peach’s fic library

you should’ve known better than to enroll your five year old in karate classes. eloise in a skill that requires balance and coordination? almost laughable.

but she was so excited, and the program was free through the community center, and since she had started school a few months ago, it was clear that she needed some outside opportunities for socialization.

“nobody wants to play with me,” she whispered one night, little frown dragging her whole face down with it. “they don’t like my games.”

in the children’s defense, her games were mostly trivia based, or playing pretend animals, as long as everyone agrees to abide by realistic animal behavior.

she really likes nature documentaries.

still, though, you couldn’t just leave your daughter friendless because some little shitheads can’t appreciate animal facts. so, when she saw a flyer for karate—entranced the figure on the graphic balancing on one foot—she was jumping for joy.

she made it through half of a lesson before tripping on a balance beam and falling right on her wrist.

“hello, my name is doctor park, i’m the pediatric orthopedic specialist and am gonna examine your daught—”

“why was that nurse calling you a shark?” eloise interrupted, tilting her head curiously. her voice was squeaky and loud, making the big man (the handsome, brooding, very big man) to jump in surprise.

you shoot her a begging glance. “eloise—”

“sharks don’t have bones,” eloise continues, the pain medicine in her IV clearly pumping through her. “their skeletons are made of cart-it-age. are you the bone doctor?”

embarrassment crippled you, but before you could offer an apology, doctor park snapped his gloves on. “yes ma’am, that’s what orthopedic means. also, it’s cartilage. would you care to tell me—”

“then why are you a shark?” she repeats.

“because i’m scary.”

eloise giggles. “that’s silly.”

“i’m so sorry, she’s not used to… drugs,” you whisper.

‘the shark’ smiles at you softly, nodding, then turns back to eloise, squatting down beside her. “alright, miss eloise. if you tell me everything you know about sharks, i’ll take a look at your arm and we will send you on your way.”

eloise beams—so do you.

as your being discharged that evening, you manage to catch the doctor, stomach tightening when he smiles softly at you.

“i just wanted to thank you, so much,” you say, tears brimming in your eyes. “she doesn’t really… fit in? at school? and sharks are like her favorite animal and nobody—well, except for me—engages with her like that. so thank you.”

his silent, stoic stare stirs shame in your chest. this was stupid. you were too emotional, too forward, overexcited—just bad, bad, bad. you take a shakey breath and a short stride backwards when a stocky hand reaches out to steady you.

“of course,” he responds. “she’s a very nice, very informed little girl. if you don’t mind me asking, is her father—or your partner— still in the picture?”

you swallow, shaking your head. “he left when she was three.”

You wake to the sensation of soft kisses brushed against your skin—your forehead, your cheek, and your chin. It's the best sleep you've had in months, muscles warm and at ease. The feeling grows with each kiss as you're reminded of the fact that last night was real.

Jack loves you.

It wasn't just a vivid dream; the tender kisses he places on your skin confirm that. You're tempted to pretend to stay asleep just to enjoy more of this, but you instinctively scrunch your nose as his lips land on it, his scruff tickling you gently.

"Morning," he murmurs warmly, his voice husky with sleep, as he breathes against your cheek. You can feel his smile before your eyes fully open as he presses another soft kiss to your face.

Jack rests on one elbow, his hair tousled, with the soft morning light catching the strands that are more white than grey. God, he's handsome.

Yesterday, you might have convinced yourself that this look of adoration he’s giving you is just a figment of your imagination, but today, you know it’s real. He’s actually gazing at you like this, as if nothing else matters—not your messy morning hair nor yesterday’s mascara remnants around your eyes. He simply looks like he’s glad you’re here with him.

"Morning," you grin back, stifling a yawn into your hand.

His smile broadens. "Hi."

You chuckle softly. "Hi."

He keeps staring at you with a smile on his face. His other hand finds your waist, and your cheeks flush in response as he drags you closer. Although his touch isn’t new, the familiarity feels different now—seeing as you now know the intent behind it means what you want it to.

"What?" you ask, a bit self-conscious, rubbing your eyes in hopes of wiping away the stubborn mascara stains.

"Nothing," he shrugs, yet the grin on his face suggests otherwise.

"Jack." You pout at him and watch as his gaze drops down to your lips.

"I just..." he laughs lightly and shakes his head. "I can’t believe this is real."

You know exactly how he feels, and you hope he's able to see it in your eyes. If he doesn't, then you hope he feels it as your hand brushes through his wild strands. His eyes flutter shut under your touch, and when he opens them again, you’re convinced he does.

You both lock eyes for a moment before he leans forward. At the last moment, you turn your head, and his kiss lands on your cheek instead. He makes a comically disgruntled noise.

"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," you lament, though unable to suppress your laughter at his pouty face.

"I don't care," Jack says, placing a kiss against your jaw.

"Jack," you giggle louder. "I’m serious. My breath stinks."

"I've wanted to do this for months," he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek. "A little morning breath won’t stop me. Honestly, you could have rotten teeth, and I’d still kiss you."

"Ew," you grimace, but he just laughs and plants another kiss at the corner of your mouth.

You debate it for a second, then your cringe morphs into a grin as you lean in, stealing a quick kiss from his lips.

When you pull back, Jack stares at you with wide eyes. You can see when realisation hits him; his eyes darken, and he leans in quickly, giving you no chance to dodge him again. His mouth meets yours, soft yet persistent, each kiss lingering a bit longer than the last. He swallows your giggles with his lips, but he can't help but laugh, too.

Eventually, he presses his forehead against yours, and you stay there for a little while, wrapped up in each other, letting the reality of last night fully settle. The room is quiet except for your breathing, and for the first time since yesterday, the silence feels comfortable.

"I missed waking up next to you," Jack confesses, his voice low in your ear.

You press a kiss to his cheek before resting your head against his shoulder. "Me too."

You breathe in, nose buried deep in the crook of his throat, and his arms tighten around you when he realises what you're doing—breathing in the scent that's purely him. You've never been able to do this freely, and it feels surreal to be able to be this close with no excuses needed.

The moment's broken when your alarm rings softly. Jack shifts to turn it off while still holding you close, and makes no move to let you go or get up.

"We need to get up," you say after a minute, trying to pull back.

"Says who?" he answers cheekily, pulling you in even closer.

"Check-out, for one," you reply, pushing gently against his chest. "And I’d like to shower before we have to sit in an enclosed space for two hours."

"What if I like the way you smell?" he says, and usually, your stomach would be fluttering at a sentence like that, but you know him too well—

"—Fritos are my favourite chips," he continues. His chest bounces a bit as you playfully swat him.

"Rude," you grin, and this time he allows you to slip out of his grasp. "And you’re a liar. I know your favourite isn’t Fritos."

"Says who?" he repeats with a grin as he watches you sit up. You move to the edge of the bed, and he sits up to be able to see you better.

"Says the several bags of Doritos in your cabinets," you counter with a raised eyebrow. You move to slide off the bed, but he catches your arm, pulling you back over to him.

"Ja-ack," you laugh as you land against his chest.

"Those are for Robby," Jack says, and before you can argue, his mouth captures yours again. He keeps you there for another five minutes before your alarm blares again.

"Fine," he concedes when you pull back again. "Just leave me all alone here."

You shuffle forward, but pause at the doorway to the bathroom, meeting his eyes with a mischievous smile. "You could always join me."

Jack freezes, and you can see him process the offer—the way his eyes darken and the slight swallow as his gaze trails over you.

"Or not," you shrug, stifling a grin as you turn away.

He's got his crutches in his hands before your sentence finishes.

The checkout line is ridiculously long, and under normal circumstances, you’d complain about it—after all, how hard can it be to hand over a keycard and walk out? But with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist and soft kisses peppered onto your hairline, you just can’t find the energy to care.

Even as Jack offers to give you his car keys, so you can wait in the car, you shake your head. You want to stay close to him despite the line barely moving. The lobby is crowded, and it really makes no sense for both of you to be standing here. Still, after spending weeks keeping your distance, torturing yourself, the thought of being apart now feels absurd.

Jack doesn’t push the issue; he simply nods and pulls you closer again. You're plastered to his side for the ten minutes it takes before you finally reach the desk.

"Hey," a warm voice greets you just as Jack hands over the keycard. Jeremy stands off to the side, a bag slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

"Hi," you respond with a smile, stepping out of the queue to approach him.

He returns your smile. "I’m glad I caught you—you left before I could tell you how nice it was to see you again yesterday."

"Oh, sorry about that," you start, embarrassment flaring at the reminder of your jealous outburst. "I had—"

"We had some stuff to do," Jack interjects, slipping an arm around your waist again. He gives Jeremy a tight smile.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Jeremy responds. "Warren was asking about you, but honestly, I’m not sure she even remembers anything now." He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I had to extend her hotel room for her—she got pretty wasted after you left. The ushers had to escort her to her room after she threw up in the plants in the hallway."

"What? Really?" Laughter bubbles out of you. "Well, that's very professional."

Jack squeezes your waist admonishingly but still huffs an amused breath.

Jeremy grins. "Anyway, it was great to see you again. You’ve really done well for yourself, Sleepy." He nods at you, then glances at Jack, offering him a nod as well.

"You too," you say, and you mean it. Jeremy was a great guy in med school, even if he wasn't the best at relationships back then, but you're sure he's grown up more. You certainly have.

You're more certain of what you want, more certain of what you deserve, and somehow, that has landed you with Jack.

"Maybe we'll see you around," you finish. Presby isn't that far from PTMC after all.

"Yeah, I hope so," Jeremy replies, pulling his sunglasses down. He smiles at you one last time before he walks off. "Get home safe."

Jack grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'yeah, I hope so' as he steers you towards the exit. He keeps a neutral face until you're outside, where it turns sullen. A laugh escapes you the moment you’re near the car, and away from prying eyes.

Jack narrows his eyes at you as he pops open the trunk. "What’s so funny?"

Another laugh leaves you. "You're just a silly, jealous man."

"I'm not silly," he replies immediately as he places your bags inside the trunk before shutting it again.

"That's the part you focus on?"

"I'm not jealous," he insists, crossing his arms.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not."

"Hey," you say, stepping closer. His arms drop the moment you gently press down on them. You curl your fingers into the front of his t-shirt. "You have nothing to be jealous of."

Jack huffs, staring at your hands.

"Jack."

His eyes lift to yours.

"I love you." The words still feel new in your mouth, but no less right.

His eyes search yours, still checking after everything revealed yesterday that you mean it. The tight line of his mouth softens when he finds a satisfying answer.

You draw him in closer. "Okay?"

"Okay." His hand slides to your cheek and you meet him halfway, your lips pressing together in a tender kiss.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he pulls back. "Let's go home."

Coming home feels strange.

Not in a bad way, but it feels different than it did when you left. The air has shifted inside, the furniture moved without being an inch out of place, and the smell is different, and yet everything is exactly the same.

Jack's sweater still hangs over the back of the dining room chair. Your blanket is still draped across the couch, unfolded in that way Jack always grumbles over, but never does anything about.

Everything feels new and somehow the exact same. The only different thing is you and Jack. There's finally nothing unspoken between you, with all cards on the table. No uncertainty, no wondering, no pretending.

There's still the question of what this means for you, but it doesn't feel pressing. It's just there in the background, waiting until the moment feels right. There's no rush to speak.

You're free to enjoy this moment for what it is. The pleasantness from the drive, where Jack spent the entire trip with his hand firmly planted on your thigh, carries into the house.

The bags get unpacked together, clothes thrown into the washer by four hands rather than two. You follow Jack to the bedroom when he puts the bags away; he follows you into the bathroom when you put your toiletries back. You make lunch together, hips nudging, shoulders brushing—a task that normally takes ten stretches into thirty because neither of you can stop talking and laughing.

He keeps looking at you like he still can't believe it's real. You can keep leaning in close to prove to him that it is.

The day settles eventually as you both curl up on the couch with books. The laundry tumbles quietly in the background as warm sunlight spills in through the living room windows.

You're leaning against his chest, reading, but more focused on the hand that's trailing slowly up and down your arm. Every so often, you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the scruff on his jaw that's slightly longer than usual, the way he scrunches his nose at passages in his book, and how his face is relaxed in a way you haven't seen before.

As if sensing you, he glances over at you. His mouth immediately curves into a smile when he catches you swiftly looking away. He huffs a little cute sound, squeezing your shoulder.

You grin into your book, nudging his leg with your hand. You try to refocus on the pages, but it doesn't take long before you're blinking heavily. Without even really thinking about it, you slide down until your head is resting on his lap instead.

Jack's hand follows soundly, petting your head softly and lulling you to sleep.

By evening, neither of you has spent more than a few minutes apart.

Dinner comes and goes. The dishes get washed. The laundry gets folded. Around you, the house gradually darkens, shadows stretching across familiar rooms. You try to stay awake as long as possible, hoping to drag your sleeping schedule back toward something resembling normal before your next shift. By the seventh yawn in under a minute, Jack gives you a look.

"Okay," he says with an amused huff. "Time for bed."

You grumble half-heartedly but still let him steer you toward the bedroom. Blearily, you grab at clothes in the closet. Jack doesn't comment on the fact that you grab one of his shirts, just glances at it with a pleased smile before he heads into the bathroom.

When he's done, you brush past him in just his shirt and underwear that he can't see, biting back a smile at when he swallows harshly. You don't fight the grin once you're alone in the bathroom, letting the giddy feeling take over.

Your phone vibrates against the counter, just as you've put your toothbrush into your mouth.

>> Hello??? Are you alive?!

It's Olivia. Fuck. She's already texted you three times earlier today, and you'd ignored her, unsure of what to say that won't reveal everything immediately.

<< Yes

>> That's it??

<< Yes, I'm fine <3

You add the heart, toothbrush hanging loosely from your mouth as you try to act normal.

>> Uh huh. How did it go?

You can picture her narrowed eyes when you read it. Your thumbs hover over the screen for a minute, thinking of what to say.

<< It was fine. Nothing worth mentioning.

You can see her typing, deleting, then typing again several times.

>> And what about Jack?

<< He's fine, too.

You pause before adding:

<< We're fine. Things are okay again.

>> What does that mean??

You take too long to answer her, but her following text shows that it doesn't really matter anyway—she knows you too well.

>> oh😏

When you reemerge, you've decided to keep this to yourself until the morning. No need to reveal to Jack that the plan has failed immediately. This can still be just yours tonight.

He sits against the headboard, prosthetic off, and duvet covering his lap. He looks nervous. "Are you gonna—?" He gestures vaguely toward the empty side of the bed before clearing his throat. "I mean..."

The uncertainty in his voice surprises you. You'd just spent the entire day together, and he's unsure if you want to share the bed. It's kinda cute.

"Yeah," you say softly. "If that's okay?"

His answer comes fast. "Of course it's okay." He pauses. "I just didn't know if—" he shrugs, trailing off.

You climb into bed, into the arm that was waiting for you. You both sink down until your head settles against his chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat.

You guess this is as good a moment as any other to finally have the conversation.

"I...uh—" you start. "I have the divorce papers printed on my desk."

Jack goes very still.

"I also still have that apartment viewing on Thursday." You stare at a loose thread on his shirt. "I know we've done this in a weird order. Getting married, moving in together, and then confessing."

You force out a laugh. "If you want to do this properly, we can."

The room goes quiet. Jack's arm tightens around you. "Properly?"

"You know." You shrug. "Dating. Separate places. Normal people stuff."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything; then, he says: "Do you want that?"

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate but answer truthfully. "No."

Jack lets out a breath. Just a small exhale that sounds suspiciously like relief. "Oh."

You lift your head. "Oh?"

Jack's mouth twitches. "I don't either." He rubs the back of his neck. "But I don't want you staying because you think you have to."

Your chest squeezes. "Jack."

"You've spent months trying to make decisions based on what you thought I wanted." His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. "I'd rather know what you want."

You stare at him for a second. "I want to stay. I want to stay here."

His eyes soften immediately. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "We don't have to rush to figure things out. I like having you here. We can't figure the rest out later."

"Yeah?"

"Mm," he hums, his grip tightening around you. "I slept like shit when you weren't here. I'd prefer not to do that again."

You huff a breath. "Me too."

Even though the apartment had been nicer than the others you'd looked at, you really didn't want to move. You're happy he feels the same as you do. Maybe it doesn't matter if you do this in an order that doesn't make the most sense—as long as it makes sense to you, that's all that matters.

The room quiets again until Jack speaks again. "Can I ask you something?"

Your chest tightens, but you still nod.

"Why Lily?"

You knew he was going to ask eventually, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing. You sigh into his chest. "That day—" you don't have to specify which, he already knows. "The way you ran inside looking terrified—"

You swallow. "And how you yelled at me after..." The memory of it still stings now, even after his countless apologies. "It was the difference in how you treated me and her."

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"I know."

"No." His voice is quiet. "I need you to understand what happened."

You lift your head enough to look at him.

"I got there seconds after—" His jaw tightens. "I barely managed to pull you away. I was already petrified when I heard the code being called. I could only imagine you—" he stops, breathing heavily. "...I can't explain what that felt like."

He continues, "When I realised it wasn't you, I was relieved. And then I felt guilty for being relieved because someone had still gotten hurt, but all I could think about was how happy I was that it wasn't you."

The confession lands heavily between you.

"I was scared out of my mind. Angry at the patient. Relieved that you weren't hurt. Guilty that I was relieved. All at once. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

You squeeze his hand.

His eyes find yours. "It was never about Lily."

You believe him. Now, you do. But back then? Back then, you'd been drowning in uncertainty.

You shrug helplessly, revealing more of how you felt. "After that, I started noticing every little thing. The way you talked to her. The way she made you laugh."

"You make me laugh," he says firmly.

You roll your eyes at him, a slight smile tugging on your lips. "I think I was trying to make peace with losing you. If I wasn't the one for you, then she could be. She could be better for you. Kinder than me. Easier than me."

Jack's face falls. "Sweetheart..."

Your mouth twitches sadly, looking down at his shirt again.

"You genuinely thought that?"

You nod.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, lifting your gaze back to his. "Do you have any idea how much time I spent wishing you'd look at me the way I looked at you?" His thumb brushes across your skin. "It was always you."

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. You sigh. "We wasted so much time."

"Yeah."

Moments stolen by fear and assumptions and bad timing. You think about every dinner that could have been a date. Every movie night spent pretending not to notice how close he sat. Every almost-confession. Every chance that slipped away.

But now, everything's finally out in the open. The conversation drifts after that. You talk about everything. The first dinner. The first kiss. The kiss cam. The bar. Every misunderstanding. Every moment one of you had walked away convinced the other didn't feel the same.

Sometimes you laugh until your stomach hurts. Sometimes you bury your face in a pillow because neither of you can believe how oblivious you've been. Sometimes there's silence while you mourn all the things that could have been.

By the time the conversation finally slows, pale morning light is spilling through the curtains. Your eyes burn with exhaustion, but your chest feels lighter than it has in months.

You don't know what happens next.

You don't know what being married and newly confessed and hopelessly in love is supposed to look like. But for the first time, that uncertainty doesn't scare you. You'll figure it out together.

Beside you, Jack shifts closer beneath the blankets until there's barely any space left between you.

His lips brush your hair. "I love you."

You smile immediately. The confession still feels unreal. "I love you too."

The smile you feel against your forehead is warm and content. And wrapped in his arms, with the future still unwritten and endless possibilities stretching ahead of you, sleep finally finds you both.

The next evening finds you faster than you'd like.

As you step in through the door to the hospital, side by side, it reminds you of the first time you walked in carrying a secret on your shoulders—only this time, your shoulders are light, and your stomach is fluttering with happy jitters.

Somehow, you manage to make your way to the lockers without meeting anyone. With your bags dropped, you sneak a brief kiss against the door before you reenter the Pitt. Jack's hand brushes yours, your pinky catching his for a second, before you take a step apart.

You try to bite back the smile that threatens to break through. If you want this work, you need to stop acting like a lovestruck teenager. It's incredibly hard, though.

Robby stands at the hub, tablet in hand and a frown on his face.

"Rough day?" Jack says, clapping his back. He leans against the counter as you trail closer.

"Yeah... Good luck." Robby rubs his face, dropping the tablet on the counter. When his eyes open, they narrow in on the space between you and Jack—or rather the lack of it.

You shift to the side, trying to act nonchalant, but Robby's a hound. His eyes follow the movement immediately, nose twitching as he tries to sniff out everything you're trying to keep quiet.

"How was the conference?"

"Fine," Jack replies, glancing up at the board. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the counter.

"It was?" Robby raises an eyebrow, staring at him. Jack nods at him, shifting his gaze away quickly. Robby watches him for a moment, then turns to you.

"Mm," you nod, offering a tight smile. "The usual."

Robby stays silent, shifting his gaze from Jack to you, and then he grins widely. He chuckles, "If you so."

"Yeah," Jack nods with an awkward smile.

"Well, that's good." Robby keeps grinning as he pats the counter twice. "I'll see you later." He salutes you, still smiling, then walks off without any further questions.

You stare at his disappearing figure with a sense of dread. With a hand around Jack's wrist, you pull him into a quiet corner, hissing: "He knows."

Jack frowns. "How could he? We were acting normal."

You stare at him. "Normal? If you call 'you not looking at him at all' normal, then yes. Very normal."

"I did look at him."

"For two seconds. Normally, you don't look away at all," you counter.

Jack crosses his arms. "Well...You gave it away to Olivia."

"I didn't—I told her nothing."

"Exactly!" Jack points out. "That's not normal for you."

You stare at him with pinched eyebrows and then sigh. "...Yeah, okay. Maybe I did."

Jack sighs, too. "I guess I did, too." He shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips as he leans closer. "But to be fair, I think we forgot that they've spent months dealing with our sorry asses. Of course, they know. They knew we were in love before we did."

"—Abbot, there you are! Stop hiding in corners with your missus—trauma incoming," Lena interrupts with a wink. She doesn't even look back as she disappears down the hallway.

Jack squeezes your hand briefly on the way out, sending you a soft smile. "See you on the other side."

You watch him disappear around the corner before you head after him. The familiar knot of anxiety never comes. For weeks, every shift had felt like walking a tightrope. Every glance from Jack had meant something, and every action had been dissected. Now, the uncertainty is gone.

The Pitt is still loud. Still chaotic. The same as it always was. It's you who is different.

Across the department, Jack glances back. Just for a second, but long enough to catch your eye. Long enough to smile, and then he's gone into a trauma room.

You lift your hand up, showing her the raw knuckles. "Had a little accident."

"Doesn't look like an accident." She raises her brow at you, and you chuckle. If only she knew the real cause of it, she'd probably scold you right away.

"Okay, off you go." She lets you enter the ever busy ER, practically throwing you in front of your colleagues.

"Y/N?"

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Jesus. Is that your blood?"

Lena, Shen and Ellis huddle around you immediately, and you try not to wander around the room to look for a certain handsome doctor.

Lena ushers you into an empty room and orders you to sit down immediately. Once again, they are all staring at you.

"Gosh. I can't believe I'm asking this but did you punch someone?" Ellis asks, clearly amused the most. She's not worrying like a mother hen only because you seem to be okay. Well, besides the throbbing hand.

Your cheeks heat. "Yes."

They just stare at you, completely taken aback. Because they can't believe that you, their sunshine nurse, punched someone.

"What's going on here?" Jack finds y'all huddled together in the small room. He doesn't notice you at first, not when you are hidden by all of them.

But when he finally does, he strides towards you immediately, barking orders at the rest of them (softly of course), the man is too weak when it comes to his nightcrawlers.

"What the fuck happened?" Jack rolls a stool next to the bed, gently lifting your hurt hand up into his glowed once. God, he looks so worried at you and you cringe as he examines the red hand.

Even the lightest touch hurts, and you wince loudly before you finally confess. "Punched a guy."

"You did what?" Jack's head snaps up at you, attention gone from your injury. There's a clear concern for you written all over his face, it's even worse than it was before.

"Punched a guy." You repeat again, a little smugly this time. Because it felt good, so good, even if your hand is in ruins right now.

"Why?" Jack asks as he probs at various point in your hand, you wince and grimace every time.

You sigh before you answer. "I went out with my girlfriends as you know, and there was a creep. And when he didn't take a no for an answer, I took care of it. Thumb out of my fist just like you taught me."

Jack just stares, dumbfounded just like the others. It takes him a second to process your words but when he does, you almost melt.

"Good girl." Is all he says proudly before he's moving towards the computer. He has to occupy his mind with work or otherwise he's going to break a few HR rules by kissing you at work.

There's no scolding, no shaming for doing that, just understanding and that makes your heart feel funny things.

"I'll order an x-ray, it seems you might have broken a bone." He types it in before he turns his attention back to you. "Anything else that hurts, angel?"

"No just the hand. I did want to kick him as well but he got arrested before I could do it." You tell him, and he just shakes his head at you, suppressing the huge, proud grin. He should not be indulging you in this behaviour.

"Okay, well no more throwing fist for you, sweetheart. I'll go get you some ice for it."  And then Jack leaves with a soft squeeze of your knee, and you try not to fully lose it from the smallest touch.

You are like obsessed with your boyfriend, always craving more from him. More love, more kisses, more touch, more sweet words. But he's the same, obsessed with you beyond the reason.

Jack comes back a few minutes later with the ice pack clutched in his hand. He gently puts it over your hand, and it soothes the pain a little immediately.

"I'll be back with your x-ray results once that's done. And we'll see what happens after yeah?"

You hum in agreement, way too content in the fact that Jack's hand is tangled in your hair as he rubs slow circles into your jaw.

"Okay, angel. Try to get some rest." And then he gives you a quick kiss on the temple, HR rules be damned. Sleep finds you easily after that, and exhaustion from the pain, adrenaline and alcohol make it even easier.

-

When you wake up, Jack's there, his work bag slung over his shoulder and discharge papers in hand.

"Morning, sweetheart." He grins at your sleepy, smushed face. "No broken bones, just bad bruising. I got your discharge papers so we can go home."

You chance a look at your hand, only to find it wrapped up in bandage. Huh. You must have slept heavily when you didn't even feel somebody doing that.

"Home?"

"Yeah, baby. My shift ended so I can take you home and take a proper care of my girl." Jack helps you stand up from the bed even if it isn't necessary.

"I'd like that." You whisper sweetly, wrinkles appearing around your eyes as you smile.

"Of course you would." He teases you as he guides you out of the ER and towards his truck with his hand tightly clutching your un-hurt one.

"As much as I love taking care of you, angel. No more physical altercations please. God, you got me so worried." Jack says as he opens the door for you and helps you inside.

"I'm sorry. No more punching, I promise." You say sheepishly, you know he's just trying to protect you.

"Thank you." Jack says and then he gives you a peck on your mouth, and rounds the car. Both of you ready to go home and just cuddle in bed the whole day.

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

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

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

"Don't."

You'd frozen mid-motion.

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

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

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

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

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

"I can carry—" you start to say.

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

You press your lips together, then follow him.

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

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

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

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

Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.

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

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

It's the longest elevator ride of your life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two more days and he's free.

Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.

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

"What?"

He shrugs stiffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This couldn't be farther from that.

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

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

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

"Jack!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jeremy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, we met in med school."

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

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

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

"I did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, I've already been there."

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

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

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

"Uh—"

"We dated," Turner says.

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

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

"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh my god," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack stills next to you.

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

You squeeze your eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

"...Goodnight, Jack."

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

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

God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't.

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

Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.

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

"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.

Jack frowns. "You okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stride over to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What—"

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

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

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

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

Your words replay in his head.

Text me if you need the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To Warren. Or whoever."

"Why on earth would I do that?"

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

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

"I told you. Nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your expression twists instantly. "What?"

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

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

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

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

You shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"Pretend what?" He steps closer.

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

"What are you talking about?"

"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"

"That's not true!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows pinch together. "Who?"

"Lily."

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

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

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

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

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

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

"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"

"Yes, because that's insane."

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

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

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

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

His mind is spinning. You love him.

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

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

You love him.

"Jack," you interject.

He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“

"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.

His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"

You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."

"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?

"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."

"You think this is pity? After everything?"

"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."

"No."

"Jack—"

"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.

You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.

"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.

"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."

"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."

Doubt still flickers across your face.

"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."

You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."

"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.

You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."

You still look doubtful.

Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.

You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.

His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.

All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.

You love him.

It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.

Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.

"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."

Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.

Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.

"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.

His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.

"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."

He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.

You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.

"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.

"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.

He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.

He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."

It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.

He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.

You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.

"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.

You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"

"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."

"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.

"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.

"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."

"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.

He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.

"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."

Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.

You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.

Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.

"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.

He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?

You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.

You don't regret it.

"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.

"For what?"

"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."

You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."

Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"

"In the hallway. With Robby..."

He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."

"I do—"

"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."

He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."

He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.

"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.

He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."

You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."

Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."

"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.

"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.

"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.

He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.

Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.

It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.

Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.

She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.

So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.

Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?

But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.

She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.

And Jack—

Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.

Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.

"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.

Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.

Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.

"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."

He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.

"That bad?" he asks.

"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."

Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."

Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?

Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"

"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.

"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.

"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."

Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.

"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."

Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.

"Did you see her at rounds?"

Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"

Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."

Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."

Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.

You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.

So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.

Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.

After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—

Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.

In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.

His shoulder throbs harder.

"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.

Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.

"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.

"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.

That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"

"I—"

"Since when do you do that?"

Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."

Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.

"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."

Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."

You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."

"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.

The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.

And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.

"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.

He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"

Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.

Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.

"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."

"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.

"You're crying."

"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.

"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."

"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."

You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.

He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."

"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."

He fights the urge to look away.

"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.

"I know."

"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.

He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.

Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."

You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"

"I won't go," he promises.

"Jack—"

"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.

"Really?"

He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."

You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.

You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."

Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"

"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.

"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."

Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.

"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.

"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.

The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.

"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"

You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"

He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."

You close the chart immediately. "Okay."

The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.

You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.

His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.

You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.

"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.

"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.

"I am careful."

You don't answer him.

He sighs. "…Careful-ish."

You almost smile. Almost.

"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.

"No problem."

He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.

After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.

You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.

For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—

You could make it work.

A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.

Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.

Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.

You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.

The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.

One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.

"Breakfast," Jack says.

You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.

His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.

You stare after him, chest twisting.

"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.

You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."

"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."

She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—

You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—

"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.

You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."

Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.

"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.

You nod once. "Yeah."

But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.

Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."

You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"

"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."

You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.

Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.

As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.

"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.

"The sedation should still hold," she states.

You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.

And then—

His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.

"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."

The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.

"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.

Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.

"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.

This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.

You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.

Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hula Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.

Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.

You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.

"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.

"Mm," she mutters.

Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.

"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.

Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."

"I can walk," you say.

"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."

"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.

"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.

He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.

"I'm fine."

He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.

"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.

"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"

You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."

"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.

"No."

"Nausea? Dizziness?"

"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.

He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.

"That bad?"

"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."

He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."

"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."

He doesn't answer you.

You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."

"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.

"Don't call him."

"What?"

"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."

"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."

"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."

Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."

You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.

You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"

Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."

The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.

You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.

Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.

He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.

"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.

"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."

Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.

His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—

"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"

You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."

His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.

"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.

Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."

You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.

His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."

"Jack—"

He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."

Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.

"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.

"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"

You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."

He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."

"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."

"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.

You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.

"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.

"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.

You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.

"What?"

"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.

"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."

Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.

Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.

He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."

You study him quietly.

"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."

His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."

You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."

You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.

As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.

"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.

Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."

"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.

"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."

Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."

Jack’s jaw clenches.

"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."

"I'm pissed."

"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."

Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.

Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."

"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.

"Then trust her."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.

Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."

Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.

Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."

That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.

Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."

Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.

Jack stays with you through it all.

From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.

When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.

You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.

Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."

You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.

And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.

"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."

Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.

Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"

You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."

Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"

"No," Jack interjects immediately.

Trinity blinks at him.

He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."

Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.

"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.

You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."

"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."

You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."

He huffs. "Still."

Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.

By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.

"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.

"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—

Well. His hand is comforting.

Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.

"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.

He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."

His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."

You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."

He shrugs in response.

The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.

Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.

He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.

You stop. "What are you doing?"

"You can sleep in my bed."

"What?"

"It’s better for your ribs."

You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."

"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.

You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.

Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."

Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."

You blink.

"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."

"You still have a head injury."

"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.

"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.

You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."

"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."

Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."

Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.

"What are you doing?"

He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."

"Jack," you protest.

"What?"

"Your back’s gonna hurt."

He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.

You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.

With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."

Jack looks up.

Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."

His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."

And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.

He steps back first. "I'll be right back."

You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.

"…Jack."

He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.

You stare at him. "What are you doing?"

He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."

"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.

He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.

You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."

He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.

You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."

Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.

Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.

Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.

You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.

"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.

You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.

The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.

By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.

Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.

For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.

You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—

Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.

You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.

You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—

You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.

I should’ve never agreed to this.

The hope curdles again.

Going back to work takes another week.

Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.

You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.

It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.

The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.

One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"

"No," Jack says flatly.

Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.

Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.

You groan immediately.

Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"

"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.

"Seriously?" you sigh.

Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."

You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."

"You’re still recovering," he counters.

"I’m fine."

Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."

Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"

Both of you turn to look at him.

"It’s a two-person thing."

Silence hangs in the air.

"…Oh," you say slowly.

Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."

"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.

You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.

"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.

You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.

He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."

You nod. "Okay."

There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.

Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.

It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.

Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?

You have to be.

But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.

You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.

"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.

You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.

He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."

You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."

"You're not," he says.

"I might."

"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."

Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.

He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.

"What's this?"

"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."

Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"

"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.

You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."

He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.

The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.

By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?

"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.

You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.

Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.

"You've got this," Jack says.

"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.

He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.

"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.

You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.

"Repeat it," he says.

You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.

"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."

You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.

Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."

You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.

When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.

After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.

During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.

By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.

As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.

"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.

You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"

You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."

He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."

He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"

"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"

Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."

Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.

A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.

"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.

"Oh no," you shake your head.

"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.

"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," you say shyly.

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.

Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"

Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.

"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."

He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.

As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.

"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."

"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.

"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"

"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."

You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"

He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.

You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"

You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."

He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.

"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.

"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."

"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."

He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."

You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.

Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.

As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.

"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."

For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.

Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.

He clears his throat. "I wanted to."

You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.

"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"

Jack swallows hard and nods.

You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.

You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.

Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—

"SURPRISE!"

You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.

"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.

Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’

Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."

"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"

Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.

He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."

Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.

"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."

"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.

You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.

His arms wrap around you automatically.

"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.

His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.

You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.

Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.

He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.

After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.

"Tired?" he asks.

"A little."

"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.

You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.

"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."

Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."

"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.

"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.

Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.

The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.

Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.

"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"

"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."

"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.

"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.

There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"

Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.

Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.

"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.

"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"

"I am," she laughs.

"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.

She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."

Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.

Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.

Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.

"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."

"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.

"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.

You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."

"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"

After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.

Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.

As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.

Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.

She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"

The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."

Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.

As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"

You turn to her again. "That depends."

A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"

You frown at her.

She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."

You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."

"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"

"Really?"

"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."

Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.

"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."

You blink.

"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."

"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.

"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."

You fall silent.

"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.

Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."

Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.

"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."

The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.

You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.

Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.

"Oh no," you murmur immediately.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.

"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.

Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.

His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.

Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."

Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.

The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.

"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."

"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.

"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."

Laughter erupts around the room.

"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.

Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."

"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.

"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."

"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.

"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"

You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.

Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."

"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.

"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."

Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."

The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.

Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.

The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.

He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?

Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"

The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.

"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"

He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"

The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.

"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.

Then he drops your hand again.

A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.

Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.

"Two seltzers and two beers."

"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"

You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"

"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.

You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.

Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.

You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.

"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.

"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.

Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.

"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.

You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.

As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"

He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.

You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"

He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"

"Yeah?"

"It looked that way."

You frown at him.

"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."

Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"

"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.

"What are you talking about?"

He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."

Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."

His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."

You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."

"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."

"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."

He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."

Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."

His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."

"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."

He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."

You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"

He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"

"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.

His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"

Then the doorknob rattles

Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.

But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.

Without thinking, you react.

It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.

Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.

He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.

Jack groans at the sound.

The door opens behind you—

"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.

You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.

The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.

It tastes sharp.

But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.

You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.

He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.

"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.

Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.

He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."

"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"

"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."

Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.

You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."

The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.

"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.

She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"

You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."

Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.

Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.

"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."

At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.

"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.

She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.

Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"

You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."

Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."

For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.

Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”

You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.

Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.

"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."

You blink. "What?"

Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."

Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."

"…Who?"

She's silent.

"No way."

She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"

"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.

Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."

You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."

"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.

"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."

"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."

The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.

For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.

It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,

You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.

"You good?" Robby asks.

There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.

"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."

"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.

You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."

You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.

"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."

"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.

Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."

You bite your lip harshly.

"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"

"It's gone too far now and I—"

You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.

You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.

But it doesn’t.

Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.

It’s not that they shouldn’t disturb you. 

It was just that. 

They couldn’t disturb you while you were in that state. 

As you were so completely enthralled by your charting. 

They could try and pull you away. 

But you’d simply swiftly delegate whatever went your way. 

But the only thing that would draw your attention away was an emergency trauma in need of all hands on deck. 

And recently they discovered another thing. 

The only other thing to pull your attention. 

…Dr Brendon Park 

The Shark of PTMC.

The ortho surgeon that could sniff blood in the water. That cruised through the choppy waters of the ER.  

It was a rare sight to see him come down. 

But when he did. 

It was as though his presence parted the seas. 

A hush would fall over the staff as soon as he’d step out of the elevator. 

Med students and interns would scatter away. Wide eyed and bitten lips, rushing to leave his line of sight. 

Murmurs between nurses would hum, just barely audible but the words were always the same. 

Questioning glances and raised brows. 

“Who called for a consult?”

“Didn’t think we’d see him here today?”

“What is he doing here?”

Whispers would pass around the room. A faint buzz beneath the beeping and hurried steps and all the other noises of the ER. 

But it never fazed him. 

Eyes unbothered. 

His jaw tense. 

As sharp as a knife. 

But then the source of his interest. 

The reason for his visit came to light. 

As everyone mumbled quietly, “Of course”

The surprise had since dissipated and had melted into a state of disbelief. 

They still couldn’t believe it. 

You. 

The lovely, the sweet, the dedicated, resident they loved to work with. 

You. 

Were the one that had ensnared Park. 

You had caught him in your net without ever meaning to. 

And no one there could begin to understand how. Or why you had given him a chance. 

But that didn’t matter to either of you.

The only ones who needed to know. 

Were you and Brendon. 

With a coffee in hand, he approaches you, not giving anyone else the time of day. 

Your attention is completely consumed by your charting. 

Only for you to practically jump out of your chair, almost sliding off, it it weren’t for the hand on your back to steady you. 

The same hand that had shaken you from your state. 

Startled by the sudden feel of a large, gentle hand across your back. 

You suck in a harsh breath, a small squeak escapes you as you clasp at your chest in shock. 

Turning to see the source of your disruption. 

Only for your raised brows to soften. 

Your lips widen into a smile at the sight of him. 

“Hey” he lowly greeted, the soft timbre of his voice settling in your chest. Warming you from within. 

His hand steady on your back, a small quirk of his lip from your reaction. 

Amusement shining in his clear blue eyes. 

“What’re you doing here? Thought you’d be in surgery right now?” you questioned blinking in surprise. 

“Just finished, thought I’d come by and bring you a coffee,” he offered the cup in his other hand, as your fingers curled around it, barely brushing his fingers across yours. 

Smiling into the cup you take a sip, as the warm aromas flood your mouth with a sigh of delight escaping you. Shoulder’s slumping at ease. 

“Aren’t you sweet,” your eyes flicked up to meet his eye. While he leaned against the desk you were at. 

“We still on for dinner tonight?” He asked. 

Pulling a cheeky teasing smile, you remark, “Only if we manage to get out on time”

“As if anything would keep me from it,” he stated, as though it should be obvious to you. His fondness for you, only having grown more since you started dating. 

Leaning back into your chair, “I can think of a number of problems that might keep us here,” you retort. 

Clicking his tongue, he ducks his head lower to meet yours, voice deep and low as though it rumbled from the very depths of his chest, “None would be a good enough reason to stay away from you”

His lips meet yours, soft, with just the faint roughness that was so very him. The smallest nip of his teeth across your lip. 

And then all too soon. He pulls away. 

“I’ll see you later”

“Not if I see you first,” you press a kiss to his cheek, as he hand lingers on your back for just a moment before he eventually lets his feet move. 

The composure he usually carried now formed once more. Steely and cold. Any presence of softness all left behind with you. 

His only weakness as it seemed. 

And your only distraction. 

As he was the only person who could ever pull your attention away when you were knee deep in charting. 

A mystery those of the Pitt still couldn’t quite decipher. 

But as they passed you by. 

As you happily sipped on your coffee, a wide smile spread across your face. 

Eyes gleaming in delight. A new vigor in your movements. A chipper note to your voice. 

They didn’t need to understand how or why. 

As they saw you beaming with joy. 

They understood that it was true. 

That it was good. 

That you and Park. 

The Shark of PTMC.

Had a good thing going for you both.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Brendon being a thoughtful partner is always fun to explore! ♥️ Let me know what you thought. Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

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

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It had been a few weeks since little Willow was born and baby Cordelia had been folded into the fabric of your lives. Becoming parents to both a newborn and a three-month-old was... utterly cathartic. The attic had been transformed into a sanctuary cluttered with varying sizes of clothing, mountains of diapers, and the omnipresent scent of milk and talcum powder. The girls were polar opposites in every way, from the pitch of their cries to the specific way they sought solace in your arms. Your world had ignited with their arrival; it was now infinitely louder and overflowing with fleeting moments you wished you could sear into your memory forever.

Even the most mundane errands, like a trip to the supermarket, had evolved into a genuine Odyssey. Yet, despite the crushing exhaustion, you wouldn't have traded the chaos for the world. It was a sight worthy of a master’s canvas: to see your imposing husband—your Brendon—rendered completely paternal, strapped into a baby carrier. There was something profoundly moving about watching him navigate the aisles with a sleeping infant pressed against his chest, his massive frame shielding that fragile, tiny life as he meticulously scrutinized the grocery list.

"We need more wipes," you noted, adjusting Willow against your chest in her own sling. Brendon had insisted on carrying Cordelia, doing so with a natural grace that made the infant appear as though she were a permanent extension of his forearm.

He nodded with that calculated gravity he applied to everything, from a complex femur fixation to the logistics of infant hygiene. He paused before the shelves, sifting through brands to find the specific wipes you’d both deemed superior for your daughters.

"And size two diapers for Cordelia."

"Definitely," Brendon agreed, glancing down at the baby’s plump thighs protruding from her tiny dungarees. "Your milk must contain some anabolic compound I’m unaware of, Doll. She’s thriving better on you than she ever did on formula."

You let out a soft laugh, feeling Willow’s rhythmic, sleepy sighs against your skin. It was true; since you had decided to breastfeed Cordelia as well—to bolster her immune system and forge the bond that had been denied to her at birth—the little one had transformed from a frail infant into a robust creature full of vitality. She looked so radiant in Brendon’s arms that it was occasionally difficult to reconcile her with the sickly, fragile soul she had been on the Fourth of July.

"It’s liquid gold, Big Guy," you teased, gently stroking Willow’s back through the fabric. "Besides, she has a father who never stops stimulating her motor skills. It’s only natural she’s burning through energy and demanding more."

Brendon’s lips quirked into a half-smile—that signature, arrogant expression of satisfaction you loved so much. He drifted closer, allowing Cordelia to reach out a tiny hand and grasp the collar of his linen shirt, while he wound his free, heavy arm around your waist.

"I’m not complaining. Seeing her grow this resilient because she has the finest mother in the world is one of the greatest privileges of my life," he murmured. His voice dropped to a low rumble as he pulled you against him, his gaze lingering on Willow. "But at this rate, we’re going to need a new wardrobe; I think half her closet is already obsolete."

You shook your head, amused, though you knew he was right: Cordelia seemed to flourish with every blink of an eye. However, your moment of domestic complicity was punctured by an elderly woman who approached with a pryingly curious smile.

"Oh, how marvelous," the woman chirped, leaning in uncomfortably close to inspect the infants. "Two babies? You must have your hands quite full, dear."

Brendon didn't move, but you felt the muscles in his arm tighten around your waist. His territorial instinct—the one that made him look like an apex predator even in the baby aisle—was instantly triggered by the stranger’s intrusion.

"Full and very busy, ma'am," Brendon replied. His tone wasn't overtly rude, but it carried that razor-sharp edge of clinical courtesy he usually reserved for difficult relatives in a surgical waiting room.

The woman, oblivious to the silent warning flashing in Brendon’s steel-blue eyes, let out a shrill giggle and pointed a finger dangerously close to Cordelia’s chubby cheek.

"They are... remarkably different, aren't they?" she said, squinting as her gaze darted between the baby on your breast and the one in Brendon’s arms. "The one you’re carrying, dear, is the spitting image of her father... but this other one—" The woman paused dramatically, seeking an explanation she wasn't entitled to. "Which of the two is actually yours? Because it’s quite obvious they aren’t twins. Though I suppose I can guess the answer."

You were stunned by the woman’s audacity. A knot of indignation tightened in your throat; you couldn't fathom the casual cruelty with which she questioned the legitimacy of your family in a grocery aisle.

Brendon didn't allow the silence to linger long enough for you to swallow your anger. He drew himself up to his full, towering height, forcing the woman to crane her neck back just to maintain eye contact. Anyone with a modicum of intuition would have recognized the simmering fury in his gaze.

"Both," Brendon said, his voice dropping to an icy register—the tone he used to dismantle an incompetent orthopedic resident.

The woman, failing to register the danger, adjusted her spectacles. "Oh, don’t take offense, young man. I’m only saying that genetics are fickle, but there's no mistaking the lineage here. I’m just curious as to what the—"

"They are mine," Brendon interrupted. He didn't raise his voice, but the words landed with the finality of a gavel. "Absolutely and entirely mine. Both of them."

He adjusted his hold on Cordelia with possessive tenderness, letting the infant’s fingers tangle in his shirt directly over his heart.

"There are no degrees of 'truth' in this family, ma'am," he continued, pinning her with an intensity that forced her to take a staggered step back. "I have two daughters and a wife. That is the only biological and legal reality that concerns you. If your curiosity is rooted in physical traits, I suggest you consult an anthropology textbook and allow us to finish our shopping in peace."

The woman’s mouth fell open in offense, but Brendon was already finished with her. He nudged you forward, his body acting as a shield for you and Willow.

"Come, Sunshine. We’re wasting precious time, and our girls have better things to do than serve as a stranger’s social experiment."

He didn't slow his pace until you reached a much quieter aisle. Only then did he exhale a sharp breath of irritation, searching your face to ensure you were alright.

"Don't let someone like that steal your voice again, Doll," he murmured, his tone regaining that rough warmth he reserved solely for you. "Cordelia isn't 'this other one.' She is a Park. And if anyone has a grievance with how our family looks, they can take it up with my legal department—or my fist. Whichever they prefer."

He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his jaw still tight with residual adrenaline.

"Next time," he added, a hint of his usual swagger returning, "just tell her that genetics are so brilliant they decided to give us the best of both worlds twice. Now, let’s find a bottle of wine. I think I’ve earned it."

“is it going to hurt?” you can see his bottom lip wobbling, fat tears already running down his cheeks. his mom already shaking her head as she looks to you. “the xray?” you shake your head “no.” you smile again. “it’s like taking a picture— you won’t feel a thing.” and albeit your soft words, you can still see the fear in his eyes.

“jack, right?” you ask. the little boy nods. “we’ve got a jack here too.” you hand squeezes his this time. “he’s one of our doctors.” he looks to you, and rubs his eye with his free hand. “is he here?” he asks, wetly.

“no. not right now. he’s works at night but sometimes you’ll catch him around here during the day. the man just never knows when to sleep.” you joke and it gets a little giggle out of him. “but robby here,” you tip your head to the other attending “is his friend. so now, he knows not one, but two, jacks.” robby nods his head. “it must be my lucky day.”

it was quick for xrays to finish. you were just waiting for ortho. the kid had seemed more relaxed, lighter even, considering the circumstances. you had managed to keep his mind occupied and were pretty sure he forgot why he was there to begin with.

“what’ve we got?” your eyes pan up to his voice.

park was steering through those in the room as he snapped his gloves on. his eyes glance up to you, lingering, before looking to the little boy. you can feel jacks hand slide into yours again. squeezing once more.

“7 year old male, with a—” your eyes shift to the little boy, who has your hand in his grasp. you watch him watching brendon. “hey.” you whisper, grabbing his attention. it’s okay. you mouth. but it seemed to have fallen on deaf ears seeing as he went right back to watching park.

it wasn’t supposed to be funny. the kid was scared for god sakes. but you couldn’t help but stifle a smile as you see the realization on his face that brendon could possibly be his doctor. if he requires the surgery.

jack instinctively presses himself into your side when brendon approaches. almost trying to make himself smaller.

despite brendon’s appearance and large size, he was actually amiable. not that he’d ever admit it. and you were probably one in a few to see that side of him. you had been seeing him for a little over a month now. not that anyone else was aware. and chances are of them believing that someone like you, can be with someone like park the shark, was very slim.

“I’m gonna take a look at your arm, kid. that alright?” brendon glances at the boy who is staring back at him wide eyed. he asked so lowly, so politely— something that while you were used to— you were sure your fellow coworkers, weren’t. the most decency robby has seen from park in the time he’s worked with him is the few nods of acknowledgment he gets or the short answers in between consults. anything outside of that is few and far between. he was sure other Jack gets more out of him than he does.

jack looks up at you for reassurance, probably even help.

“it’s okay. Dr. Park, here,” you nod to Brendon, “wants to make sure your arm won’t need surgery.” jack squeezes you again and lets out a small shaky breath before giving a tiny ‘okay’ to brendon.

“he looks scary.” the small voice of admittance has the room laughing under breath. even the one who it was in reference too fights the urge to smile. “you know,” you say softly, leaning close to Jack as if about to tell him a secret. “he’s actually a big softie.” you whisper and you can feel brendons eyes on you. his head subtly shaking.

“m’not soft.” he grunts. peering at your through his lashes. you roll your eyes in response.

“he has a shark plushie in his office from when i gave it to him.” you whisper. and brendon looks at you sharply. something that doesn’t seem to startle you unlike the little boy.

brendon gives you a look then looks to the boy. “you need to tell her it’s not good to lie.” and your mouth drops. a laugh escaping as you shake your head.