"Hello, I'm Dr. Santos. I heard you took a fall," said the doctor as she stepped into the cubicle, parting the curtain gently. She was alone, which surprised you—this was a teaching hospital, and doctors were rarely alone for long.

You knew you weren’t a major case, but you’d still hoped someone else might come along. Someone more familiar.

Dr. Santos was pleasant enough. She checked your vitals, your reflexes, and ran through the usual assessments. When everything came back normal, she explained that she was waiting on your lab results before deciding whether you could go home or if more tests were needed. She offered a gentle smile before slipping back through the curtain.

You sighed heavily. You knew exactly what was wrong : a mountain of deficiencies, severe sleep deprivation, and the fact that you hadn’t eaten all day—maybe not even the day before. You had told all that to the paramedics but they had refused to let you go.

“Um, sorry,” Dr. Santos said, pausing before she left completely. She turned back with a curious look. At this look, you raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but notice your name, Miss Abbot. Are you related to Dr. Abbot? Are you his daughter?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t really blame her, she must have been new. You hadn’t seen her before. Still, it felt a little unprofessional, though you decided not to comment.

“I’m his ex-wife. Don’t call me Abbot,” you replied—a bit too sharply, but you couldn’t help it. The day had already been bad enough.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, she’d made things awkward.

“Listen,” you called after her before she was out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal, but is Michael , uh, Dr. Robby, on shift?”

When she nodded quickly, you let out a relieved sigh. “Could you call him here for me? Or Dana?”

“Sure, of course,” she said softly, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Further down the hall, Dr. Santos reached the nurses’ station, scanning the area for Dana or Robby. Finding neither, she winced, replaying the conversation in her head. She hadn’t worked with Dr. Abbot for long, and yes, she’d noticed the ring—but the woman she’d just seen seemed far too young to have been married to a man his age.

Checking your file again, she saw you were into your early thirties and cringed even harder. The information had been right there. She’d just missed the perfect chance to keep her mouth shut. In her defence, she thought you were not even over 30 yet.

“You need something?” Perlah asked from behind the counter, sitting next to Princess. Both nurses watched as Santos visibly spiralled into an internal breakdown.

Glancing around, Santos switched to Tagalog so the others wouldn’t understand.

“I fucked up,” she muttered. “I called Abbot’s wife his daughter.” She looked genuinely pained just admitting it out loud.

When Princess said your name as a question, she frowned in worry. Santos nodded miserably.

Princess immediately stood up, scanning the room. “She’s here?”

Santos handed over your chart, and the nurses quickly looked through it. Nothing unusual—just another fainting spell. You’d been having them for years, never really taking care of yourself, even though your husband was a doctor.

Still speaking in Tagalog, Perlah smirked. “You didn’t actually call her Abbot, did you?”

“She asked if she was his daughter, you didn't hear?” Princess said, laughing loudly at Santos’s despair.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice said from behind Santos.

“Dr. Robby!” she exclaimed, jumping at the sudden sound. Quickly, she snatched the tablet out of the nurse’s hands. “I—uh, I have a patient who asked for you by name. Could you take a look at her?”

Frowning, Robby pulled his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and gently took the tablet from his student’s grasp. Normally, he didn’t do favours—he didn’t examine patients just because they remembered him or he had been recommended. But when his eyes landed on the name at the top of the file, followed by a last name he knew all too well, his frown deepened.

It eased slightly when he saw the reason for your visit, the usual mess.

“Thank you, Santos. I’ll handle this one,” he said quietly, turning and heading toward your cubicle : South 12.

One second, you were walking down the street, rushing to catch the last bus of the night. It was late, and your shift at the restaurant had just ended. You were cold, exhausted, and craving the comfort of your own bed on that bitter winter night.

But God had other plans.

The next thing you registered was the ground beneath you—cold, hard—and a man’s voice cutting through the fog in your head. A bright light flickered across your eyes, then vanished, then returned again.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the man asked from above you.

Your head was resting on something that wasn’t soft but wasn’t uncomfortable either. The right side of your skull throbbed—a deep, rhythmic pain, as if your heartbeat had migrated behind your eye. Your vision was blurred, the world hazy and spinning. You could feel nausea rising like a wave.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more urgently this time.

All you managed was a faint hum. Speaking felt dangerous—like opening your mouth might unleash the sickness clawing at your throat.

“I’m Doctor Jack Abbot,” he said, his voice calm but alert. “Can you tell me your name?”

You whispered it, barely audible, before gagging again. “Gonna throw up,” you croaked—and then you did.

The doctor reacted instantly, rolling you onto your side and supporting your shoulders so you wouldn’t choke. The vomit splattered across his shoes and one strap of his backpack—the same one he’d been using as a makeshift pillow for your head.

When you finally looked up at him, your vision cleared just enough to see the mess, and tears of embarrassment burned your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered between shallow, trembling breaths. You felt faint, hollow, desperate to just close your eyes and let it all fade.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone steady and kind. “I’ve seen worse, I promise.”

He sat you up gently, guiding you upright so you wouldn’t accidentally rest your hand in your own vomit. Squatting in front of you, he pressed two fingers against your wrist—index and middle—checking your pulse, frowning a little.

He was handsome, in a quiet, rugged sort of way—older than you by at least a decade, if not a bit more. There was something about him that spoke of experience, of someone who had taken a beating from life and somehow come out the other side still standing. Though he couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, streaks of grey threaded through his hair that was still mostly brown, and faint crow’s feet deepened at the corners of his eyes. Freckles dusted his skin, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.

“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, ma'am,” he said gently, releasing your wrist and setting it softly on your thigh. “With the nausea, you’ll need a CT scan and some blood work, just to make sure we understand what’s going on.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the green dial button.

You stopped him before he could press it. You didn’t need a doctor—you’d seen plenty already. You already knew why this was happening.

“It’s anemia,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “And a fucking bunch of other deficiencies. Don’t need the ER.”

You pushed yourself up, first to your knees, then to your feet—unsteady, swaying like a newborn deer. The world tilted for a moment, and before you could fall, Jack was there, silent and steady, his hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright.

He had risen with you without a sound, as if he’d been expecting it.

“Anemia or not, you still hit your head hard enough to cause blurry vision, disorientation and nausea,” he said flatly, not giving you room to argue. “You could have a concussion and if that’s left untreated, it can do some real damage.”

You sighed, watching as he pulled a random towel from his bag to wipe off his shoe and the strap of his backpack. The gesture made you cringe with guilt. Anyone else on this street would’ve taken advantage of you fainting—grabbed your bag, your wallet, maybe even your phone—but he hadn’t.

He didn’t know you. He could’ve just checked that you were breathing and left you there. But you guessed that kind of indifference went against whatever oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It felt strange, almost disarming, to have this random—and admittedly very handsome—man caring about your health.

Most doctors you’d seen barely looked at you, dismissing your symptoms with a wave and a just eat more iron. They weren’t great, but they were the only ones you could afford.

Now he was picking up his phone again, thumb hovering over the dreaded green button, and panic clawed at your throat.

“I can’t afford the hospital,” you blurted, wincing at how pathetic you sounded. “It’ll ruin me.”

But really, what did he expect? You were a twenty-year-old almost-dropout, working late shifts at a crappy restaurant just to keep a roof over your head. Shitty clothes, shitty apartment, shitty food habits, shittier family—the whole package. You couldn’t just walk into the ER and walk out with a $10,000 debt. Your credit score could barely handle a phone plan.

He hesitated, thumb still suspended above the screen.

Exhaustion was washing over you now—heavy, sinking. You’d already fainted once, and all you wanted was your bed. Just to lie down for a few hours and forget the world existed until you'd have to go to school tomorrow.

No, fuck that. You weren’t going to class tomorrow either. Skipping another lecture meant inching closer to losing your scholarship, but right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He sighed and locked his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. His eyes stayed on you, watchful, conflicted. You could practically see the battle playing out behind them. The doctor in him wanted to act, no matter what you’d just said.

“No, fuck!” you blurted suddenly, your gaze snapping away from him.

Your stomach dropped as you watched, helpless, the last bus of the night drove past the two of you.

Tears stung your eyes, your throat tightening with frustration. This was your fault. You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have wasted time arguing with him. The moment you’d opened your eyes, you should’ve just run—disoriented or not—straight to that damn bus stop.

Missing that bus meant a forty–minute walk back to your flat. After the day you’d just had, you weren’t even sure you could manage that. In defeat, you opened the Uber app on your phone. A twelve–minute drive for twenty bucks—fucking expensive.

“I’ll drive you home,” the doctor said, grabbing his bag by the handle, not the strap. “If you don’t want to go to the ER, at least let me drive you home.”

And you did.

Even though every rational part of your brain screamed it was a terrible idea—dangerous, even—despair had a way of dulling your instincts. You let him. You let him drive you home. You let him give you his number in case you developed symptoms overnight. You let him hand you a small bottle of pills from his bag.

You let him take care of you.

Now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, fidgeting with the pill bottle while he listed off all the possible concussion symptoms and there were a lot, and you listen carefully. When he finally finished, you glanced up at him, exhaustion heavy in your voice.

“Where’s your practice?” you asked, still studying the label on the bottle. You were trying to decide if you’d just stumbled into finding a decent doctor—or if he was one of those who worked on the fancy side of town, near the hospital.

He scoffed softly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Don’t have one, sweetheart.”

What?

Your head snapped toward him so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Panic shot through your chest, your heart skipping a few beats. He wasn’t a doctor? He’d said he was a doctor. You looked down at the pills again—there was no way you were taking anything from that bottle. You’d throw them out the second you got inside.

Before you could come up with a polite excuse to thank him and bolt, you heard him laugh quietly from behind the wheel.

“I’m a medic,” he said, glancing at you with that same infuriating smirk. “In the army.”

As if to reassure you further, he reached into the back seat, rummaged for a moment, then dropped a military ID into your lap. There it was. Jack Abbot, his photo a few years younger but still undeniably him. All his information was printed neatly on the plastic card.

Oh. Yeah. He really was twelve years older than you.

Weirdly, that realization made you squeeze your thighs together just a little. Unconsciously.

At the top of the card, his rank was listed—or rather, it wasn’t. Just five bold, capital letters : MEDIC.

“Oh,” you breathed out, relieved. He could’ve mentioned that earlier, would’ve saved you the brief heart attack.

That realization hit you like a delayed punch : you’d just gotten into a stranger’s car and given him your real address. He didn’t seem like the type to show up unannounced, but still—he was a man, a soldier, the kind that get protected by the system. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Go home and sleep, kid,” he said when you stayed quiet. “And call me if anything feels off. I’m in town for another month before I’m off again.”

You nodded meekly, gathering your bag and placing his ID carefully on the dash. Looking back at him, you managed a small smile — a quiet thank you — before reaching for the door handle.

Before you could step out, a warm, steady hand closed gently around your wrist.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, the tone leaving no room for doubt. “Anything. It’s already killing me to let you go without a CT scan, so… don’t die on me, okay?”

“Promise,” you said softly, meaning it. For once, you were genuinely grateful—grateful he hadn’t forced you into a hospital, and even more grateful that, just for a moment, someone had treated you like you mattered.

That night, you went to sleep convinced you’d never see him again—just another fleeting moment with a stranger who’d been kind. You didn’t know you’d end up calling him the very next day, after an hour spent throwing up.

You didn’t know that call would be the start of a thirteen–year relationship.

The curtain was yanked open, startling you as you sat on the bed, half-distracted by a game on your phone. Waiting,for what, exactly? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Not gonna lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Robby said as he stepped inside, giving you a quick once-over, his eyes scanning for any symptoms Dr. Santos might have missed. When he found none, his expression softened. He stepped closer and pulled you into a brief hug. “Never under these circumstances, but… it’s still good to see you.”

You sighed into his shoulder and hugged him back, just as quickly. It really was nice to see a familiar face.

“I told them to take me to West Penn,” you started, naming the other town hospital, “but the paramedics refused. Said it was your zone.”

The look he gave you was pure disbelief—unimpressed, knowing you were full of it.

“Okay,” you admitted with a small eye-roll. “I told them not to take me to a hospital, and after they said no, I asked for West Penn. I was married to a doctor for twelve years, Mike. I know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t look convinced, not that you expected him to. Doctors never liked that line. Neither did nurses.

“Clearly not, if you ended up here,” he said, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing at your chart on the tablet. He sighed, no lab results yet. It was a busy day.

“How long has it been since you last passed out?” he asked, turning away to grab the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t know… over a year, I think.” His back was still to you when you hesitated, debating whether to add the next part. “I didn’t eat today. That’s why I fainted,” you mumbled, already regretting it the second the words left your mouth.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He froze mid-step, then spun around to face you, eyes wide and a deep frown creasing between his brows.

“I felt under the weather this morning,” you rushed to explain, your tone softer—not because he was angry, but because you could feel the worry radiating off him. “It’s nothing like before, Mike. I promise.”

He sighed, whatever was running through his head, he kept it to himself. Silently, he wrapped the cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. His brow furrowed when the numbers flashed slightly above average, though that could’ve meant anything—stress, exhaustion, or the sheer weariness written all over your face.

Someone called his name from outside, and he sighed again. Standing up, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your head, a quiet, instinctive gesture of comfort. Almost paternal.

“Still waiting on your labs, but I’ll be back, okay?” he said, setting the monitor back in its place. “Try to rest a bit. I’ll have someone bring you food.”

You nodded, leaning back on the gurney. “Think you can find a blanket?” you asked with a small smirk, knowing full well he would.

He smiled at the question, rolling his eyes as he headed out, leaving you behind.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow breath. It was comforting, being surrounded by people you knew—friends, even—but the comfort only went so far. What you really wanted was to be home.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Two hours until 7 p.m. already. Anxiety curled tight in your stomach. You didn’t want to still be in this hospital when that hour came.

He was leaving in a few days. He’d told you the last time you saw him—casual, like it was nothing, though you’d felt something inside you tighten at the words. It had been a few weeks since you had passed out on the street.

It wasn’t as if you were sick all the time. You didn’t have a list of chronic conditions, just the quiet fallout of years spent ignoring your own needs—prescriptions left to expire, symptoms brushed off, fatigue you called normal. He’d seen through all of it in minutes, like reading a language only he could understand.

Every time you found yourself at the Military Hospital—where you had no real right to be—he was there. You weren’t military, but that was where he worked when he wasn’t deployed.

He’d lied once, called you family just to get you through the doors. The nurses had known, of course. They always did. Their glances lingered longer than necessary, curious but silent. No one ever said a word.

Each time you left, he handed you a prescription : vitamins, supplements, the bare minimum to keep you standing—and repeated the same thing, soft but firm: “Take care of yourself, kid.”

You never did. Not because you wanted an excuse to see him again—though sometimes that was part of it—but because life was too heavy, too fast. Eating properly, sleeping eight hours, keeping yourself whole… it all felt impossible.

And maybe, deep down, you knew he’d show up when things got bad enough.

Now, you were back in the hospital waiting room, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to your clothes. You’d texted him about the rash spreading across your skin, the burning, the itching that wouldn’t stop and some stomach pains, and he’d told you to meet him here.

You’d arrived before he did. The minutes dragged. You stared at the door every time it opened, pretending you weren’t waiting for him—even though you were.

When he stepped through the sliding doors, you sat up immediately. His eyes found you right away, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t come over—just gave a small tilt of his head before heading toward the office area, knowing you’d follow.

Inside, once the door closed behind you, he pulled on a pair of gloves and glanced over. His gaze lingered on your neck, where dozens of tiny red spots bloomed across your skin like a rash of needles.

“Take your clothes off please,” he said gently, already turning to the computer to pull up your chart.

You froze. You’d known it was coming, but the words still hit hard. You hated showing your body, hated the idea of anyone seeing it—even yourself most of the times. Two men had, in your entire life, and only once each. You tried to reason with yourself : he’s a doctor, he’s seen everything.

But the thought didn’t help. Your mind whispered that yours would be the worst one yet.

Still, your body moved on autopilot. You peeled off your leggings and sweater, left in a T-shirt and your underwear. That should be enough, you told yourself. Without realizing it, your arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders drawn in, stomach pulled flat.

When Jack turned back, his brow furrowed—first at the clothes you still wore, then at how small you were making yourself. He didn’t say anything. He just approached, the sound of the gloves faint as he flexed his fingers.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, nodding toward the exam bed. His voice was softer now, almost careful—like he was reminding you he wouldn't hurt you. He watched as you lay back on the exam bed, your hands still locked protectively over your stomach.

His gaze moved slowly, tracing the faint white spots scattered across your legs and arms. As gently as he could, he reached for your wrists, guiding your hands down to rest at your sides. At his touch, your eyes fluttered shut, and you took a long, shaky breath.

Then his hands moved to your abdomen, lifting your shirt just enough to press along your stomach and lower. His touch was steady, clinical, careful not to linger more than needed. When he was sure nothing hurt, he lifted the stethoscope to your chest, first listening to your heart, then your lungs. Everything sounded normal.

“You can get dressed,” he said softly, stepping back.

You sat up, your movements small and quiet, pulling your clothes back on. From his chair behind the desk, Jack’s eyes flicked toward you once more—catching the single tear that slipped down your cheek before you wiped it away. He didn’t comment, but he noticed everything. Years in the field had taught him that silence often hid pain deeper than any wound.

But you weren’t a soldier. You were just a young woman who looked exhausted and scared and so, so fragile—and something about that broke his heart a little.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the computer screen so he wouldn’t make you more uncomfortable. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Probably to the supplements. Have you been eating?”

Your gaze shifted toward him as you tied your shoes. He still didn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard—and that’s exactly when your stomach growled, loud and unapologetic in the quiet room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been eating on purpose—but finals had been yesterday and today, stacked between two double shifts at the restaurant. By the time you got home, you’d been more exhausted than hungry.

This morning had been no different. You’d studied for hours before heading to campus, then straight to work. The only reason you were even here now was because your boss had taken one look at you and sent you home.

“Didn’t have time today,” you mumbled, not sure why it sounded like an apology.

At your words, Dr. Abbot frowned and glanced down at his watch. It was late, meaning you hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You didn’t like that look on his face, the one that said he was quietly putting pieces together. The longer he stayed silent, the deeper your guilt dug in. You started biting the inside of your cheek, wishing he’d just say something instead of thinking.

“You’re off to work after?” he asked finally, eyes flicking between your face and the computer screen. His tone was neutral—like it was part of the exam—so you answered without question.

“No. They sent me home for the night,” you said with a weak laugh. “Thought I had chickenpox.”

He hummed softly, writing something on his tablet before looking back at you. This time, his gaze was steady, deliberate—a kind of quiet resolve behind it.

“Alright,” he said, standing as he stripped off his gloves and shut down the computer. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “We’re going to pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy—they’ll be under my name, so you won’t have to pay for them.”

You frowned immediately. That couldn’t be legal. But before you could even form the words, he kept going.

“Then,” he continued, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “we’re going to a little diner a few blocks from here. My treat.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. He wanted to take you out to eat.

It was the first time a man had ever really asked you out—or maybe you’d just been too tangled in your own insecurities to notice when someone had tried before. But this felt different. Jack wasn’t giving you time to overthink it, he was leading, steady and certain, and all you had to do was follow.

Maybe you were just reading it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t kindness or interest, maybe it was pity. It had to be pity.

Jack had always had a big heart, and he’d proved it time and time again—treating you, checking in, never asking for a cent. This was probably just another act of compassion from a man who couldn’t help but take care of people who needed it.

“I—I, hum…” You tried to find your words, to come up with a reasonable excuse—any reason why you shouldn’t go, why this wasn’t a good idea.

But before you could say anything, he was already at the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked back at you with that same calm smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as he tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Right. Perfect. Let’s go,” he said simply.

And somehow, you did—ending up with a paper bag full of new supplements in your purse and a seat on the cushioned side of a booth in a small diner. Jack sat across from you in the chair, one arm resting casually on the table.

Your eyes kept flicking between the menu, the man in front of you, and the plates of food passing by, steaming, heavy, full of things you’d never let yourself eat. But it was all so tempting. You wished your brain wasn't working the way it did.

Everything looked so rich, so caloric. That was why you hated eating out—especially with someone like Jack. Someone calm, handsome, and kind. You didn’t want him to think you ate too much. You didn’t want him to see you that way, greedy, weak, unable to control yourself.

You scanned the menu frantically, chasing numbers more than ingredients, until you found the lowest-calorie option: a simple Caesar salad. You didn’t even like it, but that didn’t matter. It was safe. It was cheap.

Not that Jack cared about price—he’d told you the moment you sat down to order whatever you wanted. “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” he’d said, smiling in that calm, unshakable way of his.

But it mattered to you. Everything always did.

He’d already done too much for you—the prescriptions, the appointments, the concern. You weren’t about to let him pay for an expensive meal on top of it. Even if the smell of the mac and cheese made your stomach twist with hunger every time a plate passed your table.

The waitress had mentioned it was their special, the house favourite. "Best one in the whole area," she had explained with a big smile. And it smelled incredible.

But your doubts were louder than your hunger. They always were. So while you stared at the menu, trying to look decisive, your thoughts tangled into shame and calculations — all while missing the way Jack’s eyes quietly followed you.

He noticed everything.

The way you bit your lip, lost in thought. The way your gaze lingered on every plate of mac and cheese that went by, the longing there, and the guilt that chased it.

So when the waitress came back, notepad ready, and asked if you’d decided, you opened your mouth to order.

“A Caesar—” “We’ll have two mac and cheeses, please.”

Jack’s voice cut through yours—calm, confident, louder, impossible to argue with. He handed both menus back to the waitress before you could react, a polite smile still on his lips.

“Excellent choice!” she said brightly, jotting it down before walking away.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.

Across the table, Jack only smiled—those gentle eyes framed by faint crow’s feet, the kind that came from his older years. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, like he was daring you to argue.

“They said it’s the best around,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a soft smirk. “Might as well find out for ourselves, right?”

As the night went on, the conversation stayed a little awkward.

Jack talked about his work, asked about college, and you answered—but your words were always short, cautious, like you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. The more he talked, the more you realized how different the two of you were.

He spoke about his patients with a quiet kind of passion, about the army, about the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. You found yourself fascinated by his calmness, by the certainty in his voice—but the feeling came with a weight in your chest.

Because while he spoke like a man who had built a life, you were still just trying to get through yours.

It had been years since you’d left home, and you still didn’t have things figured out. You were balancing classes and shifts, held together by caffeine and sheer panic. Your head was filled with doubts, worries and family issues. You were a mess. You weren’t living—not really. You were surviving.

And Jack? He was educated. Grounded. Kind. His life seemed steady, built on purpose and compassion—everything yours wasn’t.

Still, he never made you feel small. Never talked down to you, never made you feel like a child—apart from the small "kid" he sometimes called you. He listened when you spoke, asked questions, even smiled at the little things you said as if they mattered. As if he cared.

That night, he made sure you finished your plate, ordered dessert, and even watched as you took your supplements. He acted like someone who cared, really cared and it was messing with your head.

For the first time in your life, a man wasn’t asking for something from you. He was just making sure you were fed, comfortable, warm. He joked with you, dropped small compliments between sips of his coffee, and listened when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

As the night went on, you could feel your body reacting to the attention—the way his eyes lingered when you spoke, the weight of his voice when he said your name. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table, trying to quiet the restless hum in your chest. It was too much.

So when you finally stepped outside and the cold night air hit your face, you breathed out a shaky kind of relief.

Of course, he drove you home. The ride was quiet, the low hum of a song filling the silence while Jack talked—gently but firmly—about what you needed to do when he was away. Take your supplements. Eat properly. Sleep.

When he parked in front of your building, he turned off the engine and looked at you. The car went still, the music fading into the background.

“You have to promise me, sweetheart,” he said softly, his gaze steady and warm.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly feeling small. It wasn’t scolding, not really—but he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself, and you couldn’t blame him. You’d proven him right before.

Still, something inside you wanted to change that. Wanted to make him proud. Wanted to hear him say you’d done well. The thought settled somewhere deep in you, stubborn and growing stronger every time you saw him.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

When you opened the door two months later and saw Jack standing there, a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

His hair was shorter now more neat and strict—missing the soft curls you’d grown used to running your fingers through in your imagination. He’d filled out a little too, the new muscle was subtle, but you noticed.

His smile was gentle but tired, the kind that hinted at long nights and too many miles. His eyes, though as warm and steady as you remembered them—found yours as if no time had passed at all.

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the simple fact that he was here, barely back and already standing at your door. Maybe it was the months of silence pressing against your chest. The months of imagining what could be if you had a bit more confidence, if you were more.

Before you could think, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

For a second, he froze, surprise flickering across his features. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until your body moulded to his. His low hum vibrated between you—deep and satisfied—when he felt the soft weight of your stomach against him.

You’d listened to him. You’d eaten.

He could see it right away, the colour back in your cheeks, the light in your eyes no longer dimmed by exhaustion. You looked alive, and that alone eased something tight in his chest.

When you kissed him, he didn’t hesitate for long. In a heartbeat, he took the lead, his hands finding your hips as he guided you gently inside. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the two of you off from the world.

His palms lingered at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing the soft curve of your skin as though memorizing it. He could fell fat on the bone, more than when he had left. A small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips against yours.

“You listened, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his breath still brushing your mouth. You hummed, nodding faintly. That earned you a wider smile—one that reached his tired eyes. “Good girl.”

With those words, a small—and, if you were honest, pathetic—whine slipped from your throat. No one had ever praised you for something so small. No one had ever praised you at all. Growing up, that kind of affirmation had been foreign to you, and now here he was, saying it so easily it made your head spin.

Your legs brushed the edge of your bed. It wasn’t hard to reach—your bedroom was also your living room, and your kitchen. The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sank down, your lips breaking away from his as you caught your breath.

Jack’s pupils were blown, his gaze locked on you with a kind of focus that made your chest tighten. You watched as he dropped his bag to the floor, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, letting both fall in a careless heap. When the cold air of your apartment met his bare forearms, goosebumps rose instantly along his skin. It was still winter, and the chill in the room didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes moved back to you, trailing over your worn-in comfort clothes—thick socks, matching sweats, and an long-sleeved T-shirt peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The blanket and two comforters thrown over your bed told him everything he needed to know about the cold.

"You don’t turn the heater on?" he asked carefully, peeking around as if trying to find one.

"Doesn’t work," you mumbled. But even if it did, it was too expensive to run. The windows—even tightly shut—let so much wind through that it would only be a waste of energy and money.

He scoffed not mocking you, but angry at the building. This wasn’t a normal temperature, and with how many deficiencies you had, the cold wouldn’t help. It would be easy for you to catch something with your immune system running lower than average.

You could see the doctor in him getting angry for reasons you didn’t quite understand. When he finally shook his head, his eyes softened again, filling with something warm—desire, maybe. Kneeling before you, he made your breath catch in your throat. This was starting to feel too real.

Kissing had felt nice—safe, even—especially because you were still fully dressed. So when his hand reached your sock-clad feet, nerves fluttered in your chest. His hands moved slowly upward, gliding over your legs but staying on top of your clothes. His eyes never left you, watching, analysing every breath you took, every flicker of anxiety that made your gaze dart away.

"Gonna let me take care of you?" he cooed, his calloused fingers rubbing slow, comforting circles into your calves. "You earned it, being so good for me," he murmured, his hands travelling up to your thighs, kneading the soft skin like a cat making biscuits.

Hesitation crossed your mind. It was that never-dying thought you’d carried for years : he’s going to think you’re disgusting.

That little voice had always been there the one that made you so inexperienced, that kept you away from men who showed interest. Every time, you convinced yourself it was a joke, a bet, maybe even a challenge they’d set for themselves.

"Sweetheart?" Jack’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, his fingers now resting on your hips. They’d stopped moving when you didn’t respond. His eyes were still soft, but there was a flicker of doubt in them—you could see it. "You can say no."

And somehow, those words reassured you. It was strange being given a choice, not that your other partners hadn’t—but they hadn’t been so concerned with you. You wanted him to continue, but expressing it was harder than you thought.

"Yes," you said, your big eyes locked on his, filled with an innocence he couldn’t miss.

"Yes, what?" he asked softly, an eyebrow rising as he tried to suppress the smirk threatening to appear. He knew exactly what you meant, but he needed you to say it clearly.

Looking away from his probing gaze, your fingers fumbled nervously while your teeth bit your lips. It was hard to voice what you wanted—especially with a gorgeous man looking at you the way Jack did, as if you were his entire world. Confusing, since you’d only known each other for a couple of months.

"Yes, I—huh, I want…" you stumbled over your words, more nervous than you had ever been. "I want you to do it," you finally whispered, barely audible. Even in your head, it was still hard to ask him to take care of you.

But Jack didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. He only smiled and nodded, letting his fingers drift upward until they rested on your cheeks, gently tilting your face so your eyes met his. Pushing on his feet, he pulled you into a gentle kiss, so soft it almost made you tear up.

"Take your sweatshirt off, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. It wasn’t a question, nor an order but something in his tone made you do it.

Once it was done, he asked you to lie back on your pillows. And you did. You didn’t know why it was so easy with Jack. You still hated the way your stomach pressed against your shirt, the way your hips filled your sweatpants completely, and how your thighs rubbing together had worn out the fabric a bit.

Yet, you didn’t feel the need to hide. Not right now. Not with Jack.

Crawling onto the bed next to you, Jack’s fingers lingered at the rim of your sweatpants, his eyes asking questions without words. Without giving yourself time to hesitate, you nodded quickly. If you thought about it too much, that little voice in your head would return. Closing your eyes, you didn’t want to see his landing on your body.

When the cold wind of the room brushed your bare legs, you tried to calm your beating heart with a shaky breath but it didn’t really work.

"So beautiful," he whispered against your skin. Jack didn’t push you to open your eyes or to speak—he wanted you to do it your way. Still, his lips traced gentle kisses across your bare stomach as he nudged your shirt slightly upward. They moved from hip to hip, leaving soft kisses and tiny nips.

"You hide all that from me, sweetheart? Didn’t want me to go crazy too soon?" he teased lightly. You could hear the smirk in his voice. You desperately wanted to see it, but you couldn’t open your eyes—not yet.

A shaky, breathy laugh left your lips as you peeked a little at the scene. The sight only made you whine, and you felt your panties dampen slightly. His lips were still pressing against your stomach and hips, sometimes brushing close to your mound—but his eyes, his eyes, were locked on your face. He watched like a hawk, memorizing you and your small expressions.

When your eyes met, his lips didn’t stop—no, they got braver. This time, they moved closer and closer to between your legs, wetting the cotton of your panties. A dreadful feeling made your eyes widen.

You felt his lips press against your pubes. It was so sudden, being here with him like this, that you hadn’t had time to take care of yourself down there—or anywhere, for that matter. In seconds, you noticed how prickly your legs felt with hair, the way his lips pressed against the untrimmed pubes, and how itchy your armpits had become.

"I haven’t—huh, I…" you stammered, hands shooting to his head, trying to push him away. In response, he let you move his head away from your body, though his hands remained firmly on your hips.

"What, sweetheart? You haven’t had someone between your legs?" he asked, genuine concern and care in his voice. It wasn’t judgment, nor misplaced curiosity—it was true interest in your pleasure.

That realization hit you: this was another thing you had to tell him. No one had been between your legs—not with their head, not with fingers. "No, I mean… yeah, that too, but…" you mumbled, trying to catch your breath. "I didn’t shave."

"Okay," he said immediately. His eyes were calculating, boring into yours as he tried to understand what you meant. "Does it bother you?" he asked, frowning slightly, searching for an answer.

In his head, he didn’t understand why you would let that stop him. He had felt the hair beneath his lips—it didn’t bother him at all.

"Shouldn’t it bother you?" you asked, confused.

That made his eyebrow rise so high it almost made him look mad. Although he wasn’t, you could see in his eyes—there wasn’t a trace of anger. "Why would I be bothered, kid?" he asked, wanting to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Frowning in confusion, you looked away from his eyes, your gaze locking on the ceiling. Your fingers were still threaded through his hair, and you noticed just then how soft it felt. "I don’t know… just a common thing," you murmured.

No sooner had the words left your lips than his face was right above yours. "Guess that makes me uncommon then, ‘cause I really don’t care. Now… does it bother you to the point you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

Seeing only truth and genuine care in his eyes, you shook your head no, letting him know you wanted him to keep going. With a happy smirk, he kissed your nose before disappearing back between your legs.

He didn’t wait this time, sliding your panties off and leaving you bare from the waist down. Your eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, open this time but not ready to look down. You felt movement on the mattress and imagined he had settled in comfortably. For what? You didn’t know.

He pressed his body between your legs, opening them little by little until your thighs rested on either side of his head—the warm weight of his shoulders grounding you. One of his arms cradled your thighs, while his hand rested lightly on your mound, playing softly with your pubes without a care in the world.

"Nobody ever took good care of this pretty pussy then?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He knew he was pushing with his words, but it was his way of helping you relax. "A shame," he added, planting a small kiss on your clit that made your hips jump. "She’s too pretty to be ignored, sweetheart."

His words were crude, filthy, but you’d be lying if they didn’t warm your entire body. If they didn’t send chills down your spine at the sound of his low, commanding voice. No one had ever taken their time with you like this, and combined with his gentle praises, it was getting to you—way faster than you had anticipated.

Casually, he rested his head on your thigh as he worked his fingers gently. They started like ghosts, barely lingering over your clit and pussy lips. It wasn’t teasing—it was getting you used to the feeling. His eyes shifted from his fingers to your face as you closed your eyes again. He watched as your chest rose quickly with the shallow breaths you were trying to control.

A small laugh escaped his lips at the sight; you were so exquisite, and you had no idea. It was hard to suppress the urge to ravish you but he wouldn’t do that. That would scare you off, and he definitely wanted you to stay.

Barely turning his face toward your inner thigh, he left a soft kiss there before settling into his work. His fingers now traced controlled circles on your clit, while the thumb of his other hand exposed the little bean of your hood. He chuckled softly—this felt almost clinical. It wasn’t, but he had to teach you how to feel, and he would.

It didn’t matter how long it took. It would take as long as you body needed, he wasn't in any hurry.

You were trying to control your breathing, especially as his fingers moved so heavenly against your clit. It was a completely new sensation, something you had never felt before. The two times you’d had sex, it hadn’t felt like this at all. He wasn’t rushing—his fingers took their time. Small circles rubbed your clit, then wandered lower to your wetness, only to return again to your clit.

It was fascinating how wet you were. Even when you had tried on your own, it had never been like this. This man and his words were doing unfamiliar, impossible things to you.

His lips returned to your clit in soft, fleeting pecks that still made your hips lift off the mattress. The feeling was strange—almost overwhelming—and you weren’t sure if you liked it. The voice in your head tried to whisper doubts, but the moment his tongue flicked gently against your clit, that voice vanished, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He kept at it, patient and attentive, while your eyes stayed shut tight. His tongue grew bolder with every gasp and whine that escaped your lips—small kitten licks turned into slow, deliberate strokes, and sometimes he even sucked gently on the sensitive little bud. Each time he did, your thighs instinctively tightened around his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though you tried to hold yourself back.

“Don’t,” he murmured between breaths, his voice rough but calm. “Don’t try to control it. Just let yourself feel, yeah? You’re not hurting me.”

As his lips left you for only a moment, his tongue was replaced by his fingers, skilled, sure, and patient. Then he combined them. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his lips wandered—kissing your mound, your lower lips, your inner thighs. He was everywhere at once, and it felt delirious.

After a few minutes of this careful buildup, you finally opened your eyes. At first, you kept them on the ceiling, afraid to look down. Your breathing quickened as your thoughts started to spiral but when you did lower your gaze, the sight stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He was looking right at you. His head rested against your thigh, eyes locked on yours, steady, unhurried, full of patience. He looked like he could stay there forever.

“Ever had something inside, baby?” he asked softly, voice low and coaxing, careful not to startle you.

Still keeping eye contact, you nodded your head. Normally, a question like that from a man like him would have made you shrink with discomfort—but with Jack, it felt different. His tone was so gentle, so matter-of-fact, it didn’t awaken the voice in your head. It didn’t make you question yourself. It didn’t bring the anxiety back.

In answer, he gave you a soft smile and a raised eyebrow—then pressed another kiss to your thigh, right before laying a deeper one on your clit, replacing the fingers that now drifted toward your soaked opening.

When his middle finger slipped inside you, a long breath escaped your lips. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it didn’t hurt either. At first, it felt no different from when you’d tried it yourself : numb and strange. But then he moved—slowly, steadily—in and out, while his lips stayed on your clit.

Maybe it was the double stimulation, or maybe it was just the way he knew how to move his finger, but something started to change. A deep, unfamiliar tension began to coil low in your belly, pulling your muscles tight and making you want to squeeze your thighs together to chase that feeling, to make it stronger.

A few minutes later—though it could’ve been hours for all you knew—Jack added a second finger. Your eyes flew open, meeting his immediately. The sight of him, focused so intently on you, almost undid you completely. It was too much—his gaze, his touch, the way pleasure kept blooming faster than you could catch it.

It was ridiculous, almost shameful, how little it took. Just a few minutes of his fingers thrusting in and out, curling inside to find that small, special spot in you before pulling back and doing it all over again. His lips closed around your clit in soft suctions, alternating with gentle licks and whispered sweet nothings.

It was all dizzying, and before you knew it, the tight coil that had been growing in your lower belly since he started snapped. Your back arched off the bed as your head landed against his, your fingers tangling in his short hair. Instinctively, your thighs tried to clamp down around him, but the hand that wasn’t busy held them apart, letting him savour the fruits of his effort even more.

Had you opened your eyes, you would have seen him, dreadful in a way, caught between your legs, watching and admiring the way your body reacted to him. But you were lost in your own little world of pleasure, something you had never experienced before. It was surreal. You had never believed your friends when they talked about sex—the few times you had tried it yourself had always felt dull.

“Fucking perfect,” you heard him murmur as you came back to yourself, your back landing on the mattress and your legs going lax over his shoulders.

You felt his fingers slip out softly, just as he pressed one last kiss to your clit. Looking down at the same time, you saw him put his fingers in his own mouth, eyes locked on you again. Heat rose to your cheeks and neck, and your hands flew up to hide your face reflexively. Everything he did was just so hot, it was almost overwhelming.

“Felt good, right, sweetheart?” his voice cooed in your ear as he crawled over your body, pressing kisses to the hands still covering your face.

Even with the dread creeping in, you felt the need to answer. So you simply nodded—fast and firm—wanting him to know it had felt good. More than good, in fact. He let out a soft laugh before pressing two more kisses to your hands. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was gone. Completely gone from the bed.

His disappearance made your hands drop from your face as a shiver of shame ran through you. You had given yourself so easily—and he was already going? Maybe this was just how it worked. Maybe he only wanted to release some tension before leaving. Sitting up on your elbow, you scanned the room, expecting to see him putting on his shoes—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jack was approaching the bed again, a towel in hand. His own hands were slightly damp, probably from washing. He smiled at you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, as he knelt beside you. Without a word, still holding your gaze, he pressed the warm towel gently between your legs, making your hips jerk instinctively.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he cooed, his other hand brushing your hair off your forehead. His touch—so careful, so attentive—almost made you want to cry. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a deep, shaky breath and let yourself fall back onto the mattress.

With still-gentle hands, he helped you pull your panties back on while coaxing you into bed. It was still early—not even midnight—but you obeyed anyway. With wide, doe eyes, you watched him slip back into the bathroom, only to pause in front of the bed for a few seconds.

“You don’t want to…?” The words caught in your throat, but you knew he would understand the meaning behind them.

With a careful smile, he shook his head. “That’d be a bit too much for you, wouldn’t it?”

You returned a tight smile, grateful he wouldn’t push you into anything. You would have said yes, ready to please him just as he had pleased you, even though you had been overwhelmed by just his fingers. So, with sad eyes, you watched him as you lay in bed, growing sleepier with each passing minute.

But he didn’t leave. He simply took off his pants and socks, then slid in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. It was still cold in your flat, and the warmth of him next to you made you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding—relieved. Relieved that maybe he liked you as much as you liked him, at least enough to stay the night.

Curling around him, you pressed your face to his chest, inhaling his scent in a deep, calming breath. He felt so comfortable, so familiar—it made no sense. But in that moment, you told yourself you never wanted him out of your life.

If only you had known how many sleepless, tear-filled nights that thought would one day bring.

Almost all of the day-shift students were gathered around the nurses’ desks, whispering questions and theories about you to Princess, in hope she answered their questions.

“She looks so young… didn’t take Abbot to have a younger wife!” Santos said, surrounded by Whitaker, Javani, and Princess. Santos had been the only one of them to actually see you—even if Princess had known you from your years married to Abbot, she hadn't seen you today.

“Like, young young?” Whitaker asked, confused and a little taken aback.

Princess just rolled her eyes, laughing softly. She had always loved gossip, and your ending up in the ER was creating the juiciest stories.

“She’s legal, Huckleberry,” Santos shook his head at his own dumb question. “She’s 33, but I’m telling you, she looks way younger.”

At that moment, McKay chose to join the conversation, clearly enjoying the gossip too. “They’ve been married 12 years,” she informed the group, leaning on the high desk her eyes still on her patient chart on the iPad.

The three students immediately turned toward her. Javani’s eyes were so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

“She married at 21?” Victoria asked, trying to wrap her head around how someone only a year older than her could marry a man 12 years her senior.

“Hum hum,” McKay confirmed, laughing at their faces. Meeting Princess’s eyes, they both continued chuckling.

“A year into dating,” Princess added, her eyes still on the patient chart she was filling out.

“Okay, now you’re fucking with us,” Santos replied, rolling his eyes and getting ready to leave the group behind. But McKay wasn’t finished.

“She has a lot of chronic deficiencies and other small things that kept coming up,” McKay began, locking her tablet and glancing back at the students. “They got married so she could have his army insurance and all the other benefits while he was away. It was before his… hum… accident.”

Both Whitaker and Javani were about to ask more questions, while Santos remained deep in thought. The way McKay and Princess had briefly talked about your marriage had made it seem sweet, if a little rushed. How could it go from that to you almost snapping at her for calling you Mrs. Abbot?

“Don’t you all have things to do instead of spreading things you shouldn’t?” Dana’s voice cut through the small group, scattering around the ER at his voice, in search of something to occupy themselves.

Her sharp eyes landed on Princess, still at her desk charting, a smug smile tugging at her lips. The smile only widened when she met Dana’s gaze, shaking her head with a small laugh.

“You know better, Princess,” Dana said, but the lingering chuckle in her tone made it clear that Princess wasn’t in any real trouble.

“It’s not like it’s ever not the main topic for a few days whenever she visits,” Princess shrugged as she stood, checking on a patient. “Gossip runs fast, it’s not my fault.”

Dana was left alone at the main desk, laughing softly at what her nurse had said. It was true—whenever you visited your ex-husband, everyone gossiped about it for days. How young you looked, how beautiful you were, how the hell Abbot had managed to land someone like you.

Dana liked you, a lot. She had always thought you were a good thing for Jack, with your sweet, confident nature. From what you had told her, you hadn’t always been this way. Abbot had taught you how to be yourself, how to carry yourself with confidence. Years with him had shaped you into the person you were now, and you always spoke of Jack with love and adoration.

And then, one day, Jack had arrived with your ring around his neck.

Dana hadn’t had time to see you today. Robby had said you were sleeping and had asked for food to be delivered. Dana had overseen the delivery, but she had been so swamped with work she hadn’t even had a chance to check in. Locking her tablet, she finally glanced at your chart.

The lab results were back. Her eyes scanned the page until they froze on one line.

“Fuck.” Her voice was sharp as her eyes darted around frantically for Robby.

They landed on the time: 6:37 p.m. Jack would be here soon, and he always looked at the patient list first, sorting alphabetically. Your name would be at the top. Everything was about to be a complete mess.

Her eyes finally found Robby as he walked toward the desk, talking with Mel. Dana felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached, even though she knew she shouldn’t—this was her job.

“Robby,” she called, gaining his attention. When he saw the serious look in her eyes, the soft smile he’d been carrying vanished. He frowned, leaving Mel behind with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

He nodded toward her, silently prompting her to continue.

“These are Abbot’s lab results,” Dana said, her voice tight.

Robby took the iPad from her hands and perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Dana’s gaze stayed fixed on his face, waiting for him to reach the line that had made her curse under her breath. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered. “You went to see her?” he asked, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“This just arrived,” she explained, shaking her head.

The doctor took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At that moment, he wished he had called Jack the minute you had stumbled into his ER, but that would have angered you enough to refuse tests and treatment. So he hadn’t. And now, he certainly regretted it.

“I’ll tell her,” Dana said, watching Robby’s expression fall.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s not your job,” Robby said softly. He wasn’t undermining her, he just needed to take responsibility.

“Tell me how it goes,” Dana said before heading back to chart for the waiting patients. She was also behind on her nurses rotations so she needed to do so much before she could say hello to you.

Before the nurse was out of earshot, Robby muttered under his breath, “The only fucking day he had to get here on time.” That made Dana giggle, as Abbott usually arrived at 6 p.m. sharp. Maybe the divorce was finally making him realize there was a life outside the hospital.

Robby let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was not news he wanted to deliver—it wasn’t even his place—but today, he was your doctor. The name on the top of your chart.

The curtain opening startled you out of your half-conscious state, your heart racing at the sudden fright. You sat up quickly, looking around the room, disoriented, until your heart settled at the sight of Robby entering, an apologetic smile on his face. You knew the ER didn’t move slowly—doctors rarely had time to be quiet.

“So… your labs are back,” Robby said, glancing down at the tablet in his hand as he perched on the stool beside your bed.

“What’s my sentence, Mike? Iron?” you joked, already guessing the most likely culprit.

It was always iron. Ever since you and Jack had separated, you hadn’t kept up with your yearly iron supplements. You had blamed work and moving, but the truth was you didn’t want to see another doctor. Robby had been your doctor for the past thirteen years; it felt too strange to go elsewhere.

“Well… yes,” Robby replied with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Your teasing smile faded instantly. “But that’s not all,” he added, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Oh God,” you whispered, eyes widening in fear. Michael looked utterly devastated, and your mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Is it… cancer?”

Robby’s eyes went wide as he looked up at you, noticing the small tears gathering in your eyes. Of course, why did he have to be so mysterious?

“No, no, no, it’s good news,” he started, rolling the stool closer and taking your hands in his. “Or… a bad one, depending on how you take it. But it’s not life-threatening.”

“What?” you whispered, frowning deeply at his confusing explanation.

“Oh God,” Robby breathed, shaking his head as he stared at his feet. He had done this for years, telling parents their child had died, handling far worse situations. Yet here he was, confusing

He just wanted to go home.

“You’re… pregnant,” he finally said, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes going wide.

Hot water ran down your tired body, soothing tense muscles and washing away the fatigue of a long day at work. It was all worth it, tonight, your husband finally had a night off.

You had debated going out but had settled on a cosy, warm dinner and a quiet night in with Jack. It didn’t matter what you did, all that mattered was being with him—just the two of you.

It had been nearly two months since he’d truly had a whole evening off. You understood how important his work was, especially after his accident, but you always thought you mattered too. He had never given you reason to doubt it—not in the thirteen years you’d been together—but lately, small doubts had started creeping in.

Looking down at your left hand, your fingers brushed over your wedding ring. Simple, with a small diamond on top, it wasn’t much—but you cherished it. Deeply. Inside, it was engraved with the date you married, twelve years ago.

Turning off the water, you quickly dried yourself and slipped into comfortable, silky pyjamas. The soft fabric clung to your skin, making your nipples peak and giving you a thrill as you caught your reflection in the mirror. The clothes hugged your hips and thighs just a little too tightly, but it didn’t matter. You loved your body now—it had taken years of learning how—but there was no longer any shame in it. Probably slightly less than Jack loved it.

Smiling at the thought of his hands on you, you stepped out of the bathroom, greeted by the delicious aroma of the meal he had prepared. Jack was such a good cook—a fact that had surprised you at first. How could a manly, military man love to cook and be so damn good at it? Nothing about him was fair.

You went down the stairs, smiling, ready to call his name—then froze. Your smile dropped faster than you could speak as your eyes landed on him in the entryway. Your husband. In scrubs. Putting on his shoes.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sigh as your eyes met his.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” you exclaimed, your voice louder than you intended.

You couldn’t believe it. He had promised. He had said nothing would make him leave tonight, but apparently, that had been a lie. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This was all the confirmation you needed : his work was, without a doubt, more important than you.

“There’s been a bus accident,” Jack tried to explain, taking a careful step closer. “Walsh called, they’re getting overwhelmed.”

His hand rose to catch yours, but you slapped it away—hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and he looked up at you, frowning. Neither of you were violent. When you fought, it had always been with conversation, listening to each other, trying to understand, not shouting or slapping away comfort.

But Jack could tell this was going to be different.

“Of course, yeah,” you spat, your voice sharp with mockery. “And that night you had the helicopter accident, all alone, with no back up showing up? What did you do? You did it all alone because that’s what you’re fucking trained to do. Why do they always need you?”

You knew it was unfair. He had sworn an oath to protect and heal—but your anger didn’t care. You pressed on. “And where are they when you need them? It’s like you’re their god and they can’t function without you. But what about me, Jack?”

Your words were harsh, cutting deep, and you could see the effect on him. His eyes darkened, sorrowful with every syllable you spoke.

“It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you whispered, pushing past him toward the kitchen.

The sight made tears spring to your eyes again. He had set the table beautifully, lit candles, and a fresh bouquet of flowers sat in a vase nearby. The meal was simmering on the stove—you turned it off immediately.

You weren’t hungry anymore. You certainly didn’t want to eat something so perfect alone. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Once again, his work had ruined it all. You could hear him following you, so you kept talking.

“All I asked for was one night, one single night of peace and quiet with my husband,” you continued, carefully putting the pot into a Tupperware, planning to store it in the fridge once it cooled. You could feel Jack’s eyes on your movements, probably ready to tell you to eat—but it was better if he didn’t say anything.

“Baby,” he tried again, keeping his distance this time. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” you shot back, heat rising from the anger and rage blooming inside you. “It’s not fair that I’m married to your work against my will. It’s not fair that they always get to take you away from me. You have a fucking life outside that goddamn hospital, Jack. It’s time you start remembering it.”

Turning toward him, you couldn’t keep your eyes on him for more than a few seconds. The guilt and pain in his expression were too familiar. They were always there, every time he left you alone after promising he wouldn’t.

That was when your elderly cat—Pope—chose to let out a loud, demanding meow from in front of his bowl. The same cat Jack had adopted for you right after your wedding, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while he was deployed. His deployment hadn’t lasted long—he’d lost his foot barely a year in—but the cat had still helped, especially now that Jack worked nights.

He looked rough these days, his fur a little thin and his movements slow, but he was still the healthiest cat you’d ever known. His perpetually grumpy face made him look like a cranky old man—which, in many ways, he was. Especially when his dinner was late.

Right now, he didn’t care about the fight. He just wanted to be fed.

Sighing, you opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wet food. It wasn’t supposed to be his wet food day, but you didn’t care. You wanted him happy—so you’d have someone soft and warm to cuddle when Jack left.

“It’s really not like that, sweetheart. You are important to me, but this is special,” Jack tried again, his voice calm, almost pleading. He watched you as you bent down to pet the old cat, your fingers gentle in his fur while he ate greedily.

“It’s always special,” you scoffed, straightening up to look at him. “Always something you can’t say no to. Can’t they call Mike?” The question came out desperate, like maybe, just maybe, this time there’d be another option.

“He already did the day shift, baby,” Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that somehow justified everything.

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, right, because Robby’s never done a double shift before.” You shook your head, heat rising in your chest. No, there’s something else. Something he never told you, but one of the new nurses did, a long time ago.

His brows furrowed, but you didn’t let him speak.

“Or is it because you told them to?” you pressed, voice rising. “Because you made sure they’d call you if they needed backup? Because you wanted to be the one they relied on?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly, his voice catching. “How—”

“Does it really matter?” you cut him off, stepping closer, your finger pressing against his chest—not hard, but enough to make him look down at you. “Maybe what matters, Jack, is that you’re always so willing to leave this house. To leave me behind.”

He was about to answer you when his phone rang again. He didn’t want to pick it up—not now, not when you were standing there, spilling every fear and insecurity that had been quietly eating at your marriage. But the name Walsh flashing across the screen was a cruel reminder of why you were fighting in the first place.

“We’ll talk about it when I come back, sweetheart,” he said at last, exhaling the words like they hurt. He wasn’t even angry—just tired. So damn tired. And guilt was eating him alive.

He turned toward the front door. You didn’t try to stop him, and he didn’t look back until he heard you mumble something, your voice so low it almost blended into the sound of the cat licking his bowl.

“I might not be here when you come back.”

He froze for a moment. He didn’t know if you meant for him to hear it—but he did. And it broke something deep in his chest. When he finally opened the door, he turned halfway back, his voice soft but clear.

“I love you.” And then he left.

The rest of the night was spent debating your life and your marriage. You sat on the couch with only one dim lamp lit, the room bathed in soft amber light. Pope was curled in your lap, his old bones rising and falling with every sleepy breath. He would let out a grumpy meow whenever you stopped petting him, a gentle reminder that he still ran this house.

Your mind kept drifting back through the years with Jack. From the first time you met on that lonely street, to your rushed wedding, born out of love, and maybe a little fear for your health. To the day he lost his foot, when everything you thought you knew about life shifted. You had stayed. You had cared for him, endured his anger and frustration, helped him heal.

And after the storm, you had peace. Real happiness. You moved to Pittsburgh for him when he got the offer at the hospital, and you’d fallen in love with the city. You left your broken family behind, found work you actually liked, made new friends. Jack did too. For a while, it was perfect.

It only began to unravel when he started the night shift.

At first, it was supposed to bring you closer : he’d work while you slept, and you’d share the daylight together. He was used to running on almost no sleep. But little by little, the calls came more often. The just one more hour turned into entire mornings, and then whole weekends. He was one of the best, they said. The hospital couldn’t function without him.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear hit the back of your hand. You wiped it away quickly. You’d cried too many nights over a man who wouldn’t change, no matter how much you begged him to remember the life waiting for him at home.

And then there had been that one of too many lonely afternoon, when you’d finally called an attorney. The divorce papers were still tucked neatly in the drawer Jack never opened.

It had broken your heart to ask for them, but you’d told yourself it was necessary. You still had most of your life ahead of you and it hurt to think of spending it with someone who didn’t have time to live it with you.

You still loved him. You would always love him. But maybe, you thought, as Pope purred softly against your legs, maybe it was time to love him from afar.

Before you could turn this moment into another sobbing mess, you made yourself get up and go to bed. A cold bed. An empty bed. Still, that felt better than making any rash decisions at almost midnight.

You told yourself he’d probably be home soon—that maybe, if it was just a quick in-and-out at the ER, you could talk things through once you’d both calmed down. But of course, the clock hit midnight, and then one, and he still hadn’t come home.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing you knew, the bed dipped behind you. Pope’s small weight had disappeared, he must’ve gone to greet Jack when he came in. You sighed softly and shut your eyes again, too tired to start anything. You weren’t angry anymore—just sad, heavy, and numb.

Jack’s body slid in behind yours, warm and familiar. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. You felt the brush of his lips against your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and finally near your ear.

“You know you’re important to me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “I love you.”

It was the same thing he’d said hours ago, right before walking out the door. But this time, it came out softer, quieter, real.

You never doubted his love. You never had. What you doubted was whether this marriage meant the same thing to him as it did to you. Maybe you just saw it differently—had different definitions of what it meant to show up. You had barely talked about that before getting married, and for a long time, it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, it had always worked.

Until it didn’t.

"I know it's hard for you, but—" he was cut short when you turned around and kissed him. Hard.

In that moment, you didn’t want him to talk. You didn’t want to hear his voice — the same voice that spun promises he’d barely keep until the next call from Walsh, or Robby, or Dana. Whoever it was, he’d always answer. And he’d always leave you behind.

"Baby," he murmured, trying to push you off gently, clearly wanting to talk.

"Please don’t make me talk right now," you said, your breath trembling, warning him that tears weren’t far. "I don’t wanna talk. I wanna feel."

You wanted to feel his love, his body—him. Nothing else. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the two of you, the way it was supposed to be tonight.

He didn’t say anything. Just sighed softly before kissing you again. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue met yours. It had been so long since you’d felt him this close. His work was unpredictable—most nights you were already asleep when he got home, or getting ready to leave for work.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. In a rush, you tore off his shirt, then yours. You didn’t want delicacy, didn’t need tenderness—only his warmth, his touch, his presence.

Pulling away for just a moment, you slipped off your pants and panties, then pushed his sweatpants down his thighs.

"Sweetheart," he tried to soothe you, to slow your movements, but you couldn’t hear him. What your mind translated instead was that your husband didn’t want you.

"You don’t want me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. Was that why he kept staying late at the hospital?

"Of course I do," he said softly. He took your hand and guided it gently to where he was already hard against his stomach. "I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to."

You were on your knees, naked in front of him, desperate to undress him completely—and somehow, Jack thought you were forcing yourself.

"I want you," you said, stopping yourself before the rest could slip out.

One last time.

I want you one last time.

But you didn’t say it. Instead, you aligned yourself with him, letting him stay on his back. Even in your sadness and anger, you knew how much a full day and night on his feet strained his leg and back—you didn’t want to make it worse.

When you sank down onto him fully, a heavy whine escaped your throat. It felt good, achingly so, yet so foreign. It had been so long since you’d touched each other that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it.

You felt his hands grip your hips in a tight squeeze, as if he were trying to ground both of you in the moment. When your hips began to move—slow, gentle thrusts at first—his grip only tightened. You let out a soft moan at the thought that he might leave bruises behind. Like he used to.

Used to.

That was what this moment felt like, what you used to be. A couple in love, tangled up in each other every chance you got. You clung to that thought, moving your hips faster, rising a little higher each time. His breathing grew heavier, matching yours, and when you placed a hand on his chest, you felt how hard his heart was pounding.

Behind your closed eyelids, all you could see was his younger, happier face, the one from your wedding night. You’d ended up in the same position back then too, only that night you’d been full of joy instead of ache. Your mind replayed flashes of laughter, of dancing, of promises whispered under the soft lights—each memory making the ache of longing grow sharper.

When you opened your eyes, hoping to pull yourself back into the present, you almost wished you hadn’t. Jack was watching you, the same way he always did. That look in his eyes hadn’t changed since your very first night together. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Like you were his everything.

He looked at you that way, but he still didn't stayed. The thought cracked something open, and tears finally spilled over your lashes. You moved harder, faster, chasing something—release, escape, anything that might quiet your thoughts.

"I love you," Jack gasped between moans, his eyes still locked on yours.

At those words, a sob tore from your chest. But your body didn’t stop. Through the blur of tears, you kept moving, grinding down for more friction. His body met yours perfectly—every thrust hitting deep, every movement both too much and not enough.

Desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him completely, you grabbed his hands, pressing one against your breast, guiding the other between your thighs until his fingers brushed your clit.

He got the message, and his fingers began to move in rhythm. His eyes never left your face—not even when you threw your head back with a sharp moan as he found the right pace against you. Your hips grew erratic, chasing release, and he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks, catching the soft light of the moon.

He didn’t say anything. There would be time for words tomorrow.

And just like that, after a few more tear-filled thrusts, you came—moments before he did. It wasn’t the kind of release that left you breathless and laughing. It was small, quiet, full of hurt and longing and love and sorrow. When your mind whispered again that this was the last time, you collapsed onto his chest, sobbing.

The tears didn’t stop for a long while. Not when Jack pulled out, not when he gently cleaned you up, murmuring soft words to soothe you. Not when he drew you close and wrapped his arms around you in bed. They only stopped when sleep finally took you—worn out from the day, from the ache, from everything.

Jack lay awake for hours afterwards, holding you against him. His chest was still damp from your tears, and he knew this time was different. He had messed up, and no apology could fix it easily. As he finally drifted to sleep, anxiety settled deep in his stomach, heavy with the thought of the conversation waiting for both of you tomorrow.

Except the talk never came.

When Jack woke up, he was alone in bed. He glanced at the clock and sighed—he had overslept, and you were already gone. On the coffee machine was a small post-it, your handwriting scrawled across it.

I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow.

No heart. No I love you. Just facts. He sighed again, understanding that maybe you needed space. He wouldn’t push you—he never had, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But maybe he should have.

Because when he returned the next morning, after his night shift, he was met with a cold, silent house. Something felt off immediately. Most of Pope’s things were gone—his toys, his two bowls. Your favourite coats were no longer hanging from the rack. He called your name, and the only response was silence.

As he passed the kitchen doorway, his heart sank.

On the table lay two things.

Divorce papers. And your ring.

As Jack passed through the ER doors, he felt a strange weight in the air. A lot of eyes seemed to settle on him. True, he was a bit early—by ten minutes—but that wasn’t unusual. Well maybe it was since he usually got here earlier than that. He glanced down at his pants, checked that his leg was properly covered. It was. So why the hell were people staring?

Looking around, he searched for Robby, hoping for a quick rundown of how the day had been, who the important patients were, what he needed to know. No sign of him. Dana? Same result.

Making his way to the nurse’s office, he swiped his card— ready to scan the patient list, bypassing the reasons for everyone’s visits just to gauge how his night would go. He offered gentle hellos and smiles to a few colleagues, returning their greetings.

Then his heart dropped.

The first name on the patient list: ABBOT.

You were here. In the ER. And no one had called him. The divorce wasn’t even finalized—he hadn’t signed the papers yet. He knew that wasn’t the point, delaying it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t anyone called him? He couldn’t make sense of it. Had you asked them not to call or did the nurses chose not to on their own?

Without a second thought, he ignored everything else. He focused only on the details in your chart. Passed out in the street. Brought in by paramedics. South 12.

On the other side of the ER, you were trying to process what Robby had just told you. Pregnant. Of course. The only time you had missed your pills, thinking it didn’t matter since you weren’t having sex anyway… and of course, you had. And now this.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Even more so considering that a couple of years ago, you had tried—and it had never worked. You’d done all the tests, everything had come back perfect. No fertility issues. Jack had just shrugged it off, saying it simply wasn’t the right time yet. So you’d gone back on the pills, your periods too painful to stop.

But then you had forgotten a few doses and now, here was the result.

Tears had gathered in your eyes when Mike had told you. You clenched his hands tightly, smiling through the joy and frowning through the panic. What were you going to do?

"You know we tried for months," you said, laughing softly. You barely registered your own emotions — not the tears, not the laughter. "It never took. We tried everything. And now… now it chooses this time." Your voice dropped to a whisper as one hand left his, resting over your stomach.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, forcing a tight smile. From what you’d told him, he assumed the baby was Jack’s, which meant you might still have a few weeks to decide what you wanted to do. "We can do an ultrasound first, just to know—"

His words were cut short as the curtain was pulled back harshly. Robby leapt up reflexively, scanning for any threat to the patient, but there was none.

Jack.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that night—since you’d left your house. He looked the same, though a bit more tired, more worn out. This was the moment you had dreaded : the night shift, face-to-face with him.

"Oh," Robby said softly, stepping in for a gentle hug. He was glad to see Abbot—it meant he could finally leave—but also relieved that this wasn’t his case to handle anymore. Robby cared about you like a sister, but this was something only Jack should hear.

He left the room quietly, closing the curtain behind him, offering a soft smile and mouthing, You got this.

Once he was gone, heavy silence settled between you. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it yet. He had your chart open on the iPad in his hands, surely having already reviewed the results. He knew.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he said.

You only nodded as you watched him sit on the same stool Robby had just vacated. The air felt heavy and tense. How had things come to this? You had once been so in love. Your eyes flicked down to your hand resting on your stomach.

"Is it mine?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and small tears slipped from your eyes. You brushed them away harshly, rubbing your cheeks and turning your face to the wall. You couldn’t believe he had even asked.

"Who else do you think it could be?" you spat, your voice sharp, still facing away.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. You knew it was only a legitimate question—you had left him without explanation. He had no way of knowing whether you had moved on in the two months apart. Still, it stung.

"Did Robby do the ultrasound?" he asked gently this time.

Shaking your head, you looked back at him. His eyes met yours—the same way they always had, like you hung the moon. Just like the last time he had looked at you, it made your chest ache.

"I’ll be right back," he said, standing.

Ten minutes later, here you were. You were still lying on the bed, he sat onto the same stool beside you. Both of you stared at the ultrasound machine as Jack searched the screen, finally letting out a shaky breath and tilting it toward you.

"Here they are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, pointing at a tiny, clear dot on the screen. "Still so small," he murmured, taking measurements, while you stared at your baby—or more accurately, what would become your baby.

You had created this together. It was bad timing, yes, but it was also a blessing. You had always wanted to be a mother—mostly because your own had been so shitty, leaving you with so much love to give. With Jack, it had been easy to daydream about a family. And now, it was real.

"By the size of our little bean, it’s eight weeks," he said, looking at you gently.

Our little bean. The words made your heart ache.

"Told you," you tried to joke, your voice weak, laughter mingling with tears. Right now, you had nothing left to fight. With another heavy breath, you asked the question that had been burning inside you. "What now?"

"We do whatever you want," Jack answered without hesitation.

You let out a small, relieved sigh. You noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring and the new chain around his neck. You’d bet your entire bank account that your ring was nestled there. And he still hadn’t signed the papers.

He was still attached—to your marriage, to the love you shared, to you. And you were still attached to him, but you couldn’t endure the pain of him being gone most of the time, especially now that you were pregnant.

"I want to do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I want to do this with you, but I can’t… if you don’t change."

This time, the tears ran freely down your cheeks. If he wasn’t willing to change, this would be the hardest decision of your life. You knew he would be a good father, and you could do joint custody, but you didn’t want him here just to be absent.

He was either committed—or you were gone.

"I’ll ask for the day shift," he said without a second thought, his eyes fixed on the tears sliding down your face. His own eyes were wet now, a few tears escaping. "I’ll do it. They won’t refuse, not with your pregnancy. I’ll be there."

He took your hands in his, holding them tight, his gaze locked on yours. You could feel his sincerity, his understanding, his willingness to change — to be present, to truly be there for you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, tears finally falling freely. "I can’t keep going if you’re not by my side."

When you didn’t say anything, he misinterpreted the silence, gently pulling his hand from yours. He leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the ultrasound screen.

"Can we start from the start?" you asked after a few seconds, your eyes full of hope and love.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he cupped your cheeks in both hands and kissed you. It was a kiss full of apology, sorrow, guilt… but also overflowing with love. You kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, pouring into him all the feelings you hadn’t been able to express over the past two months.

It went on for a few minutes. There was so much to catch up on, yet it felt right—still him, still your home.

When your lips finally parted, leaving you both breathless, you shared a gentle smile. He pecked your lips once more before turning back to the screen and clicking the print button, producing the first-ever picture of your baby.

As you watched the photo emerge, you silently hoped he truly meant it this time. You were willing to try again—one last time—because you loved him. This was his final chance, and somehow, deep down, you believed he wouldn’t mess it up.

Hands resting on your stomach, you leaned back on the bed, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Everything was going to be okay, you told yourself—and your baby.

"How’s Pope doing?" Jack asked, breaking the silence. You laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Yeah. Everything was going to be more than okay.

©fromsil.