No, One Mourns The Wicked

When Y/N first met Jack Abbot, it was at Mel’s birthday party.

It’d been a surprise event.

Something Santos had thrown together and invited the entire ED out to. It was Langdon’s job to get her to the karaoke bar, and she was completely surprised by the event. Just like that, drinks were flowing and music was blasting.

Y/N sat close to a wall, biding her time until she could walk over to Mel and wish her a happy birthday.

Then she could get out of here.

“Who’s next?! Who’s next?!” Santos laughs into the mic, tipsy and buzzing with excitement as she sets up the next song.

‘I need a hero’ by Bonnie Tyler…

Y/N wants to seep into the wall behind her. And when Santos makes eye contact with her, she definitely wants to bolt..

“Let’s go, mouse! You’ve got some lungs on you or what?” Santos snickers as she walks over with the mic. With the way Y/N stiffened, you’d think the microphone was a gun.

“Oh. No. Sore throat..” Y/N tries.

“Boo! Sing!” Santos says into the mic. “Sing! Sing! Sing!” She begins to chant, the party joining her, and Y/N can feel a tightness begin on her shoulders. She shakes a bit as she realizes she has only two options now. Make things awkward for everyone, or just give in..

As she puts on a fake smile, hand reaching for the mic, a hand grabs it first. “I know you did not just put on my song and then try and overlook me..” Jack says into the mic after grabbing it.

A few party people laugh at that and Santos smiles big as she cheers him on. He gives Y/N a slight wink. One that shows he’s got her. Y/N feels her shoulders slump a bit as she watches Jack get up on stage to start singing, making a big show out of it.

The crowd is so distracted by his performance, that Y/N can easily grab her jacket and give Mel a passing goodbye and ‘happy birthday’ before she leaves outside, breathing in the fresh air and getting far from the noise. She debates leaving, but… She stays put.

And to this day, she’s glad she did.

Jack had come out with some water for her. The two sat on the curb outside the bar and Jack didn’t speak.

He waited.

Waited till Y/N felt like she could actually handle a conversation.

“Thanks. For that.” She mutters.

“Don’t thank me. I’m a Bonnie Tyler super fan..” Jack states in a dry tone that makes Y/N debate if he’s joking or not. Until he smirks at her. Then she giggles.

“I’m Jack, by the way..” He finally says. She smiles a bit.

“Y/N…” She whispers.

*

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Now enjoy these headcanons:

• Jack and Y/N’s first date wasn’t the cliche dinner date or movie night. Jack knew by this point that Y/N liked the simple aspects of life. So.. He tried to deliver. A cooking night in at her place. He had shown up with the ingredients and a promise to make her his famous pasta dish. Music played from his phone as he and Y/N made the sauce and pasta from scratch, talking the entire night and just enjoying the quiet peace.. •

• Jack learned the hard way that Y/N won’t say when she’s feeling overstimulated or drained while out somewhere. Jack is always the life of the party, so Y/N wants him to enjoy himself as much as possible. But she always gets to a breaking point sooner or later.. It actually caused their first ever fight two months into their relationship because Jack wanted her to start telling him these things.. He’d constantly say things like “I’m only having as much fun as my girlfriend is.” and “I hate seeing you like this..” •

• To fix this, Jack taught Y/N certain hand signals to use instead of her words. At first, she hesitated, thinking he wouldn’t notice her ‘subtly’ do it, but to her surprise, the first time she used a hand signal while out with friends, Jack stood right up and excused him and Y/N to go outside for a minute… •

• The hand signals were simple enough. Rubbing her chest in a circular motion, even slightly, showed Jack she needed a minute or two outside. Tugging her right earlobe twice meant she could go another ten minutes or so before she’d want to leave. Tugging her left earlobe? Oh, that meant she needed to go now. She rarely used that gesture though, because Jack was always attentive to the breaks she’d need.. •

• Jack always sits next to her while out with friends. His hand is constantly on her lower back, lazily rubbing as he focuses on the conversations around him. Sometimes he’ll put his hand flat on the middle of her back just to get a feel of her breathing patterns. If it’s too quick for his liking, he knows they need to step out.. •

• Unless they’re going out with friends or family, it’s rare that they hang out at restaurants or bars. Their date nights are usually either spent inside or sometimes in lowkey places. Bookstores, cafés, record shops. Hell, Jack’s mindset has always been ‘if you like them enough, anything can be a date’. So sometimes, he even counts the grocery store trips you guys take as a date.. •

• Y/N gets flustered at PDA, and Jack loves PDA. They’ve found common ground by doing small things. Instead of holding hands, they hook pinkies. Instead of him constantly grabbing at her waist, which is something he loves to do, she just stands close enough to him so that she can feel his body against hers. Instead of kissing, he just stares at her lips until she sheepishly gives a small air kiss which he happily accepts.. •

• When Y/N does get a low social battery, Jack knows exactly what she needs now. Quiet and comfort. He’ll get her home, run her a bath, and let her settle in to the much needed silence. He won’t speak, he won’t push her. And when she’s all done in the bath, he’ll just lay next to her while she rests. He won’t hold her, knowing she’s still trying to find her footing. He doesn’t want to suffocate her. But when she’s ready, she snuggles into him.. •

• Sometimes, Jack loves playing a little game with Y/N that he likes to call.. ‘how flustered can I make her’. Pet names, subtle touches to her hips and waist, winking at her. Whatever he can do to get her face as red as an apple. Usually done while at work because then he can snicker to himself when she finally fusses at him. He likes to playfully tease her, but he still respects her outlook on PDA, so obviously he doesn’t do it with a lot of people around.. •

• Jack loves whenever Y/N gets overly excited about something because the volume to her voice raises and it’s a rare moment that he can see.. her. The real her. The her that not many can say they know well. But he can. One night, while they were discussing the movie they just finished watching on the living tv, Y/N laughed loud without meaning to. She covered her mouth and Jack just smiled at her. “Thank you…” He finally whispered after a passing minute. “For what?” Y/N asked sheepishly. “For allowing me this…” Jack muttered before carefully kissing her forehead.. •

“I can’t risk it.  That was a dark day.”  He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending.  Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD.  Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand.  Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him.  It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill.  “Please, dude,” he begged.  You sighed and agreed to get Jack.  

The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime.  Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge.  His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch.  You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean.  As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended.  He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.  

You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach.  Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing.  You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing.  You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir.   See Shen?  This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper.  You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled, 

“Hey, sweetheart.”  What?!  No.  That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain.  In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh.  He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea.  You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants.  He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up.  Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath. 

It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one.  You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done.  On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee.  That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch.  

You made a sound.  One you’d definitely never made at the hospital.  One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,

“Lay down with me, honey.”  The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest.  Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded.  He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were…  Oh.  Oh no.  Was he thinking about his dead wife?!  “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.  

“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice.  Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you.  Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls.  You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to.  Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.  

He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp.  For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest.  Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.       

“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless.  “Shen needs you.”

He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch.  

“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”

“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it. 

“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her. 

“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused.  He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.

“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.”  The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy.  It felt like he was actually admitting something else.  Something potentially life-changing.  

You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place.  Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg.  You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong.  Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster.  This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder. 

He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his.  Thankfully you weren’t attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours.  Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.  

“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.  

“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.  

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it.  Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again.  You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,

“Hey, you started it.”  You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide.  At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,

“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it.  Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes. 

“Is yours?”  He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.  

“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him.  But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis?  “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging.  He nodded,

“Yeah, it felt great.”  You laughed at his unexpected feedback.   

“You did not just say that.  Is that your medical opinion?”  He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat.  It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health.  From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line.  You needed to get out while you still could.  “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.  

You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last.  Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs.  Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.  

The night shift in ‘The Pitt’, as everyone called it to overhype how much whiplash one could go through within a few hours, was always an uneasy challenge compared to the day shift, you never knew what was coming because exhaustion made every monitor alarm feel like it was drilled into your skull. The emergency department was already drowning before the clock even hit seven.

Ambulances kept stacking up outside the bay doors. Psych holds were lining the hallways because there were no open beds upstairs. Dana was already arguing with transport over missing imaging scans while simultaneously barking orders at nurses.

Simply, she was trying to keep triage moving so they could clock out along with some students looking one step away from passing out onto the ground.

And in the mix of it was Y/N, trying to make it through her first night herself, Gloria had hired her as another addition to the emergency department of the hospital to help out, really. 

“Traffic volume at night has increased almost thirty percent over the last quarter, so the administration approved another attending for overnight emergency medicine coverage. Dr. Y/LN will be joining nights effective immediately.”

A few exhausted claps followed, and Jack had barely looked up from signing discharge paperwork.

At least not then.

Because Jack was used to people cycling through the department, nurses came and went, people rotated every few weeks. New hires usually spent their first shift trying not to drown.

But around an hour later into her first full shift into the darkness, he turned the corner near radiology while speed walking with a chart in one hand and coffee in the other and slammed directly into somebody.

Coffee splashed onto the floor and a clipboard hit the ground.

“Jesus-”

Jack caught her automatically by the waist before she lost balance, her eyes immediately looked up to his face extremely irritated.

She was pretty in his eyes, drop dead gorgeous.

“Seriously?” she snapped immediately. “On my first fucking day?”

Jack blinked once before the corner of his mouth lifted naturally. It wasn’t even intentional, he was just a natural flirt at this point.

“Well,” he said smoothly, “Usually I at least buy someone dinner before I tackle them in the hallway.”

She stared at him like she wanted to put him through drywall.

Dana walked past carrying lab slips and immediately pointed. “Abbot, quit harassing the new attending.”

“I’m not harassing anybody,” Jack answered casually without taking his eyes off Y/N. “I’m introducing myself.”

“You’re in my way,” Y/N muttered.

She was definitely not intimidated by him, genuinely.

Jack crouched to grab the chart she’d dropped. “Dr. Jack Abbot.”

“I know who you are.”

Something about that answer pleased him more than it should have.

He handed the chart back carefully. “And you are?”

“Too busy for you.”

Then she walked off.

Whitaker, standing nearby with an IV start kit, looked between them slowly. “Oh, she hates you.”

Jack watched her disappear toward the trauma wing.

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “Not yet.”

And then, the next few hours turned from the calm before the storm to the peak of the storm.

A 72 year old woman came in screaming over a broken hip after falling down her stairs. A drunk college kid cracked his head open trying to jump off a roof into a pool, but unfortunately landed on the concrete in a loud thud and the icing on the cake is somebody overdosed on something laced in the ambulance bay bathroom.

Y/N barely had time to breathe,

Dana stayed glued to her side most of the shift, rapidly updating her between patients while moving through the department like a war general.

“Room nine’s potassium came back critical. Trauma two needs reassessment. Psych hold in fourteen tried to bite a nurse. And room six keeps hitting the call light because his blanket’s too warm.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Y/N muttered, rubbing exhausted hands over her face.

Then room six started yelling again.

“I BEEN WAITING THIRTY MINUTES!”

“You’ve been here six hours,” Javadi snapped from inside the room.

“I WANT A DIFFERENT DOCTOR.”

“And I want silence,” Javadi fired back.

The patient started complaining louder and Javadi started arguing louder.

And finally Y/N stormed into the room with the kind of exhausted fury only night shift doctors possessed.

“For fuck’s sake could you just shut up? Both of you.”

The silence hit immediately and Javadi looked relieved. Unfortunately for her, Jack happened to be walking by right when she said that.

He stopped mid step.

Turned.

Looked through the doorway.

Y/N stood there in black scrubs with loose strands of hair escaping her ponytail, gloves snapped against her wrist, expression murderous from stress and exhaustion.

Jack actually doubled back to stare.

Whitaker nearly walked into him. “Why’d you stop?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on her.

“Because I think I’m in love with the new attending.”

Whitaker snorted. “You say that every week.”

“No,” Jack said quietly. “I usually like the nice ones.”

The adrenaline from the chaos of the shift barely had time to leave the department before the next disaster hit.

That was the thing nobody warned new attendings about.

The emotional whiplash.

One second, you were saving somebody’s life in surgery, and the next, you were arguing with the pharmacy over the littlest things ever, and by 4 am, the ER was a nervous wreck.

Y/N stood beside the central desk, signing discharge paperwork while rubbing at the ache forming behind her eyes.

“You’ve got room twelve asking for morphine again,” Dana said without looking up.

“The guy with bipolar disorder?”

“Mhm.”

“He literally got Ativan an hour ago.”

“He says his ‘bones hurt.’”

Y/N sighed deeply. “Of course they do.”

Jack walked by at the exact moment she muttered it.

“You look thrilled to be here,” he commented casually.

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“That can probably be arranged in room six.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched.

Jack noticed immediately.

Victory.

Then Dana pointed her pen toward the psych room. “Security’s tied up in the lobby with a dead patient, so can somebody please go deal with him before he starts screaming again?”

Y/N grabbed the chart.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Need backup?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m an attending physician, not a child..”

She rolled her eyes and disappeared into room twelve.

The second the door shut, the atmosphere changed.

The patient sat upright in bed twitching his knee rapidly. Mid 40’s. Sweaty. Agitated. Eyes moving too fast.

“I need morphine,” he snapped immediately.

“You don’t have an order for morphine.”

“You people never listen.”

“You’re medically stable.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You slept on it wrong obviously.”

His jaw clenched because Dear God was this man about to run her through a wall on her first day here.

Y/N kept her distance carefully while checking the monitor. “You need to calm down.”

“I AM CALM.”

Outside the room, Javadi was walking past with Whitaker, discussing labs, when suddenly they heard a crash.

Then another.

“HEY-”

He grabbed her by the throat so violently that her back slammed into the wall.

Everything happened impossibly fast.

The chart flew from her hands.

Her airway compressed instantly.

Y/N clawed at his wrists, trying to pry him off while he screamed nonsense directly in her face.

Outside, Javadi’s eyes widened.

“HULA HOOP!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Every resident and nurse in the department knew the code word immediately.

Violent patient.

Need help now.

The patient shoved Y/N harder against the wall while reaching wildly toward the sharps container mounted beside the bed.

“Oh shit,” Whitaker breathed.

The plastic container ripped halfway off the wall and somehow warped.

Needles rattled inside.

Y/N tried kneeing him in the stomach but he outweighed her badly and had leverage on her throat.

Then he got hold of a syringe.

And raised it.

Jack Abbot heard the scream from halfway down the hallway.

The second he registered Javadi yelling hula hoop he moved, faster than anyone expected with a prosthetic leg on.

By the time he reached the room, the patient had the needle raised toward Y/N’s neck.

He slammed into the guy so hard the entire bed shifted across the floor. The syringe flew from the patient’s handand somehow landed directly into the man’s foot.

The patient shrieked.

“GET SECURITY!” Dana yelled.

Jack had the guy face down on the floor in seconds, forearm pressed between his shoulder blades, while security finally flooded into the room.

“How the hell did y’all let him in?” Jack snapped furiously. “He’s a frequent violent flyer!”

“Nobody flagged him in triage,” Dana answered breathlessly.

Jack looked up immediately toward Y/N and she was still standing somehow with one hand wrapped around her throat.

She was breathing hard then her knees buckled.

Jack caught her before she hit the floor.

“Easy,” he said immediately, voice completely changing. Softer now. “Easy.”

“I’m fine,” she rasped.

“You are absolutely not fine.”

Her body folded forward automatically from adrenaline crash, and she landed directly against his chest.

Jack didn’t even hesitate.

He scooped her up before she could protest.

“I can walk,” she mumbled weakly.

“Don’t care.”

The entire nurses’ station watched him carry her into an open exam room, inside there Jack sat her carefully on the edge of the bed while grabbing gloves.

“You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“You sure you aren’t about to pass out?”

Y/N gave him an exhausted look. “Yes.”

He crouched slightly in front of her, and started examining the bruising already forming around her throat.

“Jesus.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She adjusted her scrub top carefully, then winced.

“My shoulder’s bleeding somewhere.”

Jack frowned immediately. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t see unless you remove the scrub top.”

Y/N hesitated only a second before pulling the navy top over her head, leaving a black sports bra underneath.

Jack tried very hard not to look too long.

Failed a little.

There was a small puncture wound high near her shoulder where the needle had grazed her during the struggle.

“Shit,” he muttered quietly. “He got you good.”

“It’s tiny.”

“It’s still a puncture.”

He cleaned it carefully while she watched him up close like this, he looked older than she initially thought.

“You always tackle psych patients like action movie heroes?” she asked quietly.

“Only when it counts.”

Jack glanced up at her silence.

“You’ve got a kid?” he asked eventually after noticing the tiny pink bracelet tied around her ID badge that said Camilla in faded beads.

Y/N nodded.

“Daughter. Camilla. She’s five.”

Jack leaned back against the counter slightly. “Five’s a fun age.”

“She’s insane.”

“They usually are.”

“She cut her own Barbie’s hair last week and blamed Casper.”

Jack laughed silently aand then the room went silent, it wasnt awkward but she broke the ice again. 

“Recently divorced.”

His eyes lifted.

“He cheated,” she added bluntly. “With one of the nurses at his office.”

Jack grimaced immediately. “Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s shitty.”

“Turns out twelve years together means absolutely nothing to some people.”

Jack stayed quiet for a second before answering.

“My wife died two years ago.”

Y/N’s face softened instantly. “I’m sorry.”

Both being scarred sat heavily between them as something in common. He touched his prosthetic leg through his scrub pants.

“Army before medicine,” he added quietly. “Lost the leg overseas.”

That explained it.

“That’s… a lot,” Y/N admitted softly.

Jack huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You too.”

There was something strangely intimate about the room. Suddenly, Jack moved closer again to listen to her lungs carefully, one hand lightly against the center of her chest in case she swayed.

“Deep breath.”

She inhaled slowly.

Outside the room, one of the med students walked past the doorway.

Stopped.

Looked in.

Then immediately disappeared.

Thirty seconds later, the same med student passed again pretending to check vitals.

Y/N noticed instantly, but Jack didn’t because his back faced the door.

Another student walked in carrying charts and stopped dead in their tracks.

Jack’s hand rested lightly against Y/N’s chest while listening to her heartbeat. Y/N sat in just her scrub pants and a sports bra. Both of them looked exhausted and flushed.

He turned around and then blinked.

 “What?” Jack said defensively. “We weren’t fucking.”

By the end of that, Y/N disappeared into the locker room to change out of her disgusting scrubs while Jack waited outside, leaning against the wall.

“You driving okay?”

“I’m awake enough.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She looked at him tiredly.

Then sighed.

“Walk me out?”

The waiting room was still packed with angry, exhausted people when they crossed through.

Someone actually whistled at her.

Y/N’s face twisted immediately.

“Ew. Disgusting.”

Jack stopped walking.

Turned slowly toward the guy.

And the expression on his face became so genuinely dangerous that the man immediately looked away.

Jack guided her out the ambulance entrance instead after that.

The morning air felt cold after the mental trauma of the ER. For a second, neither of them spoke, just exhausted silence. Then Y/N leaned against her car door, looking at him.

“Worst first shift ever.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you handled it like you’ve been here longer than me, but in reality its only your first night here in The Pitt, and trust me, it never gets easier from here..”

You try to calculate how long you spent at each place while nursing a hot dog and an overpriced matcha lemonade. Jack sits beneath you, one hand gripping your waist while the other holds onto the bags littering your occupied bench.  

“I’m sorry we spent so long here,” you tell him as you take one last bite of the hot dog. “It’s hot, and you have a shift later today.” 

He shrugs. “I enjoy spending time with you.” 

“You also love spending your money on me while you’re with me,” you laugh. 

“That too.” 

“I don’t need your money. I’m well off with my books,” you murmur, then push your hot dog and matcha lemonade closer to his mouth. “Here, open. I don’t want it anymore.” 

Jack takes a bite and sips on the drink that’s actively being watered down by melting ice cubes. He scrunches his nose in slight disgust but doesn’t voice his disapproval of the matcha. “I don’t mind spending my money on you, but I can stop if it annoys you in any way. I’ll stick to paying for dates, the occasional gifts, and fridge re-stocks.” 

You press a kiss to the side of his sweaty head with a smile. “That sounds good. Maybe one day I can spoil you if you let me.” 

“That’ll be a long time from now. I feel quite spoiled with you making me tea with a side of deep tissue massages after long shifts.” 

You give Jack another hard kiss on his temple and dig your fingers into his constantly stiff shoulder. “Maybe I can give you another massage before your shift.” 

Jack squeezes your hip and releases a breathy chuckle – one that screams mischievous. “Oh, please and thank you. But I have one question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“What kind of massage, exactly? Is it PG or do I have to shut the blinds?” 

The massage you gave Jack included closing the windows and blinds and looking into how to soundproof your entire house. After a few searches, you realized it would be too much work for your dad or Jack, so you decided to bake goodies for your neighbors to make up for the loud moaning.

The massage you gave him also threatened to make him late for his shift. 

While you wrapped up his lunch as quickly as possible, you began talking about the decorations you bought a few hours ago that had yet to be taken out of their bags. 

“I might clean them up and start putting them where they go while you’re away.” 

“No way,” Jack protested with a headshake so fast and intense that you questioned if his neck was alright. “You almost hurt yourself while you were taking down the spring decorations the other day. Your chairs of choice are terrible, and I’m not letting you put things up on them while I’m not here.” 

“I will be okay. I’ve stood on them multiple times.” 

“I don’t care, they’re unsafe, and I need to fix them up if you plan on doing anything but sit on them,” he grumbled. 

“Don’t be annoyed,” you told him with an authoritative glance. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said while handing you a juice and water bottle from the fridge, his face painted with an expression that typically belongs to puppies after being yelled at. 

You shoved everything into his lunch box and zipped it up. You nudged it into his chest and let go once Jack clung onto the black strap. “I won’t get hurt … because I won’t be putting anything up.” 

He nodded and gave you a quick kiss on your recently red and swollen lips. “See you tomorrow morning.” 

You walked him to the door and waved goodbye as he slid into his car and backed out of your driveway. He was looking at you through his windshield like he knew you’d be up to something: face shriveling up from the nasty frown on his face.

He was probably right. Well, he is right, because now you’re holding onto the wall while standing on the old chair Jack told you not to use. 

You have a pushpin pressed between your lips and a beaded curtain with dozens of seashells on it in your hand. You’re trying to pin the rest to the top of your back door – so that whenever you walk out, they make a beautiful clashing noise, almost like a windchime – but you can’t reach the edge of the door. You don’t want to get down, move the chair, then get back up, all while steadily holding the curtain, so you stand on your tiptoes and stretch yourself as much as you can.  

You grunt as you take the pin from your mouth and hold it up to the edge. You press it against the wall, and just as you feel it sink into the drywall, the chair beneath you creaks and shakes. 

You grip onto the door frame and the curtain, but they’re both unreliable. 

The chair somehow falls apart, and you slip. You reach out your hands to break your fall so you don’t hit your head. You don’t hit your head… but you do immediately feel a sharp pain shoot up your left arm. 

You sit up against the back door and gasp as the pain intensifies. You look down at your wrist and suck in another gasp that tries to form into a scream. It’s red, swollen, and dented. At least that’s what it looks like. 

You don’t really know what to do besides cry and hold your wrist against your chest, which is what you do for the next minute before you realize you need to call for help. 

When you get enough courage to stand, you wobble over to the kitchen counter and pick up your phone. You dial Jack’s number and stare into an empty spot on the floor. You think about sitting down, but you’ve now formed trust issues with any and every chair in your house. 

Jack answers after a few rings, and you immediately start crying.  

“Whoa. Whoa, baby, what’s going on?” Jack asks, panic filling every syllable. 

“I fucked up. I put up the decorations even though you told me to wait, and now I think my wrist is broken! It looks so weird, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to call the ambulance, but I also can’t drive to the hospital with one hand.” 

Jack sighs, but he isn’t annoyed; he’s painfully worried. “Why do you think it’s broken?” 

“It looks weird, I don’t know!” you exclaim, which you quickly feel bad for. You don’t mean to yell at Jack, but you’ve never experienced this level of pain before, and you don’t know how to hide it. “Sorry. I’m not mad, it just hurts. It’s already swelling and bruising, and there’s a big bump on my wrist. And it hurts, I don’t know if that’s been mentioned yet.” 

“It’s okay, I understand. It sounds like it might be fractured,” he sighs, and you can hear the movement of his thumbs digging into his eyes. You hear him shuffling around the department, followed by ‘hmmms’ and a few ‘okay’s.’ Then he adds, “Stay where you are. I’m coming to pick you up. I’ll be there in ten.” 

“Please be safe,” you cry. 

“I will, baby, just hang tight.” 

You head to the front of your house and lean on the wall. “I’m sorry,” you whisper as your eyes land on the photobooth strip of you and Jack next to your key rack. “I should have listened to you, but I thought I would be okay. You have every right to be upset and angry with me.” 

“I’m not mad at all. I’m a bit upset that I couldn’t watch and help you decorate your house, but I’m not angry at you. Accidents happen all the time.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m one-thousand percent sure,” he replies, voice soft and tender. “Get an ice pack and hold it against your wrist. Stabilize it as best as you can, okay?” 

“Okay,” you groan. 

“Eight minutes away. I’ll be right there.” 

The hospital is cold and feels disgusting, yet extremely clean. It’s also cool, but not cool enough, which slightly bothers you because the Pittsburgh summer heat is beginning to dig its claw into everyone and everything. It also makes you realize why people would much rather go to Presbyterian instead, but you wouldn’t dare say that to Jack, even if he might agree. 

Your wrist hurts way less, all thanks to whatever pain medicine Jack hooked you up to when you first entered the hospital. You’re thankful for it, even if it feels like too much, because now you can hold a steady conversation with Jack and his kind associate without performing breathing exercises. 

“Why won’t you write a queer romance next?” asks Doctor Santos, who noticed you when Jack dramatically brought you in. She immediately assigned herself to your case, asked about your books, and then questioned you about your deformed wrist. 

“I want to,” you say with a yawn. You’re exhausted from crying and the medicine in your bloodstream, and desperately want to go home. That might not happen for a while, though, considering you didn’t bring a car here and Jack works until the early morning. “I’ll have to think about the storyline, the plot, scenery, all of that before I decide on doing it. You are always more than welcome to pitch a few ideas. It might not get written for a year or two, though.” 

She shrugs. “I am totally okay with that. I have countless lesbian horror stories that could be turned into novels.” 

“They have to have a happy ending, though. I can’t write a queer book with a sad ending. I’d get thrown into jail,” you say with a laugh. 

“True. You’d be added to the queer ban list on TikTok,” she replies flatly, then laughs from what you think is also exhaustion. She told you a few minutes ago that she was covering for someone on the night shift and hasn’t been able to properly take a break since she left her house that morning. 

You laugh some more, too, and it nearly turns into a manic fit of community laughter, but Jack interrupts by knocking on the door. He walks in and smiles, shining his crow’s feet, and logs into the computer next to your hospital bed. 

“You doing okay? How’s the pain?” he asks you. You nod, but don’t say anything to answer his question. “Good. If you need anything else, let me know, alright?” 

You nod again, and he starts showing you your X-rays. You aren’t really paying attention because all you can think about is how professional he’s being. It sends a shock through your chest, and you mindlessly grab your chest. 

Jack stops the confusing explanation about your fractured wrist to raise an eyebrow and ask, “Are you okay?” 

“Sorry, it’s nothing. Heartburn, probably,” you lie. 

He continues talking about a Colles’ fracture, and how you won’t need surgery because it’s in a good position, and how Doctor Santos will be injecting something in you and something else. You still aren’t paying complete attention because you keep trying to find a crack in his facade. 

As he completes the explanation and asks you something – if you need water, which you shake your head at – you start asking yourself questions you know shouldn’t be ricocheting off the grooves of your brain. You start by wondering if he treats every person he cares about this way: professionally and lukewarm. This then has you wondering if he even cares about you. Is it too early for him to care about you? That feels wrong to think, though, because an hour ago, he rushed to your house and lifted you into his car bridal style, even though you could walk on your own. 

You’ve been speaking for roughly three months, yet haven’t witnessed this side of him before. Was there something wrong, or were you simply overthinking? 

“You’re doing that thing again.” 

You violently blink and shake yourself out of the haze you were in. You look up at Jack, who’s stolen Santos’ seat. She’s no longer here, but you can still smell her perfume. 

“What?” you ask. 

“When you think so hard that everyone nearby can feel the brain strain.” 

“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking again.” 

Jack scoots the chair further up the bed until you can see every individual gray hair lining his jaw. He places his hand on your face and smooths over the stressed frown on your lips. His other hand rests on the bed railing, where he lowers his chin. The face he presents to you is the Jack you’re familiar with: soft, gentle, and quiet, revealing every wrinkle on his face and what story each one has behind it. It’s unlike the stern and pulled-back face he put on once you’d been drugged into mild relaxation. 

You prefer this version, even though the other one illustrates who Jack is when you’re not around, a sight you’ve been wanting to witness since you began talking to him. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking about. I want to know what’s stressing you out.” 

“You were so professional,” you tell him. “I’ve never seen you like this, so it sort of freaked me out.” 

Jack glosses over your face with a look of concern that you’re trying to understand. You follow his eyes and start wondering what he thinks of the peeling sunburn coating your nose, and the few pimples dotting your chin – both of which you’re ashamed of, because you’re battling hormonal acne in your twenties, and you forgot to apply sunscreen to the center of your face. 

You’re about to cover your face with your hand, but the dull ache that had previously gone dormant shoots through your arm. You hiss and shut your eyes so tight that you begin to see stars. 

Jack kneads the skin surrounding your left eye and shushes you, the kind you whisper out when a baby has started fussing. “Don’t raise your hand. It’s broken, remember?” he says, a breath following that is trying to morph into a laugh. 

You roll your eyes. “I know. I actually would like to know when it’s getting fixed so I can go home.” 

“Soon,” is all he says, and then he shifts his body so that he can lean over the railing and kiss your forehead. He settles back into his seat once the throbbing in your wrist isn’t being followed by a throbbing in your head, and continues what he was saying a few seconds ago. “I’ve never introduced a girl to my coworkers. I haven’t even spoken to a woman romantically since my wife passed away… So, this is all new to me, and I am trying to figure out how to go about it.” 

You crack a sympathetic smile and lift your good hand to his cheek. You squeeze his chin and pull him closer to you with a whimpering noise leaking out of your throat. “I’m sorry, Jack. This must be stressful for you, especially since people keep passing by and breaking their necks to look at us – or me, really,” you tell him. “I could have gone to Presby, though, and you could have introduced me to your coworkers in your own chosen way.” 

“I didn’t want you to go to Presby,” he murmurs against your lips. 

“Okay,” you whisper back. 

You continue pecking his lips – even though it might be cheesy and nearly nauseating for anyone who passes by – while you think about bringing up the topic of his deceased wife. You haven’t gone into great detail about her passing, just mentions of her over dinner and movie nights when no one is paying attention to the screen. You’ve seen pictures of her, which stunned you beyond belief. You also know that she passed away from cancer. But you don’t know about their relationship dynamics or what life was like before she passed away. You also have no idea about what Jack’s healing journey looked like, only that he actively goes to therapy and is a big believer in hobbies, even if they are questionable. 

Midway into your kissing session that is dipping its feet into makeout territory, you settle on asking Jack about his marriage another day. A day when he doesn’t have to perform a closed reduction on the fractured wrist of a girl he’s been seeing for three months. 

“You’re brave,” you whisper into his mouth. 

Jack pulls back and looks down at you with a puzzled expression for a fraction of a second. It slowly settles into ease as he remembers exactly why he should be called such a word. “Thank you, baby girl,” he replies in your tone and volume, and goes to kiss you again. 

Then the door opens, and Doctor Santos waltzes in with a tray of supplies and disgust seeping out of her pores. “Wow, hetero content during Pride Month. Save it for October, will you?” 

“October?” Jack mumbles. 

“Yeah, when all the scary stuff happens.” 

You cackle and pat Jack’s shoulder, pushing him away while trying to soothe the annoyance in his tone. “You’re funny. I like you, you should come over sometime.” 

“Can I pitch all of my queer novel ideas and raid your library?” 

“Sure!” you squeal. 

“Deal,” she replies. 

Santos rolls both the tray and stool over to your bedside, and Jack pushes himself up to perform his attending duties. “Abbot has told you this already, but I’ll remind you. Your wrist is fractured, but it’s actually in a good position where we can fix it without surgery. What we’ll do is called a closed reduction, which means I’ll carefully guide the bone back into place without any incisions.” 

You scrunch your nose and start shaking your head – nonverbally telling everyone ‘fuck no,’ even though you probably have no other option. “That’s gonna hurt,” you say, and look up at Jack, who has started dropping the serious doctor mask inch by inch. “I don’t want it to hurt more than it already does. Just knock me out.” 

Santos laughs and lifts a small vial and a syringe. “It would hurt like a bitch if you weren’t medicated, but I’m not that evil. We’ll numb your wrist so you’ll only feel some pressure, and I’ll – or your freak buddy Abbot here – will make sure you’re as comfortable as possible while we fix you up. Once everything is aligned, we’ll put you in a splint to give the swelling time to calm down, and then in a few days, we’ll switch you to a cast, which you’ll wear for about four to six weeks.” 

“Do I get to pick the color?” 

“Sure, why the hell not?” Santos answers. 

You smile like a little kid, even if the anxiety is starting to build up in your chest and you try to block your airways. “Okay, cool. Do you guys have a wide variety, or is it all neon?” 

She looks over at Jack, and they both let out some kind of evil chuckle. “This is the Pitt, may I remind you. You have black, white, and the ugliest colors to grace the planet.” 

“I’ll take those couple of days to think, then.” 

Santos presses her lips into a thin line and nods. “You do that. So! Are we ready to start?” 

You shut your eyes and throw your head back into the hard hospital pillow. “Let’s just get it over with.” 

Leaving the Pitt feels like you’ve gone ultra-famous overnight and are grasping the reason why as people bombard you with questions. 

“You wrote that sexy book a couple of years ago,” a nurse, Princess, tells you while Jack is finishing up his handoffs. 

“I did,” you tell her. “Did you read it?” 

“No, but I hear it’s really good. I keep telling myself to read it, but I always wait for books like that to turn into movies.” 

Heat crawls up your neck, and you soothe it with your right hand. “I am flattered that you think it would be turned into a movie.” 

She shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be?” 

You want to tell her it’s because your sex scenes have been mediocre until Jack Abbot took your virginity a few months ago. You’d been writing based on fantasies and incredibly dirty novels you didn’t dare take out of your house. However, now that Jack has twisted your body into every position imaginable, you’re nearly done writing your novel, and could write sex scenes until you retire. Telling Princess this would probably kill her, because, although Jack is not exactly her boss, he’s close enough. No one would want to learn this backstory about someone at work who occasionally tells them what to do. 

You rummage for an answer in your brain. “My other books are way better,” you tell her, opting for a self-promotional response. Your editor would be proud of you. “I’d want them to turn any other book into a movie before that one.” 

“Are you talking down on your writing skills?” Jack asks, his hand snaking around your back and settling over your hip. 

“Not really,” you reply as Princess says ‘Yes.’ 

Jack looks at Princess, who shrugs and leaves to tend to whatever task she’s been assigned to do this early in the morning. “What were you guys talking about?” he asks, now looking at you with intrigue. 

“She basically said my first porn novel should be turned into a movie. I told her no, but I didn’t exactly tell her why.” 

“Is it because you were a virgin when you wrote it or something?” Santos – who you were sure had already gone home – speaks up. She slides in beside you with her backpack thrown over her shoulder and her scrub top itching to push the zippers apart. 

You and Jack break your necks looking at her. You don’t change any emotion littering your face, but your insides are surely on fire. 

“Don’t ask that,” he scolds, and then looks at you with a similar stern look. “And don’t answer that.” 

“Is it noticeable?” you ask her, ignoring Jack. 

She hums for a long thirty seconds. “Not exactly. They’re good, trust me. I can tell your editor wasn’t a virgin when you sent it in. But I knew something deep down in my heart.” 

“Okay, well I’m not one anymore, so trust me when I say my upcoming novel will be fucking amazing.” 

She laughs and pats your shoulder. “I am putting all of my trust in you. If you fail me, you won’t be seeing any of my lesbian novel ideas.” 

Jack scoffs from your right and starts digging his fingertips into your hip. “Alright, Doctor Santos, I think it’s time for you to go home. You were getting a bit delirious those last few hours.” 

“Aye aye, captain,” she says. She turns to you before she scurries out of the hub, and shines a sympathetic smile that she hasn’t shown you at all these past ten hours. “Ask Abbot for my number. My brain is too fried to pull out my phone. We can plan something when your wrist is better.” 

You nod. “Bye, Santos,” you say, and wave goodbye with your good hand. 

She quickly escapes, and Jack pulls you out of the Pitt before anyone else strikes up a conversation with you. Before Princess, there was Javadi, who was also a big fan of your books, if not the biggest fan you’ve come across. And before Javadi, there was Doctor Robby, who was asking who you were and what your intentions with Jack were, as if he were his father. Thankfully, Jack told him to back off, and settled on discussing your relationship over dinner sometime soon. 

When you get to his car, Jack opens the door for you and hovers while you settle into your seat. You go to buckle yourself in, but Jack grabs the seatbelt and does it for you. Then he caresses your face with his soft doctor hands. 

“You did good today, you know?” 

“You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me. I was a baby when you guys did that reduction thing.” 

“This is your first broken bone, and you didn’t scream at all while you were there. That’s a big deal, and I’m proud of you for remaining as calm as possible.” 

“Even if I did cry a little?” you ask, crinkling your nose at the reminder of the fat, hot tears rolling down your face when they pulled and twisted your broken wrist. 

Jack brushes under your eyes as if the waterworks have come back. “Even if you did cry,” he whispers, and kisses your peeling nose. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you home and settled in bed.” 

You kiss him before he steps back and shifts you around in your seat for optimum comfort. Then he walks over to his side, opens his door, plops into his seat, and turns the car on. You try to look away, at the sun that is already spraying its heat onto the city, or at the shops that are flipping their ‘closed’ signs over to start business for the day. But you see this more than once a week when you meet Jack for breakfast at an old restaurant that smells of peppermint and old mop water. Instead, you look at Jack and his lonely hand resting on the center console. 

You were told to limit movement with your left hand, but you desperately want to hold his hand. You lift it just a little bit while Jack turns right, but you grunt in mild discomfort. 

“Why are you moving around?” 

“I want to hold your hand,” you mutter. 

“Don’t,” he replies as he makes another turn. “As much as it kills me to not be able to while driving, you’re not supposed to move it around so much.” 

“How am I supposed to do it then? Am I supposed to reach over with my right hand? Or what about washing my hands – oh wait! Hand, because I can’t even use the other one. How am I supposed to put up my decorations for the summer? Or swim? It’s hot, and you have a pool I was planning on using!” 

Jack is chuckling beside you, and you want to cry. You could barely sleep in the hospital because of how bright it was, even when they dimmed the lights in your room. Even though it was nighttime and the night shift was usually less noisy, you could hear every cry, every curious student doctor asking questions in a high-pitched tone, every mother yelping for their child who shoved Legos into their ear before bed because they wanted to play a little longer. You only got thirty minutes of sleep, and all you want to do is hold Jack’s hand to soothe your anxious heart. But he’s laughing at you and all of the problems you’ll be facing for the next couple of weeks. 

“Don’t laugh!” you whine. “How am I supposed to write? This is awful. I’ll go broke if I can’t finish this novel.”

Jack’s answer to your complaining is to set his hand on your thigh and press into your skin as if imaginary keys are dotting them. “Baby, you will not go broke. Trust me. Your bank account is doing more than okay and your editor will understand if your first draft is a little late.” 

“What if my wrist gets worse and I’m never able to write ever again?” 

“So that won’t happen, I’ll make sure of it,” he tells you, then pats your leg. “You’re dating a doctor, may I remind you.” 

You smile. I am, you think, and then settle into the thought of Jack putting your cast on, being the first person to litter it with words and stickers that’ll only have a one-day lifespan. You think about him taking care of you when you get home, and how you’ll ban him from sleeping in his own home for as long as your wrist is wrapped in fiberglass and padding. 

A few minutes later, Jack pulls into your driveway and tells you to wait for him to open your door. Once he does, he unbuckles your seatbelt. “You need me to pick you up or are you fine walking?” 

You roll your eyes and grab his extended hand. You jump out and he murmurs a ‘Jesus’ like you nearly jumped off a cliff. “You’re acting like I broke my foot.” 

“I don’t want you to break anything else,” he says. “Which is why I am helping you as much as possible to avoid that from happening.” 

“I will be okay. Plus, you’ll be gone multiple times out of the week for very long shifts and I will be left to take care of myself. Start thinking about that.” 

“I don’t want to,” he says as he holds you against his side and helps you climb the porch steps. “I might have Santos come and take care of you on her days off.” 

“I am twenty-five, I do not need someone taking care of me over a broken wrist. Will you calm down before you give yourself a heart attack?” 

Jack just grunts in disapproval and pulls the gingham-style key you gifted him from his bare keyring. He shoves it into the doorknob and twists it around, pushing the door open once it clicks. 

“I’m hungry,” you tell him as soon as your foot meets your slippery doormat. You and Jack both look at it, and you’re sure he plans on hiding it while you’re not watching. “Jello is only enjoyable when you want it, not when you’re forced to eat it.” 

“Baby, no one was forcing you to eat Jell-O,” Jack tells you. He’s in the kitchen, grabbing the big tub of yogurt from the fridge. It’s half empty now even though you bought it a few days ago. You and Jack are knee-deep in your yogurt-craze. 

“It was that or a really cold sandwich with white bread.” 

“I could have gotten you something.” 

You almost sit down on the island stool, but keep yourself standing at the edge, watching Jack pour yogurt into a bowl. “I didn’t want you to do that.” 

“It’s my job to make you as comfortable as possible in any setting. If you wanted me to get you anything in the world – absolutely anything – I would drop everything and get it for you. Do you understand? I don’t even care if I’m in the middle of an emergency surgery.” 

You try to fight the smile creeping onto your lips, but you fail. It pries your lips open and you shine your teeth as you nudge your way into his chest. “Aweee. You really like me.” 

He kisses the top of your head and murmurs, “I do. I really do.”

Jack lets you hug him while he washes and cuts fruit to garnish your yogurt bowl. He also lets you cling to him while he throws granola onto it and fishes for a spoon in your nearly empty drawer. You let go when he struggles to balance two bowls while somehow maneuvering your body around. You do chase him like a duck all the way to your living room, though. 

“I have to clean up the mess I left before you picked me up,” you tell him as you shove your spoon into the yogurt. 

“You won’t be doing anything,” Jack emphasizes. “You’ll be in bed until I tell you otherwise, and I’ll do all the housework.” 

“Bossy…” you whisper. 

“You like it when I’m bossy.” 

“You’re right, I do. But only when we’re having sex. I don’t want you to be bossy right now. Let me be happy and put up the rest of my decorations. Also, this is my house and you’re my guest.”

“I stay here more than I stay at my apartment. I’m no longer a guest.” 

“Whatever,” you tell him. “Let’s eat breakfast, go to bed, and then we can make real decisions once we’re energized. Deal?” 

“Sure,” Jack says, even if his face says ‘hell no.’ 

You tried to persuade Jack into letting you decorate your house. You promised you’d be careful and you’d stand on whatever surface he chose to put everything up. 

He looked at you this morning when you said that, and acted like he hadn’t heard anything. 

“Seriously, Jack, I won’t get hurt.” 

“You said that the last time, and then you ended up with a broken wrist. Why would I let you put up decorations on an elevated surface with your history?” 

“Because you really like me and want me to be your girlfriend?” 

He scoffed and shook his head. “I do really like you and obviously want you to be my girlfriend, but I am not going to let you do that. Just sit down and let me do it.” 

“Please.” 

“No.” 

“I’ll give you head.” 

He stopped unraveling the tangled sun lights like he might think about that offer, then shook his head. “Tempting, but no.” 

“C’mon! I’m trying to get better at giving blowjobs. You said I could practice on you whenever I wanted.” 

“I said that right after I came all over your face and boobs. Things you say in that moment are either super truthful or should be taken with a grain of salt. Also, why do you want to become a pro at giving blowjobs? I think they’re great as is. Are you planning on leaving me?” 

“Maybe. If you don’t let me do this.” 

Jack sighed and dropped the newly untangled lights into the cardboard box. “Okay. You are being extremely stubborn but I like you, and I hate that frown on your face. So I’ll make a deal. You can help me put up the decorations, but you are not standing on any elevated surface, got it?” 

“Sir, yes sir,” you answered. 

That conversation led to you bossing him around from the ground while he stands on the table and hangs lights along your living room. He said, very early into your decorating, that it didn’t matter how crooked they were. 

“Not to be rude, baby girl, but no one comes over except for your parents and I. Occasionally your friend and editor. Why does it matter?” 

Then you shot him a disapproving stare and he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m inviting Santos over soon. I also figured you’d invite Doctor Robby over for dinner, since you spend more time here than your own place. Your words, not mine!” 

“You’re right. Let me do what I’m told before you kick me out.” 

Jack spends the afternoon and evening filling your house with summer decorations: colorful placemats with suns adorning the center, bright magnets in the shapes of suns and plants sticking to the already full fridge door, and paintings of women and animals galloping along prairies replacing spring-like canvases on your wall. 

When he’s done shifting things around and changing your bedsheets to something orange, yellow and pink instead of forest green, you sit on your bed with the windows open and your head lying on his bare, sweaty chest.  

“I’m happy to have you in my life,” you whisper. “No one has ever treated me like this. Like I’m the center of their universe.” 

“The second I saw you in that coffee shop, I knew you would become the center of my life.” 

“Without even getting to know me?” 

He hums, a soft murmuring of words and thoughts he can’t fit into one sentence. “Yeah.” 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

“I won’t. Not until my next shift, at least,” he tells you, his fingers deep in your scalp, massaging the pain that has begun pumping through your body. 

“Not what I mean,” you say. “I don’t want you to leave, ever. I know we’re not official yet, but I’m already making this decision.” 

“I approve of the decision,” he replies with enthusiasm. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

In this moment, with tangled legs and bare bodies pressed against each other, nothing else matters. Not the idea of being asked to be his girlfriend, not the worry of Jack approving of your passion-fueled decision, or even the worry of getting your novel complete before its extended deadline. 

Jack snorts softly, turning back toward the screen. “Whimsy?”

“Yes. Summer whimsy.” You gesture vaguely with your pen. “It’s July. It’s hot outside. We’ve done nothing except work, sleep, and complain about work. We haven’t enjoyed a single second of summer yet and before we know it we’re gonna be trapped in six feet of snow treating slips and falls, car accidents and sad tourists that aren’t used to Pittsburgh’s winters and I refuse to let that happen without at least one good pool day. I want us to use our free will and—”

He lifts a hand, cutting off your rambling with an amused look.

“Okay,” he says patiently. “Okay. We’ll go to the pool.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “You mean it?”

“I mean it.” He bumps his shoulder against yours with a small smile. “We’ll stop by your apartment after handoff, grab your swimsuit, and spend the day at the pool.”

Your face lights up instantly.

“Good,” you say. “Because we both have tomorrow off and that never happens. I want to spend today laying in the sun like an iguana and then sleep for fourteen hours straight tomorrow.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“It’s called self-care.”

Jack shakes his head fondly before leaning over to press a quick kiss against your forehead.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you your pool day.”

“You’re throwing a pool party?” Parker asks as she joins our conversation with Shen behind her. “Can we come?”

“It’s not a pool party,” you say immediately. “It’s just me and my incredibly handsome boyfriend tanning peacefully while the day shift are stuck here working.”

Parker rolls her eyes so hard it’s dramatic.

“Disgusting,” she mutters.

Shen points at the two of you, sipping on his iced Dunkin’ coffee. “You know fraternization in the workplace becomes significantly more annoying when you’re both this smug about it.”

“We deserve to be smug,” you argue. “We’re exhausted.”

“We are exhausted too,” Parker says. “But go and enjoy your little summer romance montage. Just don’t come back here looking sunburned like that girl McKay treated on the Fourth of July.”

“She won’t,” Jack says calmly, already turning back to his charts. “I’m buying super extra strong sunscreen.”

“You hear that?” you grin. “Protective and handsome.”

Jack sighs. “Please finish your charts.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The pool is empty when you get there.

Morning sunlight reflects against the water in shimmering patterns, bright enough to make you squint as you step out onto the concrete. Somewhere nearby, music plays softly from another balcony, mixed with the distant hum of traffic below.

Jack’s apartment complex is quiet during the day. Most people are at work, and the few people that are here lounging outside keep to themselves.

Honestly, it feels perfect.

One of the only perks of working nights is this… lazy weekday mornings while the rest of the city is busy. The world feels slower somehow. And it helps that you’re able to run your errands without losing weekends or days off.

You dive into the water with a happy sigh, instantly cooler.

Jack watches from one of the lounge chairs, sunglasses low on his nose, arms stretched behind his head. He hasn’t removed his prosthetic yet.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” he says.

“I am,” you grin, floating onto your back. “This was the most amazing idea I’ve ever had.”

“You’ve mentioned that three times already.”

“And I’ll say it again and again and again!”

Jack laughs quietly.

God, you love that sound.

The golden sun rays catch against the light stubble on his jaw, against the lines near his eyes that only show when he’s tired or smiling. He looks younger like this. Relaxed. Softer than the sharp, intimidating attending everyone else sees in the ER.

He’s not Dr. Abbott right now.

Just Jack.

Your Jack.

“You’re staring,” he says without opening his eyes.

“Can you blame me? You’re hot.”

That finally gets him to look at you the way you enjoy very much. He stands up from the lounge chair and sits on the edge of the pool, carefully removing his leg and placing it aside. He dips his body and his mouth curves slowly, warm and dangerous all at once as he swims towards you.

“Come here,” he says.

You join him immediately and hold his grip.

Water drips down your arms as you set yourself between his thighs, and Jack’s hands settle automatically against your hips.

“You swim very well,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Like a mermaid.”

You laugh as he pulls you closer, your wet skin cooling his sun-warmed chest.

“Baby girl,” he says softly, rubbing your shoulder, “you need more sunscreen.”

“You sound seventy years old when you say that.”

“And you act twelve when you’re near water.”

“That’s because water is fun.”

“Hm.”

His hands slide slowly along your waist, smoothing the remnants of sunscreen over your skin with far more attention than necessary.

“You’re staring again,” you whisper.

“You’re wearing a very distracting swimsuit.”

A grin spreads across your face. You specifically picked a red bikini you’ve been saving for a special occasion. This was the perfect occasion. “Oh, now you notice the swimsuit.”

“I noticed it the second you walked out of the bathroom.”

“And you said nothing?”

“I was trying to behave.”

“And now?”

Jack looks up at you over the rim of his sunglasses, fingers tightening slightly at your hips.

“Now,” he says quietly, “I’m off the clock.”

Your stomach flips instantly.

You lean down to kiss him before he can say anything else, smiling against his mouth when he pulls you closer without hesitation. Water sloshing on your side.

The kiss is lazy and sun-soaked, tasting faintly like chlorine and sunscreen and the coffee he forced you to drink during breakfast after leaving the hospital. Food seemed unimportant because all you had in your mind was coming to the pool.

One of Jack’s hands slides into your damp hair while the other rests against your thigh.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “most couples go on normal dates.”

“This is a normal date.”

“Breaking into a pool at eight in the morning after a twelve-hour shift is not normal.”

“We didn’t break in. You literally live here.”

“Still concerning behavior.”

You laugh softly before kissing him again.

“You can’t deny that this was a good idea.” You plant a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“It was a great idea, baby girl.” His fingers rest on your back and your heart swells as you both hold each other.

“And to think we have the rest of today and tomorrow together to enjoy.” You say content.

“And I love you for that.”

“For what, babe?”

“Because thanks to you I enjoy life the way it should be enjoyed.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll sleep all day like you promised. Or maybe you’ll go do something whimsy again. Who knows? All that matters to you right now is that you’re together, the sun is warm, the water is perfect, and the man you love is kissing you like he finally remembered how to relax.

-

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

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

Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.

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

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

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

“You like dark and dreary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seems counterintuitive, but it’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just not directed at you.

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

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

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

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

“No. You offend people on purpose.”

“True.”

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

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

“Disturbingly so.”

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

“Do you really need me for this conversation?”

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

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

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

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

“Should I talk to him?”

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

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

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

Now it’s your turn to glare.

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

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Trin.”

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

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

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

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

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

Also, it’s just driving you crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.

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

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

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

You turn, give him a little smile.

Again.

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

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

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

“Here, give me that.”

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

Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.

—

“He took your beer?”

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

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

“I don’t know!”

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

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

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

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

You wave a hand. “Semantics. Focus.”

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

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

“So? I know your type.”

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

“Hate sex is a thing.”

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

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

“Shut up Trinity!”

You both snicker.

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

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

“You’re not helping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s right.

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

Easier said than done.

—

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

Damn.

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

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?”

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

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

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

“Did I do something wrong?”

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

“Why do you think you did something wrong?”

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

You pause. “And you took my beer!”

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

He’s laughing.

Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.

You honest to God want to kill him.

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

“How else was I supposed to take that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You hate confrontation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack just hums.

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

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

Your skin prickles again. “No.”

“Lying again.”

“Shut up.”

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the men’s bathroom?”

“This isn’t the men’s bathroom.”

“The sign on the door would say otherwise.”

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

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

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

“Clearly.”

You stumble forward. “I need to go—“

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

“There’s an attending’s lounge?”

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“Ah.”

“Also,” He shrugs, “I’d miss you.”

You scoff. “No you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

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

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

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

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

“Find another bathroom.”

“But I have to—“

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

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

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

“That seemed a bit extreme.”

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

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

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

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

“What am I going to do with you?”

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

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

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

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re drowning.”

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

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

When you don’t speak, he does.

“Did you think no one would notice?”

“No one has.”

“Am I no one?”

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

“You’re nosy.”

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

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

“What, exactly, am I doing?”

“Pretending.”

You scoff. “Fuck off.”

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

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

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

You scrub a hand down your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

—

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

(“You can’t send me home.”

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

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

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

“…”

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

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

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

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

Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.

“Why the fuck are you still here?”

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

Jack. Again.

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

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

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

“How long until your bus gets here?”

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

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

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

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

Jack just sighs.

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

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

He works his jaw. “Have you eaten?”

“No…?”

He shakes his head.

“Come on. You’re coming with me.”

—

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

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

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

Probably both.

“Where did you think we were going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

“Yes…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m asking you.”

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

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

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

“What?”

“Read your book.”

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

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

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

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

“Because I pay attention to you.”

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

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

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

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

You scoff. "No you wouldn't."

"I would."

“Do you hate me?”

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

“No.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

—

“You did what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No it doesn’t!”

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, after an MCI."

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

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

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

Not that she needs to know that.

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

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

You do know. He told you. Explained it.

It doesn't make sense.

Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.

"Whatever. You two are impossible."

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

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

Your phone vibrates again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

You whine, dramatic and upset. “What?”

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

“What!?” You screech.

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

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

(It was funnier at the time.)

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

“Incoming,” Dennis mutters.

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

“I don’t know!” You cry.

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

“I’m tired! Stop yelling at me!”

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

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

He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:

“He asked what you’re doing today.”

Trinity claps once. “Fucking called it!”

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

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

“Oo!” Trinity winces, covering her mouth.

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

“Just give me the fucking phone.”

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

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

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

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

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

“There will be no wedding!”

“That’s just what you think.”

Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.

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

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

“What’s he saying?”

“Go away!”

You tap out a quick response.

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

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

You stomach flips.

nooo I’m fine i get them all the time

That’s not exactly reassuring.

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

Who?

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

Yes.

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

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

they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff

So your plan is just to destroy your liver?

pretty much

We need to work on your planning skills.

we?

I’m not doing all the work.

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

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

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

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

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

“He said what?”

—

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

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

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

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

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

“I take care of myself plenty.”

He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.

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

“That’s different.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you accusing an attending of cherry picking?”

“Of course not. Just observing, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

“Code Blue en route, ETA two minutes.”

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

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

“Get going then.”

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

—

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

Things could be worse though!

Kind of.

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

It’s bad.

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

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

“Mel asked.”

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

“What exactly are you asking me here?”

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

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

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t need you to believe me.”

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

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

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

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

“You don’t look too good.”

“I’m—“

“Don’t say you’re fine.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Shouldn’t you be out on the floor?”

“I don’t work tonight.”

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

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

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

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

“What’d you do that for?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

You nod once.

“Words.”

“Uh— yeah. Yes.”

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“I’ll drive you home.”

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

“You like being told what to do.”

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

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

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

“Makes sense.”

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

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

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

So you do what you want to do.

You relax.

—

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

He starts pulling back.

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

But then you realize what he’s doing.

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

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

It feels more intimate than sex.

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

“What’s this?”

“A thank you card.”

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

“What for?”

“It says it in the card.”

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

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

—

It’s the card that does him in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he’s not wrapped around your finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus— I’m coming in.”

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

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

“Do you have headache relief?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could be worse. Could be throwing up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course you can.”

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

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

And then he gets to work.

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

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

And then you pause.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Did you clean my apartment?”

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

You’re crying.

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

“What’s wrong? Did I overstep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get used to it.”

You sigh, dramatic and long.

“I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll allow it, huh.”

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

“Well, aren’t I lucky.”

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

“This is romantic, right?”

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

“Yes.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“You need confirmation?”

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

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

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

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

Dr. Jack Abbot. Night shift attending in the ED. He had interrupted one of your evening meals, and seemed put out when he found his spot already taken. His annoyance seemed to fade when you offered him a home made cookie. After that, you found yourself cooking for two. 

***

“You know, you can just tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it” you said, handing him the Tupperware container full of pasta salad. 

“You’re not my personal chef, green beans. Besides, I like the surprise” Jack said, taking the plastic tub, his fingers brushing yours. 

“Suit yourself” you murmured, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that bloomed when you heard your newest nickname. Every night you saw him, you got a new one to add to your list. 

“Thanks, peanut”

“What you got tonight, tiramisu?”

“Not bad, apple pie”

You munched on your food quietly, looking out at the darkening Pittsburgh skyline. You and Jack worked different shifts; you were ending your day while he was starting his, but you never minded staying an extra hour or two if it meant you got to watch the sunset with him. 

“You never thought of culinary school?” Jack asked after a moment.

“At one point, I guess. But it’s so stressful. Like, ‘The Bear’ or something” you said, shrugging slightly. 

Jack looked over at you, the red glow of the evening dusting his salt and pepper hair with copper. His silence told you everything; he had no clue what you were talking about. 

“The Bear. You’ve never seen it? It’s a show about a restaurant and the main guy is like- super stressed and… just watch it, Jack. First season is good” you said, trying to keep your amusement off your face. 

“You say it like this isn’t super stressful” Jack said, motioning down to the hospital below them. 

“Well, I mean… it is. But, I know what I’m doing” you said, shrugging again.

“You’re one confident doctor” he smirked, enjoying your nonchalance. 

“Oh, like you’re not? I know what they call you down there, cowboy” you laughed quietly. 

“So you’d be a confident chef too” he said, nodding quickly. 

“The second someone sent back a plate, I’d lock myself in the freezer. At least if you don’t like something, you’ve never said it” you snorted, glancing down at his mostly finished container. 

“You’ve never made anything I don’t like. Your cooking is the best” Jack said quietly, his voice low and gruff as usual. 

“You’re sweet” you murmured, and looked back at the skyline, hoping that the slowly growing orange dusk disguised the flush rising to your face.. 

A silence fell over you both as you both finished up your meals. Jack always tucked everything back into your little reusable grocery bag neatly, and that night was no exception. Again, your fingers brushed as he took your container from you. 

“You gonna watch that with me then?” Jack asked after a long moment. 

You look over, a bit surprised. But he’s looking right back at you, his gaze steady. 

“You want to watch The Bear with me?” You asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Yeah, green beans. And then we can go out for a dinner you don’t have to cook” he continued, still looking at you seriously. 

You paused, blinking quickly. Was Jack asking you out? For real? 

“Now, don’t think I’m being a creepy old man-” he began, huffing quietly, his eyebrows quirking up. 

“No, no I don’t think that at all- that sounds good. Sorry, I was just surprised-” you said quickly, feeling your heart rate spiking in your chest. 

Jack scoffed quietly and looked back at the skyline for a moment before looking back at you. 

“I’m not that old, I know what a Netflix and chill is, and this isn’t it-”

“What?” You laughed suddenly, taken aback.

“Yeah, I know. You put on a show and invite a girl over- but I’m a grown man, we can go out for dinner because I like you, green beans, and I’d like to do this properly-” he said. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a buoyancy fill you as you took in his words.

“I like you, green beans” 

Jack frowned at you, as if offended by your laughter. 

“I’d love to watch The Bear and go to dinner with you” you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. You turned back to the view, still feeling the warmth of your blush on your face. 

“Alright then, we’ll go. Figure out our schedules” Jack said, looking out at the view as well. 

“God, lookin’ at me like I spit out your food” he mumbles after a moment, shrugging slightly.

“I was just surprised, I told you” you said, a quiet chuckle leaving you.

“I don’t know how. I wasn’t climbing these stairs every night just for dinner, I like hanging out with you too, you know-” Jack continued, his eyebrows raising again.

“I know, I know, I like hanging out with you too” you said reassuringly. 

A brief silence fell over you again. Comfortable, like usual between the two of you. 

“You know, it’s not even on Netflix. It’s on Disney” you quipped.