to Abbot; he was listening attentively, yet he could feel your eyes on him and would quickly glance your way.  

After that kind moment in the break room the two of you grew closer. He’d come in with larger dark circles under his eyes, a little more snappy than usual, but never to you. You’d saddle up beside him as he walked, asking quietly if everything was okay. If it were anyone else, they’d say they're fine, keeping it robotic. But Abbot, who had now asked you to call him Jack, admitted he hadn’t been sleeping well.

“Try a weighted blanket, it works wonders for me,” you mentioned. A few days later, Jack asked how heavy your blanket was, and a few days after that, he gave a sincere thank-you for the recommendation. Another day, you stood at the desk rubbing your temple. Bright lights and loud sounds triggered powerful pulses throughout your body. Working a double was never easy, and coffee walked a thin line between being an angel and the devil. You had off-handedly mentioned you were extremely dehydrated, just never getting a moment to fill your water bottle. It didn’t help that you were chugging coffee to try and stay alert for the first push of the double.

“Here,” Jack had placed your water bottle in front of you as you charted, “and here,” he also pushed a sandwich in a little baggy toward you.

All you could do was look up at him. “Thanks,” you said, a little breathlessly. When you picked up your water bottle, it was slightly heavier than usual.

“I know you like ice-cold water,” he smiled before walking off, leaving you completely speechless.

In the small moments you had of peace, much like the elevator down from the OR floor to the ED floor, you found yourself replaying all the small moments with Jack. A silly little crush could get you through the day and give you moments of bliss amid the chaos. It was fun to yearn, fun to think back to small moments of eye contact, little brushes of your shoulders when you walked past each other, it was fun to let your mind wander.

But those thoughts vanished instantly when the elevator doors opened. You were back in the Pitt, immediately being approached by Perlah. She gave you a sympathetic look before turning to walk with you, “Here’s the labs back on that angry drunk, looks like he had a little more fun than his golfing buddies.

You took the chart and did a quick read-over, nodding as you walked toward his room. “Playing something as boring as golf might make a person do drugs to find a sliver of fun in it,” you laughed.

Perlah shook her head, “Of course you’d say something like that, I’m actually heading this way.” She pointed in the opposite direction.

You stopped before entering the room, “let Robby know I’ve got this covered, he brought me over to the patient earlier.” Perlah gave you a nod before walking down the hall. You took a deep breath, attempting to let that aortic dissection go as it was no longer in your hands.

When you walked in the room, he was still sedated; you could hear a few groans, and he was twitching slightly. As you took the stethoscope off your neck, you looked up at his vitals, checking his heart and lungs as you contemplated what his numbers were saying. He was stirring more, his groaning growing a bit louder.

You felt his hand grab your wrist, the one on his chest connected to the hand holding the stethoscope. “Hello, sir,” you spoke softly, “you’re at-”

In an instant, you felt yourself being pushed back. The adrenaline from him had overpowered the last bit of the sedative; he managed to get to his feet but wasn’t able to stand on his own. His hands quickly grabbed hold of you for support. This, coupled with the fact that he was in a strange room with a stranger, led him to lean on your neck.

He was not steady yet; his momentum pushed you back into the wall. For a moment, right after your head smacked against the drywall, you blacked out. When you came to, most likely seconds later, those hands were still around your throat, but you were flat on your back, seeing the man’s blurry figure above you.

With all you might have tried to yell hula hoop, but there was little to no air coming out of your throat. You struggled for a moment, trying to roll him off of you. Between coming back from blacking out and losing your oxygen, there was not a moment you had clear vision. Your hands worked desperately, clawing at his forearms.

The only thing you could think of at that moment was something cruel.

With your middle and index finger, you jabbed him in the eyes, hard.

Oxygen rushed into your lungs like water crashing open a dam. You rolled on your stomach, bracing yourself on your forearms, gasping for air. For a moment, you thought you were crying, a hot drip fell down your face, but when it hit the floor, it was not a tear; it was blood. As you tried to stand up, you saw the blackness clouding your vision again. Your throat was burning, and your hand shakily reached up to the back of your head, only to reveal a large amount of blood rushing from the crack.

“Hola Hoop!” you screamed, before slowly melting into the floor.

The first thing that seeped into your consciousness was the pain. You felt it behind your eyes and around your throat. In your throat, it was a hot burn; you could feel the tenderness every time you tried to swallow your saliva. At the back of your head and in the centre of your forehead was a throbbing pain, getting more intense when you cracked your eye open. With your eyes still shut, you reached around the bed, trying to find the pager for the nurses.

Before anyone had come in, you were already performing self-status checks. You named the date, what hospital you were in, who the president is (sadly), and more. The scene before you was knocked out, replayed as well, and the last image you saw was burned into your eyelids. The man above you with a blank face, as if he were being controlled by someone else to attack you. There was no furrow in his brow, though you remember the large vein protruding from his forehead. His face is red, along with his dead eyes. Finally, your finger found the page button.

Dana pushed the door open, immediately dimming the lights. “Hey, kid,” she whispered, coming to your bedside. You could barely open your eyes, but you managed to squint and give her a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit-” you broke into coughs, your throat tight and dry. Dana muttered something about water, squeezed your arm and left the room. You focused on sitting up a bit, trying to scoot your body back. You could open your eyes more now, as the dimmed light helped avoid any increase in pain. Dana came back with your water bottle, “thank you,” you said.

Dana pulled up a chair. “What do you remember?”

“Not much.”

She took a deep breath, taking your hand into hers. “You were attacked. The man was transferred to a different hospital, I’d say about a little over an hour ago.” You nodded along. “He had taken a large dose of cocaine and then drank a lot of alcohol; he had high levels of Cocaethylene.”

“How long have I been out?” You sipped the water carefully, as much as you wanted to take greedy sips, your throat burned with each swallow.

Dana sighed, “About two and a half hours, we also gave a light sedative to do your stitches on the back of your head. We did ten stitches back there.”

“I’m not surprised, first mid-day shift and my sleep schedule has been fucked because of it.” You could finally open your eyes now, seeing the concern on Dana’s face. “I’m okay now,” but your voice betrayed you, sounding like sandpaper rubbing together.

“I’m sure you are,” Dana chuckled, “I think you should go home and think about pressing charges, no need to rush anything right now because it’s all fresh but…” she glanced down at the floor, shaking her head, “I really think you should, and this is me giving advice as a friend.”

A friend.

You had never thought of Dana as a friend; you saw her for only a few hours at a time, since you mostly worked nights. Back when you were on the day shift, you didn’t talk much; she almost never had time for small talk, and if she did, she had other people to talk to. It was a big deal when Dana was assaulted; she took some time off but, like anyone else who worked in the ED, the addictive relationship lured her back in. When she came back, she didn’t talk about it, pretended it didn’t happen. You could tell she had gotten stricter on her boundaries for herself and her nurses, but it was never because she was scared it would happen to her again; she was scared it wouldn’t be her next time.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “but I’m going to stay.” She looked almost disappointed at that, “trust me, I’m okay.” You both knew you were far from it.

Dana squeezed your hand once more, knowing that trying to get you to go home was a losing battle. She left you in the room, the light still dimmed. For a moment, it was close to silent; there was a steady hum of the machines working in the room; the other time you could hear it was when a patient died, and everyone sat in the moment of shock.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you reached your hand back and gently touched where the pounding resonated. Your finger carefully hovered over the stitches as you counted them, nodding to yourself when you hit ten. Then, your hand moved down to the other source of pain. There were no mirrors, so you were unsure if bruises had begun to bloom, but the moment you touched the sides of your neck, your hand retracted in pain. If there wasn’t a bruise already, there would be soon.

Slowly, you stood, gently moving your head from side to side. You tried to slowly touch your ear to your shoulder, feeling the stretch and burn that came with it. Behind your eyes, the pounding was still there, steadily increasing with your heart rate from standing.

Right as you were about to shove everything down, saving it for the end of your shift, the door opened once more.

Robby.

The absolute last person you wanted to see.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So…” he nodded towards you. “How are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, looking for your water bottle, “I’m fine, give me two minutes and I’ll be back out there.” You were shocked to hear a laugh come from him, “What?” you spat.

“You need to go home, you have no reason to be here right now.”

“I am fine, I can get through the shift and then maybe- ITALICS maybe -take some time off.” You rolled your shoulders back, taking a deep breath.

Robby wiped his hand down his face, “You are not invincible, why do you act like it?”

“I know I’m not invincible, but I know when it is too much, and it’s not too much.” You tried to walk to the door, but he didn’t move. “Move out of my way.”

Robby scoffed, “That is not how you speak to an attending. When I give you orders, you follow them.”

You looked up at him, “Are you an attending or a fucking general?” You crossed your arms, feeling the ache in your back but not letting it show on your face, “We both know that if this happened to you, you would be right back in there.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t have happened to me, let’s be honest.” He stepped to the side, pulling the curtain to cover the window into the room. “If I were there, it would not have happened.”

You shook your head, “What are you trying to say to me right now? That this was my fault?”

“I’m not saying that,” Robby spoke quietly, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Just fucking say it.”

The words were caught right on the top of his tongue; his jaw flexed as he tried his hardest to keep it all in. You repeated yourself, egging him on. “You went in there because you were high off your save with the aortic dissection that you thought you could handle on your own.”

It was a slap in the fucking face. “You have to be joking. It hurt to laugh, but you did it anyway: “Not everyone has a death wish like you, not everyone needs to stroke their ego every chance they get!” Yelling was worse, but you needed to do that too, “I was going in to get a status update to then get you, if I had gotten you first, you would have yelled at me for wasting your time- I can’t fucking win with you!”

Robby shook his head, “There is nothing wrong with me; you’re the one who bites off more than they can chew.” In all honesty, you could have fought him right then and there.

“But if I stay conservative, checking in with you at every moment, then you say I’m not independent and not confident enough.” You threw your arms up, “You think you’re this all-knowing, omnipotent being that has graced the ED with your presence, but no, you’re a fucking tyrant that sees everything as an attack on you- it’s not fucking about you!”

Robby stepped forward again, “You better watch it,” he snapped, “I have full control to report you.”

Your lip was caught between your teeth; you had so much more to say to him. “Exactly my point,” you whispered before leaving the room, waiting to hear if he’d follow you, but he didn’t.

Abbot walked into the ED and immediately approached Dana at the desk. A black phone was tucked at her neck, her shoulder pressing it to her ear. She looked sad, maybe exhausted was a better word; it was the end of her shift after all.

“Hey,” he muttered when she put the phone down with a heavy sigh. He decided to let her come to him. “How’s the night been?” He circled the desk, placing his bag and coffee by his computer. When she didn’t answer right away, he froze, looking at her hunched shoulders and bowed head. “Hey,” he whispered and walked up beside her, placing a light hand on her back, “what’s wrong?”

Dana placed her hand over her mouth when all she could do was mutter your name, and his heart sank. “She…she was assaulted,” Jack felt as if a bucket of ice water was dumped on top of him.

“What?” he breathed, “what happened?” He looked up, and around the ED, you weren’t anywhere to be found. “Where is she? I need to go see her-”

“I just left the examination room, gave her a couple of minutes, she basically just woke up, was asleep for a couple of hours.” Dana looked up at him, nodding as he took in the information, “she wants to stay, and I don’t think I can convince her otherwise, take it easy on her for the rest of the shift, alright? Especially-” she points to the phone that was just hung up, “-especially after this.”

“After what?” Jack turned his body to face her; he was caught between staring holes in her head and scanning the ED.

“Her patient died in surgery, Robby mentioned the paramedics did a shit job, I don’t think I have the heart to tell her.”

“I’ll-” his voice got caught in his throat, for a moment, he saw you. You looked like you were in a rush, shoving open the door to your room, your head down, and your footsteps never faltering. “I’ll tell her,” he saw the way you pushed past everyone, heading to the stairwell, he knew where you were going. Right before he left to follow you, he saw Robby leaving the same room.

In that moment, he chose to stay, seeing the way his brow was furrowed and his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Something had happened, he trusted you not to do anything stupid on the roof. He didn’t trust Robby not to blow up and make a scene. He watched as Robby walked over, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Jack didn’t start the conversation, Robby barely waited to get close enough to him and Dana to start shit-talking one of his residences. Robby wiped a hand down his face, “Some people, man…” he sighed.

“What’s up?” Jack pretended not to care, pretended he didn’t just see you flee. All Robby could do was sign your name, annoyed out of his mind. “What about her?”

“She just tries to be the hero time and time again; she never learns that there are other people in the ED.” At that, Jack scoffed. “What?” Robby looked over at Jack, no longer flipping through charts.

​“You could say the same about you,” Jack said plainly. Dana walked away. “Not everyone is attacking you; you don’t always need to be the victim.”

​“The victim?" Robby laughed, “I’m just sick of other people not seeing how she is just constantly trying to prove something.”

“She’s not proving anything,” Jack snapped, taking the iPad out of Robby’s hands so there was nowhere for Robby to escape. “She was attacked, and she still wants to work, that’s what I call resilient- maybe a little dumb -but resilient.” Robby didn’t seem to be really listening, “Maybe if you took a second to get to know her, to build a relationship with her, you’d understand who she is and how selfless she is.” Jack waved his hand, deciding he was now going to find you, “You just can’t comprehend someone who doesn’t kiss your ass twenty-four-seven!”

A few other nurses and doctors turned their heads. Jack was worried about the wrong person making a scene. He knew exactly where you were; he had mentioned the roof being his spot a while ago. He left out key details, such as which side of the railing he stood on; he was more focused on the view from up there, especially during sunset. He had time to find you since he was early, as always, but he knew you were technically still on the clock, though you were considered extra.

The elevator ride up was painfully slow; he rocked back and forth as the anticipation grew. Once he hit the top floor, he made his way to the stairwell, the only way to get to the roof. The stairs never got easier; no staircase was easy. Over the years,, he learned to adapt, but there was always discomfort with certain things.

The industrial door scared you when it opened. You jumped as you turned back, almost dropping the lit cigarette in your hand. You swore you heard a subtle ‘thank god’ from Jack as he approached you.

He nodded to your hand, “What the fuck are you doing with those?” he shook his head, trying his best to be upset with your decision.

“Leave me alone,” you turned back to the last bits of the sunset, “I just needed something.”

Jack nodded, standing beside you, “I get it…I mean, I don’t like it but I get it,” he reached his pointer finger and thumb out, pinching once.

“Hypocrite,” you laughed, passing it over to him.

For a moment, you stood in silence, letting the sound of the cigarette fill your ears with every drag. He gave it back to you, muttering that you could finish it. Your hands brushed when he passed it to you, his dry fingertips scraping over yours.

“I heard about-” he could barely say, “how are you doing?”

You shrugged. From the corner of your eye, you could see him look at you. The exhaustion was catching up; you moved to the ground and sat cross-legged. Looking up at Jack’s shocked face, you pat the ground beside you. He sat with a groan, sticking his legs out and bracing his hands behind him.

“I’ve got a heavily bruised throat, ten stitches, and yet the thing that hurts the most is Robby.” You felt like a child admitting it, blaming someone else for how you felt about something that had nothing to do with him. His reaction bypassed all the other issues during the day. “I’ve got this patient in surgery, he will probably die because the paramedics were so worried about treating a heart attack to help our ratings, heart-to-ballon time is all Robby cares about, and now this, basically, kid might die because-”

“He did.” Jack couldn’t hold it in any longer, your head whipped to look at him, and he could see the grimace in the fast movement. “When I walked in, I-...” he looked back out to the city, “Dana just hung up the call, had just come from seeing you, and I offered.” He looked back at you, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded, biting your lip hard. Jack’s face contorted with worry as he saw your eyes well up with tears, “I can’t believe that,” you whispered, “I just-...” your hand moved to cover your mouth, “I mean I get it, people make mistakes and I don’t blame those paramedics, not fully but…” you looked over at Jack, “Robby basically said it was my fault, getting attacked,” you could see the rage forming in Jack, “he said that because ripped a new one in both paramedics I was high on-” you waved your hand, “I forget what he said but he basically said I should have gotten him before checking on this patient, that I got one win and ran with it.”

Jack shook his head, “That’s ridiculous.”

You looked down, and the cigarette had burned to the filter. You flicked it away and placed your head in your palms. “But what if he’s right?” You couldn’t even look at Jack when you said, “What if I bite more off than I can chew?”

“Hey,” Jack placed a hand on your shoulder, “Robby is-...” he sighed, “well, Robby is a lot of things, but most importantly, he’s oblivious.” Jack followed your eyes to make sure you were looking at him when he spoke, “You truly are a once-in-a-lifetime doctor, you’re talented and smart, you’re a go-getter, you’re funny,” he laughed, “you’re someone I look forward to seeing every shift.”

You could help but smile; the tears fell down your face from the soft squint of your eyes. “Me too,” you whispered, “I think you’re an incredible person,” for a moment, you wanted to say attending, and maybe you should have. But it felt right, “I still think back to making those hot chocolates with you.”

Jack smiled, “Me too.” For a moment, you just stared at one another, the first time you could do so unabashedly. “It would be such a loss to lose you to Robby, especially to him. I know it’s hard, but you can’t let him get to you. I mean, I love the guy, we’re each other's emergency contacts, but…he’s a good doctor but not a good teacher, and I hate when that becomes a detriment to the students.”

“Yeah,” you managed to get out, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. You could tell from the way he froze that he wasn’t expecting the touch. But quickly moving his arm to wrap around your shoulder told you he welcomed the touch.

“You’re one of a kind,” he rested his head against yours, “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”

You hadn’t been possessive before Jack. Maybe it was because you’d had a horrific taste in men in your prior relationships, and no one had really wanted them. But that was the difference with Jack.

You knew your boyfriend was hot. And not just casually hot, the kind that had your heart (and somewhere just a little lower) throb every time you saw him.

It was in his every feature. His hair that you loved to run your hands through was silver with age and had curled in ways that he knew you loved. His eyes, dark and piercing, were enough to make a grown woman melt when they were focused on them. God knew his voice didn’t help too, especially when it got all low and gravelly. Jack’s charm was it’s own thing too; the joking, the winking, the confidence that seemed to emanate from every inch of him.

Maybe part of it was seeing him in uniform. You knew it did things to people. It did things to you. But sometimes you wished it was only you who got to reap the benefits of him in his SWAT uniform, or with his stethoscope around his neck. It was a silly thought you knew, and almost definitely selfish, but it didn’t stop you thinking it.

Especially when you went to visit him at work. You didn’t do it often. Just when you knew he’d gotten to PTMC early, or that he was working a double. You wanted to see him, and it felt even better that he wanted to see you too. And it was always with the promise of you bringing him lunch, for a change, that often ended with you getting food for the entire night shift instead.

It was on one of these nights that you noticed her.

You’d slipped in, handing a meatball sandwich to Dan on security as a bribe before going straight to the nurses station. Lena’s face brightened just a little at the sight of you. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Had to come see my favourite people,” you grinned, leaning against the counter.

“And I’m top of that list, right?” she asked as she looked at you over her glasses.

You reached into your bag, pulling out a chicken and salad sandwich and sliding it across to her. “Oh, of course. Way higher than my boyfriend. Speaking of, where has he gotten to?”

Lena accepted the sandwich with an approving nod, setting it aside only to glance around for Jack with you. “No idea. Can’t be far though.”

You rolled your eyes at her before moving through the Pitt like you belonged there. And you did, honestly. Ever since you and Jack had started dating a whole year and a half ago, you’d come to the Pitt a lot. People recognised you now. Some, mostly Shen when he was around, called you ‘Mrs Abbot’, a title you didn’t have yet but knew it belonged to you. They appreciated the food you brought, even if everyone knew it was just to buy you some peace and quiet with Jack. As long as it kept you coming back and Jack in good spirits, it was all worth it.

You were used to having to search for him. He could be anywhere, doing any number of things, but what remained consistent was that he was always down here. So you weren’t that surprised to see him exiting one of the trauma rooms, like rough and ragged in all the best ways.

What did surprise you was the woman trailing behind him.

She was a little older than you maybe. She was pretty even whilst looking tired. And she was watching Jack like she was trying to strategise how she could eat him up at the soonest availability.

You were about to try and convince yourself that you’d imagined that last part when Crus appeared at your shoulder. “You met the new nurse yet?”

“So that’s who she is,” you muttered, passing him his cheese and tomato sandwich.

He gave you a look that said he knew exactly what you were thinking as he took a bite. “That’s a no then.”

“Jack’s only mentioned her in passing. Said she’s keen.” He had in fact done so. You’d been out shopping for clothes to a family event that had closed in on you too fast when work cropped up, as it often did. You searched for her name in your mind. “Rachel, right?”

Crus nodded, speaking through a mouthful. “Keen is one way of putting it. I’d say she’s obvious, but I think he’s just too blinded by you to notice.”

That helped a little. You knew it to be true. Jack was loyal, almost too loyal in some places, but you loved it about him. It’s part of what made you feel safe in the relationship, knowing that there was always someone who wasn’t halfway out the door with another girl. He made sure there wasn’t a person out there who didn’t know that you belonged to him and he belonged to you.

Except for Rachel, it seemed. Your fingers played with the necklace that had his initials on as you watched, sensing that freshly familiar possessive urge underneath your ribs. No matter how much you trusted him, the jealousy didn’t seem to want to stop.

Jack looked up from his chart, sighing as he went to say something to Rachel. Then he stopped, letting his eyes drift back until they landed on you. It calmed you a little to see how his expression softened, just that little bit, in the way you’d come to know he only did for you. Crus had disappeared because he knew way better than to get between the two of you. A fact Rachel would have to learn when she stepped in your way when you got closer to Jack.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice tight. You would have found it amusing at any other time. But not then. Not when she was in your path.

“I was just going to see my boyfriend.”

“What room is he in?” Rachel said, looking at you as if you were dirt on her shoe. You made a mental note to tell Lena that her new nurse needed some lessons in bedside manners.

Before you could snap back though, Jack stepped forward. “Hey Rachel, she’s here for me.”

You found some sort of strange thrill at the way her head turned to look at him disbelievingly. You were a grown woman, you shouldn’t take pride in the jealousy of others. And yet.

You pushed past Rachel, wrapping your arms around Jack’s middle and pressing a kiss to his neck. Beneath your lips, you could feel his chuckle. “Missed me, have you sweetheart?”

“So much, Jack,” you murmured, pulling back to look him in the eyes innocently. “Brought food for you and the others though.”

“Aren’t you just an angel,” he said amusedly. You knew it wasn’t a question. Late at night, he’d whisper to you that you were sent to guard him, to keep him sane and keep him on earth. “What did you bring me?”

You kissed his cheek and pulled his BLT from your bag. “Your favourite.”

Jack grinned proudly as he set the sandwich aside. “I should really start listening to Dana and marry you. Make you the official Mrs Abbot.”

“I’m ready when you are,” you teased, feeling the warmth settle in your chest at the idea of marrying him. You already had a Pinterest board set aside for when he asked, one that he had seen frequently when he stole your phone. You weren’t rushing though. You knew he’d know when the time was right.

You could feel Rachel’s eyes on your back. There was a heat to her gaze that you didn’t appreciate. Just because she thought Jack was hot didn’t make him hers, and you were determined to prove it to her.

With one quick glance to make sure Jack wasn’t urgently needed, you stood behind him as he started to eat his sandwich. He only hummed as you slipped your arms around his middle and barely batted an eye when you started to kiss his neck. The only sound of vague complaint that came from him started when you sucked a bruise in a place far too prominent.

“Is it my birthday?” he asked, his voice only slightly rough as he swallowed down the food. “Is that why I’m getting this treatment?”

“Maybe,” you hummed, marking along his neck like it was your sole purpose. And finally, you heard a huff beside you as Rachel rushed off.

He let you keep going, just for a minute, before saying, “Honey, I’m at work.”

“And I miss you when you’re here,” you murmured, trying to sound whiny enough that he wouldn’t stop you from your mission.

“Is that so?” Jack said. He sounded just a little amused, but in that way you knew that told you when you were pushing it. “Here I just thought you were jealous.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze indignantly. “I am not jealous.”

He snorted, turning to cup your face in his gentle, calloused hands. “You are. And it’s sweet, baby, but we both know I’m all yours.”

“She didn’t know that though, did she?” you huffed, leaning into his touch like you were starving for it. You knew it wasn’t Jack’s fault that he was abnormally hot, but it didn’t help that sliver of insecurity when he couldn’t shake his admirers off.

Jack sighed. Not in frustration, but understanding. He hadn’t considered how it would look to you, half assuming Rachel’s closeness was a willingness to learn. But he saw it now. He knew that if he reversed it – him coming to see you at work with some boy following you around, acting like you didn’t belong to Jack – he’d feel a little insecure. More than a little, if he was being honest. His thumbs brushed your cheeks as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “’M sorry, baby. I wasn’t paying any attention to her, I promise.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you murmured, expression softening as you basked in his attention. “It’s just… she should know you’re mine.”

He pulled one hand from your face to gesture to the marks on his neck. “Mission accomplished.”

“Not as thoroughly as I want,” you said, rolling your eyes. You’d much rather he could fuck you in front of everyone, just so no one else ever got the same idea as Rachel. Even just him and you and your mouth in an on-call room would have been enough.

But chance would be a fine thing. Before you could even drag him in the direction of somewhere a little more private, Lena was calling Jack towards the ambulance bay. “Fuck,” he cursed beneath his breath, “I gotta go, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you sighed, giving him an understanding smile.

His eyes darted across the ER as the paramedics pulled in the patient, rattling off information at a speed some wouldn’t be able to keep up with. Instead of rushing to their side though, he pulled you in for a kiss. Too deep, too intimate to be something others would see. When he pulled back, you felt Rachel’s eyes on you again. This time though, you knew she wasn’t going to push with him again.

“I’ll see you at home,” he whispered as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. Only then he rushed away.

You stood there for a moment, feeling the shift from peaceful to hectic like a physical thing. You were used to it really. It didn’t hurt like it did in the beginning, especially because you knew it wasn’t personal. It was just the way the Pitt worked.

Ellis waved you out as you left, taking her usual sandwich from you with a quiet appreciation. The drive home was quiet in the way you liked, especially when you were drifting towards being too tired to drive. When you got home, you headed straight for the bed you shared with Jack with a yawn. And as you were settled and drifting towards sleep, you heard a ping from your phone. Jack was the only person you had notifications on for, so you weren’t surprised to see it was from him. What brought on the reluctantly proud smile to your face was the message itself:

The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”

Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”

He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”

Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”

“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”

Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”

Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”

“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.

“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”

The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”

Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”

The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”

Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.

“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.

Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”

There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”

Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.

The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.

“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”

“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”

“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”

“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”

The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.

“Oh, and Jack?”

Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”

“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”

A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.

The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.

The call ended with a definitive click.

Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”

“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”

The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.

“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”

Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”

He clicked his pen.

“So am I.”

********

Flashback

The first time Jack met you.

The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.

You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"

"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."

"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"

"A few days ago."

"Pain level?"

"Manageable."

He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."

You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."

Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"

"A little nausea. No vomiting."

He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."

It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.

"Yeah. Office work."

"Hours?"

"Flexible."

He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."

A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."

Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."

The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.

"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"

"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.

Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."

He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."

"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.

"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.

You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"

"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.

A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."

"Hope you're right."

You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.

"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.

"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."

After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another. 

The second time Jack met you

Same week. Different day.

Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”

You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”

“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.

“I did.”

Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”

You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.

“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.

“Last night.”

“Pain level.”

You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”

He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”

You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.

“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.

“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”

You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”

“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”

“I just need stronger meds.”

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”

Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”

Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”

You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”

Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.

Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.

“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”

A beat of heavy silence followed.

“You need surgery.”

You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”

“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”

Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”

The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”

That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.

Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.

You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.

As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”

The third time Jack met you 

A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.

Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"

You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."

"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."

Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"

"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.

"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.

You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."

Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."

You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”

There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”

Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”

“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”

Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”

They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”

“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.

“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”

“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”

Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”

Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”

“Sleep?”

“Barely.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.

“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”

“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”

Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.

No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.

“Of course,” he said.

He reached out and pushed the door open.

*******

Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.

You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”

Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”

“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”

Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”

Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”

“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”

You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”

“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”

You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”

On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.

Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”

He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”

As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.

Then, Jack spoke again.

“He’s an idiot.”

You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”

“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”

“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter. 

For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.

“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.

Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”

You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.

He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”

You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.

“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.” 

That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.

Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”

Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”

Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”

The fourth time Jack met you

By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.

The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”

“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”

A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.

You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.

“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”

You went quiet.

Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”

Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”

“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.

“Good.”

A pause settled between you.

“And don’t lose,” he added.

Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”

“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”

That caught you off guard.

“A bet?”

“Are you going to win or not?”

You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”

He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.

“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”

He walked out like it was nothing.

The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.

You didn’t.

You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.

A bet.

You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”

Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”

A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”

You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.

Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"

You didn't look at him. "All of them."

A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."

"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"

"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."

Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.

"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."

Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."

You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.

"...Fine," you conceded.

Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."

You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."

"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.

As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.

For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.

Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.

“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”

“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”

Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.

Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.

“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”

Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”

Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”

Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”

“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.

“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.

“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”

Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.

“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.

Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”

Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”

Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”

Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”

Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.

“…So?” Jack asked quietly.

Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.

“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.

A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.

Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”

The fifth time Jack met you

A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.

Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.

The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.

You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.

Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”

You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”

Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.

“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”

You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”

She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”

You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”

“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”

“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”

“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.

“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”

Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.

“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.

“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”

The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.

The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.

Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”

You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”

“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.

You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”

Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”

The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.

He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.

“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.

“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.

Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.

It was just you and him.

Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.

“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.

You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”

Another beat passed.

“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”

You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”

“Yup.”

A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”

Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.

“After all… you were my patient.”

With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.

You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.

Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.

Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.

They nodded at the same time.

“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”

Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”

The sixth time Jack met you 

A few weeks later, the ER felt different.

It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness. 

Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.

“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.

Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”

Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”

Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.

“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.

Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”

No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.

Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.

Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”

Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”

Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”

That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”

Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”

Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”

Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”

Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.

Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.

He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.

He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”

You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”

A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.

You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”

Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”

“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”

Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.

“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.

You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”

“And sleeping?”

The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.

“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.

That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”

“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”

Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”

“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.

He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”

Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”

“That’s what works.”

You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”

There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.

He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”

He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”

You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”

That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”

Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”

His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”

It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.

“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”

Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.

What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.

People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.

You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.

Somewhere along the way, it became natural.

You sat staring at the pink stick in your hands, that stupid plus sign staring back at you. You wanted this, at some point in your life, you wanted a family, but not like this. Definitely not like this. Nausea rolled through you, making you drop the stick and lean over the toilet again. You heaved, feeling the burning sensation of bile coming up your throat, but nothing would come of it. Your stomach lurched and contracted. You balled your hands into tight fists, your nails digging into the palm of your hands leaving crescent shaped marks. 

This is your karma, this is what you deserve. There was nothing or no one you could blame this on but yourself. You couldn’t blame the distance between you and Jack, or him joining the TEMs unit, or picking up extra shifts at the hospital, or even the volatile fights you had been getting into all the time. There was nothing that could explain why you decided to run into the arms of another man. You felt sick, and you weren’t sure if it had to do with morning sickness or the rising guilt in your body. 

You pushed yourself away from the toilet, leaning against the wall. Tears were streaming down your face, blurring your vision. Your body felt heavy. 

Jack had been your everything for the last three years. He had swooped you off your feet like a silver-haired superman. He picked you off the ground when you were at your lowest. You knew what it probably looked like, going from one attending to another. And it didn’t help that the two of them were close friends. But you were falling in love. You were healing, and Jack was helping you find your light again. You thought that you had finally moved past the insecurities that had haunted you in your last relationship. That you had finally found someone who was as infatuated with you as you were with him. 

Even though Jack had given you everything you wanted; a beautiful engagement ring, a wedding that you had dreamed of, a house that was perfect for raising a family in. You still felt like you were missing something. Jack had tried his best to ignore that voice in the back of his head whenever he would see you and Robby talking, his best friend standing a bit too close to you, looking at you a bit too intensely. It had caused several arguments between the two of you at first. Jack would storm out of the house, going to the range for a bit, and then would come back to reconcile. He didn’t like going to bed angry, and you didn’t either. 

However the fights had gotten worse as time went on. You weren’t sure what changed between the two of you, but they became louder, more frequent. There were words shared between the two of you that shouldn’t have been shared. There were thoughts that were meant to stay with one another that were spoken out loud. Glass, pictures, flowers had been thrown around the house, making it look like a tornado had gone through it. Jack would leave, not giving you an answer of where he was going and how long he was going to be gone for. 

— — — 

Robby knew better than to do this. He felt like he was the only one driving across Pittsburg at two in the morning. He should be asleep right now, catching precious sleep before his alarm blared in his ear to brutally wake him up at 5AM to get ready for a stressful day at work. But you sounded so broken and so lost on the phone, he couldn’t stop himself from putting on a pair of sweatpants and getting in his car. 

He parked down the street like he normally does. Far enough away that no one would notice it while driving by, but not too far away that it seemed suspicious he was walking up to someone’s front door at such a late hour. He didn’t knock, knowing that the door was unlocked, shutting it softly behind him. He’d scold you for leaving the door unlocked later, but right now, the only thing on Robby’s mind was getting to you. 

Your back was to him when he walked into the bedroom. The only light was from the moon, seeping in through the window. 

“Y/N,” Robby whispers, knocking gently on the door before walking in. You turn to face him, eyes red and tears running down your face. His gaze softens as he walks to you, sitting down beside you on the bed. You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into him as you cry. “Shh, it’s okay.” Robby’s hand rubs up and down your back. He picks you up, placing you in his lap, rocking you gently. “What’s wrong, baby?” 

You sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. “We got into a fight.” Robby nods, brushing hair away that was sticking to your wet cheeks. “He’s been so mean lately. I don’t know what’s going on.” 

“I know,” Robby whispered. “I thought he was at work?” 

“He is,” You sigh, “But I woke up with a nightmare and I wanted to hear his voice. . .” You shook your head, “He said I was being childish and to not call him unless it was important.” 

Robby frowned, “I’m sorry, baby.” 

You placed your hand on his cheek, running your thumb over the supple part of it. Robby’s eyes went from yours to your lips for a fleeting second. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he shouldn’t be in this bedroom. He shouldn’t be holding you like this. He shouldn’t be caring for you like this, drying your tears, trying to make you feel better. 

Like you were still his. 

But Robby wasn’t a perfect person. Nor was he a good guy. 

You leaned in, your lips lightly touching his, testing the waters. When Robby didn’t pull away, you kissed him again. Robby sighed, his hand tangling in your hair and arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him. He felt your body relax in his arms, your mouth parting for his tongue to taste you. He lifted you with ease, laying you down on your bed, slotting perfectly between your legs. Your hands gripped his t-shirt, your hips starting to move against his. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” Robby mumbles against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. 

A moan tumbles from your lips, his beard tickling your sensitive skin. “Please,” You whimper against him. “I need this.” Robby pulls back to look at you. Your bottom lip quivered as you held Robby’s face in your hands. “He won’t touch me. . . Please.” Robby knew it was a lie. He knew all too well how great your sex life was, most of the information he had gotten against his will, shared over a beer on nights off. 

Robby contemplated it for a moment, looking down at you. Your eyes were still shiny with tears, your lips a bit puffy from making out. You tried to clench your thighs together, turned on by how Robby was taking you in. His eyes caught the glint of the diamond on your ring finger. You never took it off. It should’ve been a stopping factor for Robby, feeling the cold metal on his skin, but it never was. 

“Fuck,” Robby cursed, leaning back in. 

— — —

You perked up from your spot on the floor, hearing the front door open and shut. Your eyebrows furrowed until you heard that familiar pattern of footsteps. One heavy and then one light as they walked into the house. His voice called out your name, and you cursed. Quickly, you grabbed the remnants of your life altering news, shoving the box into your sock drawer. 

“Y/N!” Jack called out again. You ran your fingers through your hair, opening the bedroom door, and running down the stairs as fast as you could. Your boobs were sensitive, making you groan as you got down to the bottom step. “Hey, there you are.” Jack smiled, coming up to you and greeting you with a kiss on your cheek. 

“You okay?” His eyebrows furrowed as he took you. Your color was gone, a slight sweat on your brow. Jack lifted the back of his hand to your forehead, feeling your temperature. “You don’t feel warm. You eat today?” He moved into the kitchen, going right for the fridge. 

“Not really,” You said honestly, sitting down on an island stool. It was the truth, your appetite had slowly been diminishing, even before you took the pregnancy test. Your normal food cravings just made you dizzy thinking about them. 

“I’m going to make you something, you look like you’re going to pass out sitting down.” Jack scanned the fridge, grabbing out some items, the most notable a white carton of eggs. You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the gag at just the sight of them. “I gotta tell you about this case we had last night. . .” 

You took in his features, committing them to memory as he spoke about how his day went. It was the small things that had made you fall in love. The way he talked with his hands, how he had the habit of talking out the side of his mouth, the way his eyes would sparkle when he got really animated about something. You were trying to block out the guilt rising in your stomach, his bright eyes and smile making you feel even worse. 

Jack could read you like an open book. He could tell when something was wrong, whether you were upset or angry or didn’t feel well. That’s what came from years of spending time around you, getting to know you, watching you and falling in love. Jack sometimes knew what you were feeling before you did. Right now, Jack could tell something was wrong. Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, you were looking anywhere but at him, taking extra long sips of water. Your body language was closed off, almost as if you didn’t want him to be around. 

“What’s going on, really,” Jack said, startling you from your spaced out look. 

“What?” You asked him. 

“You have been half listening to everything I’ve been saying since I walked in. There’s something you’re not telling me. So say it.” 

Just like Jack, you could also read him like an open book. You could see it on his face, the anger that was settling over his body. The way he kept adjusting in his chair, his fists clenching and unclenching. You knew you had let this go on too long. 

“I think. . .” You let out a deep breath, “I think I’m pregnant.” 

Jack felt like he had just gotten a slug to the chest. “What?” Tears instantly fell from your eyes. You gasped as the sobs racked your body, your hands covering your eyes as you cried. Jack abandoned the stove, walking over to you and pulling you into his arms. He let out a shaky sigh, running his hands down your back trying to soothe you. 

“Shh,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“I’m so sorry,” You cried out. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” You pulled back from Jack, wiping your cheeks. “Did you take a test?” 

You nodded, and Jack handed you a kleenex to blow your nose. “It was positive. My period is four weeks late.” 

Jack nodded his head. You could see the gears turning in his head as his stare hardened at the ground. He was silent for a moment, as if he was doing the mental math in his head. Checking a mental calendar for the last time you had been intimate. 

Jack swallowed thickly as he looked up at you. “Have you gotten lab work done?” 

“No,” You were a bit shocked at his words, blinking a couple of times. You were wondering if he was putting it together, or if you were going to have to say the painful words that you had been dreading. 

“Okay,” Jack said slowly. That quizzical look still on his face. You have seen it so many times. It was the look he wore when he was trying to figure out a course of action on a patient in the ED. “Okay, we'll need to know for sure. Home tests aren’t always accurate.” You nod slowly, trying to figure out what he was trying to do. He looks up at you, a small smile on his face. He squeezes your arms with his hands. “Tomorrow, I’ll draw your labs and we’ll find out for sure. Okay?” 

You nodded again, words failing you. Jack lets out a sigh, pulling you into him again. You were even more confused on what to do now.