marie

When you first get to the PTMC, Jack can’t decide what he thinks about you.

He vaguely remembers you— you’d done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones who’d drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing he’d really though was:

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

The sentiment, of course, remains the same when it’s handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day it’s been, and of course now he says “Oh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You must’ve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.”

Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is… charismatic.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. “If you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.”

“You like dark and dreary.”

She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “So? We can’t all be doing it. Like, we’ve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“No, you can be flirty or suggestive. There’s a difference.”

Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how you’re interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.

Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.

He sighs and focuses on the chart he’s supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.

—

The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasn’t even your second, or your third.

First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. It’s flashy, it pays well, and it’s cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)

Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when they’re not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.

Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldn’t let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.

But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.

Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.

Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.

And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasn’t supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since you’d gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attending’s and residents.

Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.

And now, you’re here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.

Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks you’re not looking.

You’re not sure if he’s aware that you know that he’s staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesn’t know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?

Regardless of if he knows or not, it’s unnerving. Because he’s your boss. And you know he’s capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.

Just not directed at you.

He’s not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, he’s just… not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.

Hell, he’s nicer to Santos than he is to you.

“Did I like, say something to offend him and I don’t know?”

Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. “Isn’t that more my area of expertise?”

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)

“I just don’t get it. I’m nice, right?”

“Disturbingly so.”

“Exactly. The only thing I can think of is that I’ve messed up or something, but it’s Dr. Abbot. He’d tell me if I did. He doesn’t exactly hold back.”

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

You level her with a look, but she just groans.

“Why do you even care? So what, one guy doesn’t like you, boohoo.”

“He’s not just some guy. He’s my attending. And you might’ve secured your spot here, but i’m all shiny and new. I can’t exactly earn people’s respect if our boss doesn’t like me.”

Trinity doesn’t immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that you’ve made a valid point.

“Should I talk to him?”

She sighs. “I think you’re overreacting. You’ve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? He’ll probably calm down the more you work together.”

“Did he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?”

“Well, no, but that’s because I don’t suck at my job.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

“Sorry. I guess you’re not completely hopeless.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.

Trinity wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. There’s Dr. Ellis, but she’s pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means there’s a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You aren’t really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him “Hey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking and isn’t as nice to me as he is to you guys?”

The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldn’t be asking anybody, but you’ve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.

Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?

You just wish he’d tell you what you’re doing wrong, so you can fix it.

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

Even if he just legitimately didn’t like you, and made that apparent, it’d be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!

But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.

It’s the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then you’d know where you stood, and everything could be fine.

What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You don’t show this outwardly of course, because you’re pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and he’ll finally see there isn’t anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.

The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyone’s favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.

Eventually it’s all over— patients are stabilized, some aren’t. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.

You feel awkward, because you don’t work with the day shift people that often, so you’re not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your “safe” people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to be capable of relaxing.

You take the beer that’s tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.

It’s exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you don’t have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.

But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks you’re being weird! Yay!

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So he’s just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didn’t just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows weren’t brushing, elbow deep in a man’s organs, saving his life.

Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesn’t look like he’s analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.

Jack isn’t looking at everyone. He’s not looking at anyone. He’s looking at you.

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

Maybe he doesn’t know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, he’s a vet, he’d definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you don’t have it, because you’re not a vet.)

(You’re probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)

Jack doesn’t stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:

“Here, give me that.”

And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

“Yes,” You groan from the kitchen island in Trinity’s apartment, “He said ‘here, give me that’ and then just took it. He didn’t say anything else to me for the rest of the night.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Maybe he doesn’t like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.”

“I don’t know how to fix it. That’s what i’m over here for. To brainstorm.”

“I thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?”

Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. “Wait, what?”

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

“Okay,” Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, “Have you tried sleeping with him?”

“He’s like, probably over twenty years older than me.”

“So? I know your type.”

You roll your eyes. “As if he’d go after me, Trin. He doesn’t like me.”

“Hate sex is a thing.”

“Name one time hate sex solved the hate part.”

She purses her lips. “Touché. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does for—“

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

“No dice,” You sigh, “I can’t bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. They’re never specific enough.”

“Two tablespoons of sugar isn’t specific enough for you?”

“You’re not helping.”

Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. “To be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said we’d both be here if you wanted to come over.”

“I think you should just ask him.” Dennis pipes up.

He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. “Dr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesn’t beat around the bush. I can’t imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.”

“I want to, but that’s like. Too straightforward. What if—“

“Oh my god,” Trinity moans, “Just ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.”

You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.

She’s right.

You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by… not dealing with it. Talk to him or don’t.

Easier said than done.

—

It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.

Damn.

So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so it’s best if there’s no audience.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.

He’s so irritating. He won’t even give you a fucking inch. There’s nothing to go on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

“Because you won’t fucking talk to me!” You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, “Half the time you only look at me when you think I won’t notice. You don’t talk to me unless it’s required for teaching, and even then, it’s short and stilted. I’ve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. You’re just not nice to me, and I’d like to know why.”

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then there’s a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, “I can see how all of that can be taken negatively—“

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. “But it was not my intention.”

He just stops speaking there, like that’s a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.

“So…,” You drawl, “What was your intention?”

Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.

Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.

“You hate confrontation.”

Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. “What?”

“You,” He levels a finger at your chest, “Hate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.”

You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. “A lot of people do that. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“It’s not. But it doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.”

“You’re worried I’ll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?”

“I’m worried that something is going to happen to you, and you won’t tell anyone about it.”

The hallway grows silent. In this distance there’s beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.

“Why do all of this?” You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.

“I wanted to see if you’d confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.”

“That’s—“ You wrinkle your nose, “Actually kind of shitty of you.”

Jack just hums.

“So what now? Did I prove myself to you?” Your tone is mocking.

He scoffs, “God, you really hate confrontation, don’t you?”

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

He knows how uncomfortable he’s making you. He’s doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you don’t care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.

Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, you’re gone.

—

If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesn’t hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.

He’s just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.

When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like you’ve finally lost it.

Which. Okay. You probably have. But that’s beside the point! The point is…

…The point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really don’t have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (“Hey, that was a rough one, are you alright?”) is just worn out. It doesn’t have anything left to give. You don’t have anything left to give.

But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.

Because it goes a little something like this: There’s no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and you’ve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said “Hey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?”

Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that you’re her friend she’s really intense about it (she’s a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like you’re taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.

So yeah. You don’t really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book you’ve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, don’t fix what isn’t broken.

So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since you’re a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.

Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.

“Hey,” Trinity grabs your arm as you’re going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, “You good?”

‘No,’ You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, ‘I haven’t done laundry in so long that I’ve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I don’t have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I can’t sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I don’t wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time it’s gone I’m going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. I’m so tired.’

Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.

“Mhm!” You nod, lips spread wide, “Pretty good day actually, all things considered.”

It’s not a total lie. The headache relief you’ve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.

Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, it’s very hard to pretend that everything isn’t awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when she’s worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t want to find out you’re like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If you’re having a hard time—“

“Trin,” You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that you’re not capable of handling things on your own, “If I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,”

You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. “It’s gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.”

She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. “I don’t even know why you keep those. You can’t use them on like, anything. It’s against hospital policy.”

You shrug. “Glitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love ‘em.”

You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.

Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you can’t quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.

You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.

Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.

Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.

You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. “You’re not allowed to be in here.”

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t do this on purpose—“

Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

“Woah, down girl. I didn’t knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attending’s lounge.”

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

“No.” He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.

“Oh,” You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, “Then why’d you knock?”

“Cause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and I’d rather if you didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.”

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You don’t like me. You don’t even trust me.”

Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.

He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.

Jack doesn’t even look up before he’s barking:

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

“Find another bathroom or I’ll cut your dick off.”

The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. It’s unnerving— to be the sole focus of his attention.

You’re the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

“I’m not a man who does things by halves.”

“No,” You sigh, “I suppose you’re not.”

Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at you— really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.

He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.

“What am I going to do with you?”

His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.

“I’m not something to be dealt with. I’m a person, not some fucking—“

“You’re like a stray cat,” He interrupts, “Always hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.

Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you don’t. He’s too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.

“You’re nosy.”

If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But you’re tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.

He makes an amused huffing noise. “You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

“Come on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?”

You lift your head off the back of the toilet. “You act like I’m killing myself:”

“You are,” His inclined his head, “Just really slowly.”

You scrub a hand down your face.

“Look. I understand why you think you have to care, but you don’t. I’m just going through a rough patch. I’ll get through them like I always do. I’m not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is you’re worried I’m going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. I’m fine.”

Jack doesn’t get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea that’s been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before you’re throwing up hard enough to almost choke.

The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. You’re throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.

“Alright, come on,” A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you weren’t busy hurling your guts out, you’d marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, who’s all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.

“Let it out,” He soothes, hand still rubbing, “Don’t fight it. It’ll be over soon.”

“I hate throwing up.” You choke, coughing and gasping.

“No one does. But you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

Over feels like it’s never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and you’re slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.

“This,” You mumble in between gasps, “Means nothing.”

You can’t see Jack’s expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Okay.”

You can’t see his face, but you know this isn’t over.

—

Jack sends you home once you’re capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.

(“You can’t send me home.”

“Yes I can. You’re not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.”

“We both know I’m not the only person to do it.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.”

“…”

“You only have two hours left anyway. Go home.”)

The problem lies in the fact that the buses aren’t running yet, which means that you can’t, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour you’d normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, you’re exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.

So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didn’t bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.

It’s cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy —huddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance book— if the shift hadn’t gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didn’t await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.

Jack. Again.

He makes an expectant face at you as if to say ‘Well?’ when you don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. “The buses aren’t running yet. It’s an hour walk to my house.”

Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.

“How long until your bus gets here?”

You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.

“And hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if it’s running behind more than usual.”

He seems put out by your answer, as if the bus’s heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.

“Um,” You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, “I’m fine. I have my book. I don’t mind waiting.”

Jack just sighs.

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?”

You wince. “Well, it doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

“I have to admit, this isn’t where I thought we were going.

Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.

Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee —black, but oddly enough, decaf— and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesn’t care to act like he isn’t staring at you.

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee —ordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decaf— and you debate just getting up and running out of here.

Too bad you’re too exhausted to run anywhere. Jack’s probably banking on that.

“I don’t know,” You shrug, setting the menu down, “Maybe to Gloria’s office to write me up or something.”

“What would I even be writing you up for?”

“Disobeying direction? I’m sure you could come up with something.”

The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. “Are we ready to order?”

Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:

“Order whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.”

The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.

You hesitantly list the item you’d been eyeing and thank the waitress.

It isn’t until after the menus have been taken and Jack’s coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, “I can’t— It’ll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.”

“Do you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?”

“Yes…?”

“You’re not touching the bill, kid. I’m a gentleman.”

“Oh,” You didn’t really see that coming, “Okay.”

Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.

“So,” You say after a beat, “Was there something you wanted to talk about…?”

The silence just feels so awkward. It’s killing you.

He raises a brow. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?”

“I don’t? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do it’s usually by myself, so I end up just reading.”

Jack gestures to your bag beside you. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“What?”

“Read your book.”

“But that’s— isn’t that boring for you?”

He sets his mug down. “I didn’t bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.”

You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You don’t understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.

“How did you even know I like diner food?”

“Because I pay attention to you.”

You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like you’re trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.

Jack’s lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. “You bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.”

It’s just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that he’s apparently memorized and held onto because to him, it’s important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.

"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinity’s couch.

“Not so loud, Trin. I have a headache.”

She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. “So you’ve gone from hating each other to going on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” You groan, “We spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did… whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.”

“Brooding,” Trinity says, “He paid. That means it’s a date.”

“No it doesn’t!”

It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.

Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.

"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"

"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.

"Yeah, after an MCI."

What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.

"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."

It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.

Not that she needs to know that.

"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"

You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.

Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.

Your phone vibrates again.

“Dennis,” your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like ‘denim’, “Can you please see who’s texting me and tell them to fuck off?”

Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.

“Your phone is two inches away from your hand.”

“I have a headache I don’t wanna look at the screen.”

You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then there’s the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked —you’ve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, he’s always wearing socks— feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.

There’s a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

“Um,” He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, “It’s Jack?”

“What!?” You screech.

You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennis’s outstretched hand.

You turn on the phone and— yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because he’s old.

(It was funnier at the time.)

Somewhere behind you there’s a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

“Did I just hear that right?” Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, “Did Jack just text you?”

“I don’t know!” You cry.

“How do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!”

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

“Guys!” Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, “I refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.”

He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergency…) and opening the text.

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

“Trinity!” Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, “I’m telling him that you have a headache and you’re at our place and to please not text again—“

“No!” You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

“Oh my god!” Dennis balks, “Are you okay?”

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.

hi, you type, I’m at Trinity and Dennis’s. Did you need something?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

“We,” You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, “Will never speak of this.”

“I definitely am. When I’m the maid of honor at your guys wedding, I’m gonna give a speech and be all ‘you guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he texted—‘“

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear you’re not holed up in your apartment reading something.

Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldn’t be endearing.

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me

Isn’t this the sixth day in a row you’ve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently they’re normal

Who?

if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?

Yes.

Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.

then i’m not telling you. it’s fine, really

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.

this is a resident apartment there’s no gatorade here just redbulls

Have either of them buy you one. I’ll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.

You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.

“I’m taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said he’d pay you back later.”

“He said what?”

—

You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. It’s a gift.

Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles aren’t nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?

“Somebody’s in a better mood today.” Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.

“I’m pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!”

“Wonderful,” He drawls, “It’s almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.”

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

“When was the last time you drank water without being prompted?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay,” He dips his head, “When was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?”

You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. “We’re not going to talk about this right now!”

“You started this conversation. I’m trying to do my job.”

You snort. “You’re waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.”

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

Jack’s turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.

When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.

The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.

It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something that’s distinctly masculine.

You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.

“You know,” You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, “Trinity thinks you like me. Romantically.”

“Mm.”

“I told her that was dumb,” You babble, “Obviously it’s not true, but. She won’t let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

You whip your head around so fast you’re pretty sure something cracks. “What?”

“I mean,” Jack’s voice is gruff as he shrugs once, “Is that really so unrealistic?”

“Of course it is,” You sputter, “You don’t like me.”

“I’ve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I don’t hate you.”

“Just because you don’t hate me doesn’t mean that you like me, let alone— like that.”

Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.

“Like what?”

Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. “You gonna go get that?”

“Uh,” You’re pretty sure you’re stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing you’re capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.

“Get going then.”

You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.

—

The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

It’s just that it’s been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinity’s suspicions on romance and you can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessively.

It’s bad.

Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.

“Okay,” Dennis stage-whispers as you’re downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, “I feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if you’re covering a day shift.”

“Mel asked.”

Dennis blinks incredulously. “You love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.”

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

“Did you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?”

“Keep your voice down!” You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, “And for your information, no. We didn’t. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.

By the time night-shift starts filtering in, you’re ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. It’s always been the plan if being a doctor didn’t work out.

Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.

It’s fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

“But I am,” You grit, “I just need a minute.”

“Okay.”

There’s the distinct sound of Jack’s slightly uneven footsteps, and then there’s a warm weight pressed against your side.

You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

You raise your head just enough to look at him. “You don’t? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you don’t work?”

Now that you’re looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that he’s wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesn’t have his usual army-issue backpack with him.

“I got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.”

Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.

“What’d you do that for?”

The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Dennis called me. He said you’d need picking up after your shift.”

Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didn’t have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didn’t tell him to call you or something like that—“

“I know you didn’t,” Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, “Which is why I came.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you don’t have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

Thank god the locker room is empty— everyone’s either on the floor or already left for their homes.

He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.

“Is it easier for you to accept help when you don’t have to ask and don’t get the chance to say no?”

It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.

You don’t want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and you’re perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.

“Yes.”

Jack doesn’t verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more it’ll turn your response into a confession and that’s just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t mean to be this way, you know.”

The passenger seat of Jack’s car isn’t somewhere you’d ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when you’re pretending to be someone else who’s better at chasing what they want.

“It stopped being intentional a long time ago,” your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, “It was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.”

What you don’t say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just don’t have needs.

“I know.”

“I know you know, I just… needed to tell you. Myself.”

It’s odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. It’s odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.

“You like being told what to do.”

Your face heats, but you’re determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.

“It feels safe. If I know what yo— someone wants, then I can’t mess it up, and I can relax.”

You can practically see the gears turning in Jack’s mind.

“Makes sense.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.

Jack doesn’t have any expectations. There isn’t any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. There’s nothing he wants you to do.

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.

He starts pulling back.

It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back too— to guard the soft, vulnerable bits you’ve showed him in case he throws them back at you.

But then you realize what he’s doing.

Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when he’s evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.

He’s making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.

It feels more intimate than sex.

After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because he’s actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

You’re staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jack’s face and the floor.

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jack’s face when he does finally open it.

But when you look back, he’s just staring at it, a small smile on his face.

—

It’s the card that does him in.

Jack hasn’t made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.

He came on too strong at first— that was his fault. He didn’t yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long it’d been since anyone bothered to look deeper.

He’d hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you oozed kindness— like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.

He hadn’t planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, you’d just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where he’d painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.

He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He can’t help himself. He’s a weak fucking man when it comes to you.

And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he should’ve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says “Thanks a bunch!”.

He knows he’s completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.

He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldn’t tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, he’d lose his mind.

Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.

Even though you think it “looks dumb” you’ve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he can’t see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.

Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that he’s still offering.

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.

So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.

You’d answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.

“Jack?” You’d mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, “Why are you at my apartment?”

“No one’s heard from you in three days.”

You wince. “I swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.”

His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesn’t have. “How bad?”

“I don’t know. Like a seven on the pain scale?”

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

“Nooo,” You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.

Your apartment is….. exactly as messy as he’d imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesn’t drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.

“Do you have headache relief?”

You gesture to the kitchen. “Cabinet furthest to the left.”

While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.

“Why do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?”

“Stop snooping. It’s for my migraines.”

“You’ve had a prescription this entire time and you’ve been taking all that over the counter shit?”

“Stop being mad,” You mumble into the couch cushion, “My migraine meds put me to sleep, so I can’t take them when I’m working. Plus I don’t have any refills left so I save them for when it’s really bad.”

“You called out of work and haven’t left your apartment in three days and you don’t consider this bad?”

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.

“I’m going to help you back to bed,” He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, “And then you’re going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?”

The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.

“M’ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.”

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. “I’m gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.

(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)

He doesn’t make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so there’s space for the plate.

You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.

You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.

“Can I have my sleep mask please? I think it’s on the floor under my nightstand?”

“Of course you can.”

After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.

He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesn’t have Santos’s number) that says you’re fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that he’s handling it.

And then he gets to work.

Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jack’s relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.

He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.

You’re crying.

He hauls himself off the couch (he’s thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is that’s making you cry.

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

“No,” You warble, voice wet, “I just haven’t had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and it’s been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. It’s just really, really nice of you.”

You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, “I— I’m not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this is— a lot.”

“Sweetheart,” He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, “I’m not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. I’m doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

You sniff hard. “This is a lot of work, though.”

“I like doing it. I like taking care of you.”

Another sniff. “It doesn’t seem very fun.”

“I told you. You’re like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,” he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, “Practically purring.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know if I like this metaphor.”

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Yes. I’ll allow it.”

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

Later, when you’re lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.

“This is romantic, right?”

He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

“I’d rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.”

He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.

“I’ll put it in writing for you later.”

You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.

You’re both right where you want to be.

When you started doing social media you didn’t imagine you’d get this far. You were a teenager with too much free time, a massive fangirl making filming yourself reacting to new music, movie trailers, new show episodes, gossip and pop culture in general. 

You are not sure when the sponsors began or why your channel stood out to brands, but soon enough you started getting invited to events. At some point in the past few years your content shifted when you started your channel’s most popular series ‘turisTando’ a show where you showed different celebrities and artists not only popular spots in your city but also the little hidden ones you enjoyed, it was also a good way to highlight local businesses who deserved the love.

At first, ‘turisTando’ was a project you did with a couple friends who became your team, a camera man, an assistant and someone to act as security. But as the show grew you recruited more people into the team and the videos became better quality while still keeping the same cozy familiar aura that fans liked so much. 

When you saw the offer from Tecate P’al Norte came through your email about the chance to be the interviewer for Djo’s Q&A at the event, you agreed and then decided to take it one step forward and try to get Joe on your show as well. 

It had felt like a shot in the dark really, he had way too many shows in LATAM already so you didn’t think you’d get approved, but you still asked because frankly Joe was your dream guest for the show. You remember crushing on him hard from the moment his face appeared on your screen back when the first season of Stranger Things came out and although you hadn’t gotten into his music until recently he’d crawled up the charts on your Spotify becoming your top artist for two years in a row now. 

Getting confirmation from his team had felt like a cruel prank and you’d verified that the account was real about 20 times in the past week. 

Today you were supposed to meet with Joe and his team at 10am, you’d woken up at 7 and had changed your outfit 3 times before settling on what you were wearing now on a car with your three friends you’d started this project with who still worked with you on it. 

“I swear” Sara, the assistant of the group, looked at the backseat where you sat next to one of your camera men, Dan, to where you were sitting with a very bouncy leg “I thought the most nervous you’d be was last year when we did the Pedro episode” 

She was right, you’d been a nervous wreck last year when you’d scored big with booking Pedro Pascal while he was doing press for Fantastic Four, but even that felt like light work compared to today.

“You know she’s like in love with Joe though” Kevin, the security detail turned here for vibes, chuckled from the driver’s seat.

“I’m not in love with him” You argue “Please don’t embarrass me and make him think I’m weird” 

“I don’t think we need to do anything, you do all the work for us” Dan joked.

“Ha-ha” You roll your eyes “Are we late?” The clock on the dashboard says 9:36, you’re supposed to meet Joe at 10 and you want to have enough time to set everything up at your first location, a restaurant where you’re having lunch, before he arrives.

“Nah” Sara shakes her head “Natalia says they have everything ready, just need to mic you up and for you to approve the shot they’ve set up” 

Thank god for your team because when you arrive at the little restaurant everything is perfectly set up. 

Your team has set up in the little backyard the restaurant has closed off for you, it’s nice, cozy with carefully cared for plants that looked overgrown just enough and traditional tiles making patterns on the walls. The vibe of it was perfect for a nice lunch with friends and the food was delicious too.

Ten minutes before your set time, when thankfully everything was set and ready, Joe and his team arrived at the restaurant, of course they were early. 

Sara gave you one more look, one that said ‘game time’ and left your side to greet the oncoming group. You took a deep breath, a sip of your water, and checked that your mic was secured once more before turning on your professionalism and following Sara.

“Ah, and here she is” Your friend introduced you, the group consisted no only of Joe and his agent but also his bandmates/friends, all whom you recognized from following his career “She will be interviewing you today” 

“Nice to meet you” Joe smiles offering you his hand for a handshake.

“You too” You smile back taking his hand in yours, you’ve never thought about the size of your hands but you can’t help but notice how small it looks in his “And think of it more like we’re sharing lunch and chatting rather than an interview” 

He hums but nods in agreement, the smile never leaving his face “I hope you don’t mind I brought some friends” He motions to his entourage.

“Not at all, the more the better” You shake your head “Now, why don’t we get you all some menus while you get mic’d up so the restaurant can start prepping orders” 

“That sounds amazing” One of his friends, Javi, you recognize, says “We’re starving and it smells amazing in there” He points to the inside of the restaurant where they’re coming from making you chuckle.

“I can assure you it tastes as good as it smells” One of the waiters who has been helping your team brings menus for everyone and starts explaining the dishes while you turn to Joe as he gets set up.

“Joe thank you so much for joining me today, it’s an honor to have you on the channel” You say after doing an introduction for the cameras, you’re now sitting at the table with plates of food scattered around ready for you to start eating.

“Of course, honor’s all mine” He smiles “I’d never turn down free food” 

“Well” You gesture towards the plates “Go ahead” 

“What do you recommend starting with?” He asks.

You think about it for a second, eyeing the spread in front of you “Hmm, I mean, everything’s great, but I’d say try the chilaquiles first before they get soggy” You move two plates closer to him “There’s green and red” 

“Is there a right choice?” He questions tilting his head.

“Uh… It’s a very split decision” You chuckle “Personally, I like the green ones better because I don’t really like tomatoes but everyone has a favorite” 

The first portion of your videos, always revolve around making your guests comfortable and establishing a connection, so while you eat you talk about superficial things like his travels around Latin America so far, all the festivals, and the food. You even get behind the camera comments from his friends so often that they get their own mic to share at their table.

You’re towards the end of the lunch with the food you’d ordered, which was a lot because both you and the restaurant wanted your guests to experience it all, almost finished, surprisingly Joe ate a lot and whatever you two didn’t finished was passed along to the other table for everyone else to try.

“This was amazing” He leans back on his chair patting his stomach after having one last bite of dessert.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it” You smile at him.

“This is a really cute spot too” He looks around “I like the overgrown garden vibe going on” 

“It is one of my favorite spots” 

“You take all your dates here?” He smirks and you choke on your sip of lemonade “Careful” He moves quickly rubbing your back in soothing motions as you cough.

His smug smirk never disappears and you’re unsure as to how to respond but your mouth moves faster than your brain and somehow you spit out “You’re the first” Making him chuckle, his hand still on your back.

“Well I’m honored” 

“Okay, I think we’re good here and we can go to the next spot” You tell him moving to stand up, he does so too and you coordinate so the van they rented will follow your car, half of your team had already left for the next location while the other half is staying behind and packing up like the well greased machine your whole production’s become over the years.

“You’re the first” Dan snickers once you’re in the safety of your car.

“Don’t” You groan throwing your head back on the headrest “He blindsided me, I didn’t know what to say” 

“Okay stop bullying her we need her to stay strong for the next like two hours” Sara laughs from the front seat.

It doesn’t take long for you to arrive at the next place, it’s a hidden gem in your opinion. A book and music shop that looks small when you first enter but keeps going the deeper you go.

You set up quickly and soon you’re walking through the shop while talking with Joe “So, you’ve done pretty good separating your music from your acting and that seems to be a boundary you set from the beginning, is there any specific reason why?” 

“Yeah I don’t know” He scratches the back of his neck scanning the bookshelves “I think it’s just nice to have them separate and for people to be able to enjoy one without the other” You nod in understanding “And I think it makes them more meaningful that way too” 

“I get that, more authentic maybe? Like you know they’re not just pretending to like one because they do the other?” You ask, he nods.

“Exactly that” He agrees.

“But even though there’s that separation, do you sometimes find yourself drawing inspiration from the other?” 

“It’s kind of impossible not to” He shrugs “I do it without realizing it sometimes, it’s just life” 

You nod “This is one of my favorite parts of the store” You gesture to the cds “Part of why I started my channel is because I was a huge fangirl and I spent lots of time at music stores browsing through cds” 

“It’s hard to find cd’s nowadays” He says “This is cool” 

“Do you have an artist you were a big fan of when you were younger?” You ask, and for the next 20 minutes you descend into a conversation about music while browsing through the cds in front of you. 

“I can’t believe you were into One Direction” You laugh, you’re each holding a few cds in your hands now.

“I grew up around sisters” He shrugs “Got pretty into Bieber for a while too” 

“No way” He’s smiling as you laugh, not a drop of shame about being a fan of artists that most men wouldn’t admit to liking and that made him ten times more attractive “You had the Bieber Fever!” 

“You didn’t?” He’s teasing you now.

“Absolutely I did” You say “Bieber Fever and the One Direction Infection”

“Who’s your favorite artist right now?” He asks.

“I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions” You give him a pointed look, he raises a brow waiting for your answer “I’m a pop girly”

“So I’m not up there then?” He asks with tilt of his head.

“Will it inflate your ego too much if I admit you’ve been in my top artists for a few years?” His smile grows.

You’re walking out of the store now, the camera crew following as you’re walking a few blocks to get snacks before ending the video at a park nearby, so you keep talking, his friends joining the portion of the video as well.

They ask about random signs on the street and you explain the references in a graffiti on a wall. At some point in your short walk the conversation switches to something so natural that you almost forget you’re being filmed.

When you get to the snack spot and order you explain the food options to them and on the walk to the park you ask some more questions about Joe’s work and then finally at the park you close the video off.

You think Joe and his crew will leave as soon as his mic is off, but surprisingly they stay eating their snacks as your team packs up. You’re off to the side with a camera on your hands scrolling through the pictures your photographer took when he approaches.

“Elote?” His accent is adorable as he offers his cup to you.

You’re surprised by his approach but you do your best to conceal it “I’m okay thank you” You smile “It’ll just make me more thirsty” 

“Here” He hands you the water bottle he was holding in his other hand and then sits next to you when you take it “Got any good ones?” He gestures to the camera.

“Wanna look through them?” You offer.

“That’s a good one” He points at the screen, it’s a picture of you looking through the shelves at the book/music store, your face captured in concentration as you read through titles.

“I look kinda weird” You don’t know why you’re commenting on it, you should probably just say thank you and move on, but the heat of his shoulder bumping against you, the closeness, brings you some  form of comfort that makes you open up “Too serious” 

“I think you look great” 

Someone from his team calls for him, it’s time for him to go, but he doesn’t immediately leave “Thank you again, for today” You tell him “Good luck on your show” 

He stands up then “Are you coming? To the show?” 

“I am” You nod.

“I’ll see you then” He nods too.

And that’s it, you expect the next time you see him, on the Q&A in a few days, that he’ll have forgotten about you, maybe not completely, but for the closeness that you managed to establish to at least have faded.

That’s why, when you arrive at the festival grounds later than you’d expected, and you’re getting rushed through the backstage by an event coordinator who’s quickly explaining how the Q&A is going to go to you, you’re surprised to catch a glimpse of Joe and Jake who recognize you instantly and wave excitedly as if you’ve known each other for years. Still, you wave back as you speed through the grounds.

When the time comes for the Q&A you introduce him to the small crowd sitting in front of you and he continues to stun lock you as he walks straight to you and greets you with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, something very not American, something he’s probably picked up over his time in LATAM.

“It’s great to see you again” He says to you.

“You too” You tell him and then motion for him to sit down on the chair next to yours and grab his microphone.

After the Q&A you both walk off and he gives you his hand even though you’re only going down one step. 

“You didn’t tell me you’d be interviewing me again” He says when you’re walking backstage again.

You shrug “Yeah, it’s kinda how I got the chance to interview you for my channel, through a vouch for doing this” 

“No” He shakes his head immediately after you finish your sentence “I said yes to the interview because it sounded like a good time and a great way to see more of the city”  

“Oh” You’re surprised “I didn’t know you chose like that, I kinda just thought your team picked” 

“They go through the requests and then send me some options and I choose from there” He explains “And I think I chose right cause I had lots of fun with you” 

“I’m glad you did” You say “I was really nervous about it so hearing you enjoyed it makes me real happy” 

“You had nothing to be nervous around. Honestly, it was one of the most fun days I’ve had working in a while” You are getting closer to the trailers where you can see his crew standing around now “Didn’t even feel like working honestly, I kinda forgot we were being filmed a couple times” 

“You have no idea how much that means to me, my main goal with the interviews is that they feel more like a conversation than something so formal” You’re at the point where you have to say goodbye, he’ll keep going straight to his friends and you’ll probably go get a snack before going out to the festival to meet up with your friends but you don’t want to leave his side just yet.

“Well I think you’re doing great with that” It seems he doesn’t want to go either because he stops walking.

There’s a brief silence between you, people pass by, crews making sure everything’s ready, event coordinators with stressed faces, the noise of festival goers echoes all around and you two just stare at each other in what should be something awkward but instead feels familiar.

“I should uh… head out there” You point back with your thumb “Let you get ready” 

“I have a few hours” He says “Do you wanna maybe… go get something to eat?” He points the other way to a few food stands that the event has set up for the. artists.

“I… yeah, sure, I’d love to” 

He guided you to one of the stands that had sliders turning around to ask if that was good, you nodded “Do you have one without tomatoes?” He asks the server when he realizes all the sliders in the trays have tomatoes on them, you’re surprised he remembers you don’t like them.

“I can make you one sir” The server nods.

“It’s okay, I can just pick them off” You say and grab one thanking the worker, Joe gets his own and you move to the seats on the tent next to the stand.

“I’ll take that” He nods at the tomato slice you’ve taken from your food, you hand it to him and he pops it into his mouth.

“Do you ever get nervous before big shows like this?” You ask looking off to where you can kinda see the actual festival grounds.

“Every time” He replies “Fake it till you make it right?” 

“I think you’ve made it” You smile, he smiles back.

“Are you gonna stay for our set?” You noticed during your interview the other day that he always includes the band when he talks about his music even though Djo is technically just him. 

“Mhm” You nod “I’ll probably get a horrible spot cause there’s already a big crowd out there but I wouldn’t miss it for the world” 

“Or…” He raises a brow at you “I think I have a better spot” 

And a better spot it was as she stood side stage with Sara who’d joined her, the rest of her friends out in the crowd. 

“Oh god” Sara said with a big grin “You’re so gone” 

“Huh?” You ask, your brain not processing her words as you watch Joe on stage.

“Nothing, you just…” She waves you off “Never mind” 

You don’t even realize how much you’re proving her point with your eyes twinkling as you track him moving around the stage. You’re enthralled, can’t look away, his presence up there is unmatched, intoxicating. 

The set goes by too quickly and by the time you realize he’s singing the last few lines of End of Beginning and saying goodbye to the crowd.

“That was amazing” You breathe out to no one, or maybe Sara, while Joe and the band make their exit.

You turn around with Sara, ready to leave and rejoin your friends to catch a different set now that Djo’s is over but you only get a few steps in before he catches up with you.

“That bad?” He asks, head tilted and teasing smile, his hair is sticking to his forehead from the sweat and his breathing is a bit heavy.

“Oh god no! It was amazing” You say “We were just… gonna go catch up with our friends” 

“Oh” There’s a frown that flashes through his face, so quick you almost miss it “Well, thanks for coming” 

“Thanks for the great seats” You give him a smile “The show was great” 

“Hey! Good to see you again” Wes joins you slinging his arms around Joe’s neck “You hanging out with us?” 

“Uhh” You turn to Sara who nods subtly.

“Yeah, why don’t you stay? I’ve gotta find the group, Dan’s been spamming me” Your friend says “You should get a break, you’ve been running around all day” 

“Only if you want” Joe says “I mean, if you have more sets you want to go see with your friends or…” 

“I can stay for a bit” You say.

“Great!” Wes exclaims letting go of Joe and moving closer to you, putting an arm around your shoulder and dragging you towards the band with him “Let’s go see what we’re getting into” 

“WES!” Joe yells at him but his friend pays him no mind “Dude you can’t just kidnap her”

“Just text me later!” Sara says before saying her goodbye to Joe who’s still standing there and leaving.

“Hey guys we’ve got a guest joining us” Wes introduces you to the group again, you smile and wave.

“So…” Joe catches up “Plans?” 

“Going back to the hotel and passing out” Trent says stretching, a few others agree.

“Oh come on” Wes groans in complaint “It’s our last night here, let’s go do something” 

“I’m down to go get some actual dinner, maybe a few drinks” Jake shrugs.

“Yeah me too” Adam agrees.

Joe turns to you “Got any good recommendations?” 

“Hmm” You think about it, scrolling through good places opened at this time that would be private enough in your mind “Yeah probably, let me text someone real quick” You remember one of your friends’ brothers opened a bar not too long ago, the food is nice and so is the vibe as they have live music multiple times a week.

“You guys in the mood for some tacos?” You ask once you get confirmation from your friend that the bar is indeed open and serving food but also not filled to the brim so there’s enough privacy for you to bring the guys.

“Fuck yeah” Wes cheers.

“Can we stop by the hotel for a quick shower though?” Javi asks.

“Yeah, let’s go” Joe agrees “You wanna find your friends and say goodbye first?” He asks you.

You shake your head “I’ll text them” 

“Alright, come on” He smiles and wraps an arm around your shoulders guiding you along.

On the ride to the hotel you realize how insane it is that you’re there. Last week you were only the girl who would interview Djo, tonight you were having dinner Joe and his friends. Adding to the fact that you’ve only met them twice how you have had a crush on him for a while now and how much of a fan you are of his music, this night feels unreal.

“There’s some fans waiting outside” Adam notes.

“Like five” Caity says “Are you gonna stop for pictures?” 

“Yeah, I can” Joe nods and then he remembers you “You go in with Wes yeah?” 

“Are you sure? I can just wait here” You tell him. Having been around the scene for a while now, especially on the internet side of it, you know how people can get when someone new is seen with a celebrity.

“Nah, you don’t have to, come on just stick with him” You nod hesitantly but Wes’ grin reassures you enough.

“I gotchu” You hear the gasps of fans when Joe walks closer to them, he has a security detail with him while the rest of the crew and you walk inside.

“I’ll just wait down here” You settle into one of the couches and text Sara as you wait talking about how insane the whole situation is. You’re laughing at something she sent when you feel Joe sink down on the armrest next to you.

“Whatcha doing?” He’s smiling, but then again, he’s always smiling.

“Just waiting” You lock your phone “You gonna go shower too?” 

“Yep” He nods standing up “Let’s go” You raise your eyebrows at him, he wants you to go to his room? “Come on, let’s go to my room, I’m not leaving you down here all alone” 

You gasp playfully grasping at your chest “Take me to dinner first Mr.Keery” 

“I’m trying!” He grins “But I’ve gotta get out of these stinky clothes first” 

“With me in the room” You raise your eyebrows again.

“If you want” He shrugs smugly “Come on, really, I don’t want you to be here all alone” 

“Okay” You take the hand he’s got outstretched to you.

His room is messy in a way that would stress you out if you were supposed to fly home the next day, his suitcase is opened by the foot of the bed with clothes scattered around it and some other trinkets in different surfaces. 

“I’ll be right back, two minutes. Make yourself comfortable” He takes something from his suitcase, clothes, and disappears into the bathroom.

For a second, because you have no idea what to do, the thought of cleaning up a bit flashes through your mind but you dismiss it quickly cause you think it’ll be weird if you touch his things so instead you sit on the edge of the bed and wait awkwardly while checking your phone for any updates.

“Alright” Joe comes out, hair damp, jeans and a blue tee that sticks to his also damp skin, he looks tired but so relaxed too and he sinks into the bed next to you “What’s this spot you’re taking us to?” 

“It’s one of my friend’s brother’s restaurant/bar that opened not to long ago” You say “They have some great tacos and live music” 

“Seems fitting we have tacos on our last night here” He hums.

The restaurant is the perfect place to have dinner with the tired crew, it’s not too crowded but also not so empty that it feels awkward and the music today is a duo playing soft rock that blends perfectly in the background of your conversations.

“Okay but what there has to have been someone you interviewed and hated” Javi says, at some point in the past 10 minutes the guys, and Caity, started asking you about your channel.

“Mmm not hated” You say “But I did one with Glenn Powell two years ago and it was kinda weird” Wes gasps, Javi leans in closer, Joe’s head tilts and Jake, Caity and Adam perk up waiting for you to say more “There’s not much to it, he just didn’t give me much to work on and he was rude to his team” 

“Rude how?” Joe asks.

“Well he wasn’t shouting at them or anything like that but he was very passive aggressive towards them and like he clearly didn’t want to be there” You shrug and take a sip of your beer “I’m sure he was just having a bad day” 

“Now I wanna watch the video and see what he was acting like”

“You won’t find anything strange” You tell them “I have really good editors, plus he wasn’t really acting necessarily bad on camera” 

“You’ll need really good editors to make this one look good” Adam jokes nudging Joe who shakes his head laughing.

“Nah, I don’t think he’ll need too much” You reply with a smile.

Some time later everyone’s migrated to the bar but you and Joe.

“He had to have gone to at least 10 stores before giving up” You finish your story, Joe’s got his elbow on the table with his head on his hand as he listens intently, something you’ve come to realize is a given with him, you don’t have to worry about if he’s paying attention, you know he is.

“Awe that sucks” He frowns, eyes glossy from the beers you’ve been drinking, plus a shot of tequila Jake convinced you all to have, he’s not drunk, more like leaning to tipsy but sober enough, you’re around the same “Did you ever get a replacement?” 

“Nope” You shake your head “I’ve given up trying to find one by now” 

He hums “I had this teddy bear when I was little, and I was so attached to it I would cry when my mom took it from me for bath time. One day my sisters decided to do a makeover on it, cut his head off” 

You gasp “No!” 

“Yep” He nods “Mom sewed it back on as I cried and cried, he ended up looking real creepy and my sisters hated it” 

You chuckle “Frankenteddy” 

“Frankenteddy” He agrees nodding.

“Hey, you guys ready to head out?” Jake asks, You realize then you really don’t want this night to end. You don’t want to say goodbye to Joe just yet, not when you’re not sure you’ll have him like this again. 

“Uhh” Joe turns to you, head tilted in question. 

“Yeah” You breathe out, you know it’s late and they have a flight early-ish tomorrow morning “We can go” 

When you’re walking out from the restaurant Joe stops you and you fall a few steps behind the group on your way to the car “I… I don’t want the night to end just yet” Your mouth gapes as you try to say you don’t either but he doesn’t let you “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you just yet. Come back with us, with me” 

“Well… you did buy me dinner” You reference what you said earlier and the fact that against your insistence he didn’t let you pay for the meals.

His face breaks up in a grin as he pulls you in with his arm around your shoulders to guide you to join the rest.

His room is the same it was before you left but the air doesn’t feel awkward anymore, now you feel comfortable and like you’re supposed to be here. The group didn’t say anything about you joining them, they didn’t tease or make you feel bad for it, they just said goodnight.

“How are you leaving tomorrow and have all this mess? Are you not worried about forgetting something?” You ask sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I hate packing” He groans dropping on the bed “Come over here, get comfy” 

You look at him for a second contemplating before joining him by the pillows, even then you guess he feels there’s too much distance between you because he reaches out and pulls you closer.

“You know… this whole night has been insane” You admit “Like I never expected to be here with you when I got confirmation of the interview” 

“And I never expected to meet someone as great as you” He says back placing his head on top of yours, his hand finding yours “I don’t normally do this. I don’t open up and trust people this easily” He admits “You’re just so… addictive to be around” 

You look up at him then, bug brown eyes looking back at you “Addictive?” 

“So addictive” He repeats leaning down, his lips so close you can feel them fanning against yours “Can I…?” 

You nod and then his lips are on you and his hands grasping at your body to pull you on top of him, gasping when you grind down before going in for another kiss. When you try to let go to catch a breath he follows sitting up to pull you back in.

You wake up the next morning alone in the hotel bed, his side of the cold and his things gone, the soreness on your lower body serves to assure you didn’t imagine last night and you can’t help but to feel disappointment even though you reminded yourself time and time again last night that this would never be anything else.

You stay in your spot for a while before getting up and stretching, surprised when you find your clothes folded neatly with a card on top.

‘I almost missed my flight. I would’ve said goodbye properly but you looked too peaceful. Check your phone and text me when you wake up, thank you for the best trip to mexico ever’ 

You don’t text, at least not right away. Not until you’re back at your apartment and are done with your debrief with Sara, and even then it takes the both of you around 20 minutes to come up with a text. It’s not even that good of a text either, just a simple 

‘Hey, hope you didn’t miss your plane and your trip went well, thanks for the extra sleep and the hangout’

You send it before you can keep overthinking it and then realize you’re not sure he has your number so you text back letting him know it’s you. 

He texts back a few hours later letting you know he’s made it home, a conversation that expands through the entire day and bleeds into the next few days too.

‘Got any trips to the US soon?’ 

He texts one night.