WOLF

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

Today was an absolute mess. One of the most hectic mornings to date, in fact.

Your 5 year olds, the twins, refused to let you dress them in matching outfits but also vetoed different ones. After you begged on your hands and knees for them to just put some clothing on, they landed on the same shirt but different colored bottoms.

Then your middle child, the 3 year old, who was usually quiet and sleepy in the mornings, decided to splash your husband with so much water in the tub that he had to change. Twice. Screaming from bath times' start to finish.

Thankfully, they have daycare five days a week, and because it's a weekday, you got to ship the crazy trio off to school. Getting to spend the second half of your unbelievably early morning with your one year old.

Pope shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in a tight black t-shirt and jeans. He's already dropped the car keys in their dedicated tray by the time he presses a soft kiss to your temple. Before you can formally greet each other, his gaze snags onto the mess his son is making, whose chubby little cheeks are coated in mushy carrots and peas, onesie stained so aggressively you can barely see the yellow lions on it.

“Food is ‘sposed to go in your mouth, grumpy,” Pope takes a thick thumb and carefully wipes off a big glob of mush from your sons button nose.

'Grumpy' is the nickname one of the twins gave their new baby brother when he came out of the womb having the exact same twisted scowl as their daddy.

You nudge your shoulder into Popes side with a small huff, “He’s trying his best.” You then turn your attention back to the angel in the high chair, "Aren’t you sweet boy? Yes you are! Yes you-"

Your baby talk effectively dies in your throat when you feel bile replacing it suddenly. Your stomach lurches at the same time you do, slapping a palm over your mouth, dropping the tiny spoon you were mid airplaning and diving for the sink.

Once you’re done vomiting up the half cup of coffee and the single blueberry that fell off your middle child's plate that you’ve eaten since 5 am, you sag against the sink.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" Pope steps behind you to grip your forearms, keeping you upright, immediately concerned and wanting to fix the problem.

You lean back against his body and breathe for a second. Letting his strong chest and warmth flood your senses enough to quell the uneasiness in your belly.

"No, I don't think so," You answer truthfully. "I've just been super nauseous the past few…"

You trail off as the familiar puzzle pieces fall into place as they have done many times before since you've been married to Pope Cody.

You slowly turn around to face him, your features morph into a wide eyed, horrified gape.

"Oh my god..." You breathe and thats all you can manage.

Pope's hazel eyes literally light up, but his face stays in its usual tight expression. You can tell it's because he doesn't want to speak to soon.

You had never believed your husband to be a superstitious man, but before you had even had kids, you once you thought you were pregnant, and he got so excited that he bought you a big ass SUV so you could- in his own words- 'drive all his kids around when he's not there to'.

You hadn't been pregnant, though. You found Pope crying in the shower after you told him it was a false positive. You made him and yourself feel better by having a whole lot of shower sex that did irreparable damage to your water bill that month. But the two of didn't even end up caring, because three weeks later, a real positive showed up on a pregnancy test.

Grumpy babbles from his high chair and you realize you and Pope are still just staring at each other wordlessly. After another beat, he blinks and his jaw works just once, “Go take one right now.”

You know what he's referring to. One of the many pregnancy tests you have lying around the house due to the literal sports team you have been popping out.

Going to the bathroom, finding a test and taking it is all a blur. It all becomes clear again when you shuffle back into the kitchen.

"Oh my god!" You shriek in disbelief and utter exhaustion when you flash him the test with two lines so dark you feel another wave of nausea threaten to spill over.

"How could you do this to me again!”

A smile finally breaks onto Pope's face. A big goofy one that shows off the crooked teeth and crinkling eyes that you love so much that got you into this mess in the first place.

This particular smile he's sporting is one that you’ve only seen a few times with him. The first was when you said you would go out with him, the second was when you told him you loved him back, and then it appeared every single time you found out you were pregnant.

You knew what day this pregnancy came from. It was the last time you had sex, which was three weeks ago. A quickie in the laundry room during everyones nap time.

You squint at him. Throwing up an accusing finger and taking a step back when he reaches for you.

“I told you you should’ve worn a condom!” You practically hiss.

Not that you really care your pregnant again.

You’re truly always excited to have kids with Pope. Obviously... because you have so many. But right now, it’s barely 8 am and you’re pretty sure that your throw up further clogged the garbage disposal that one of the twins shoved blocks down this morning.

Pope blinks at you, scrunching his handsome face up as if he genuinely doesn't understand the notion, “You’re my wife. ‘m not using a fucking condom.”

"Andrew!" You gasp as he finally closes in on you. "Grumpy is right there!”

You let him tightly wrap his arms around you. Because you're tired, nauseous and now a type a nervous that you haven't felt in over a year. His hold is the only thing that keeps you sane in this moment.

He presses his face into your neck, “ ’S fine.”

Your hands encircle his tree trunk waist, grip probably too tight and exposing your worry, but Pope doesn't say anything.

You glance to your youngest son who is your husbands pocket sized version, then whisper into Pope's chest, "No cursing. He’s old enough to hear words and repeat them.”

Pope presses his body further into yours as if trying to meld the two of you together. Your cheeks heat as you feel the hardness of him that's now standing at full attention against you. The heavy weight of his bulge brings pressure on the outside of your belly and pools warmth inside of it.

Pope's breath tickles your neck, “You think he’s old enough to look after himself while mommy and daddy go cuddle?”

Cuddle.

The word the two of you started using when the twins started catching onto to when their parents started kissing and pawing at each other in the kitchen and then abruptly called for everyone’s bed time at 7:30 pm.

You pull back and swat at his shoulder, “Andrew!” feigning incredulity even though you have to discreetly squeeze your thighs together.

“Cmon, I’ll be quick,” he says through the kisses he starts leaving on your neck.

You snort, “Romantic.” You manage to steel your mind just enough to push Pope off and the thought of getting to mount him as you cross the kitchen to your baby boy. “You better not’ve been serious about leaving our one year old unattended, or mommy will never cuddle with you ever again.”

Despite your threat, you see Pope bite his lip when you call yourself mommy.

He slowly looks you up and down. Even with your hair slightly wet from your first shower in days, baby food accompanying the throw up on your face, and one of his giant t-shirts hanging off your shoulder, the heat still simmers in his eyes. Needy and hot. It makes your face grow warm and you have to turn away from him.

After a beat of him silent behind you, you hear him grunt dramatically.

He mutters, “Fine. I guess can wait until Friday.”

Which is when you’ll drop the kids off at your parents house. It’s your designated date night (even though you never even leave the bedroom). But you’ve missed almost a whole months worth because one of the twins having a fever one night and then there was a toddler ballet recital the next and all that other wonderful parenting crap. So you’re both… pent up, to say the least.

His footsteps sulk out of the kitchen and stalk upstairs behind you, huffing and puffing as he goes.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as all the heated anticipation leaves your body. You glance at the calendar covered in parent teacher conference sand sports events that hangs on the fridge.

Okay, it's Monday. You can wait four days. Right??

Your focus lands on Grumpy, you then realize that Andrew had finished feeding him while you were upstairs peeing on a stick. The familiar steady ease of Pope being your rock in this marriage has some of the anxiety about being pregnant again fade away.

"Da," Grumpy chirps.

You pick him up and nuzzle his nose with yours, “I know. Daddy is so dramatic, isn’t he?”

Your one year old giggles as if he agrees with you.

About a half an hour later, Pope is upstairs changing Grumpy as you empty the dishwasher. Your husband held onto his scowl he passed onto your youngest the whole time, throwing a fit that he can't have sex with his wife after finding out she's pregnant with his kid.

You had rolled your eyes and given him a quick kiss on the cheek after you brushed your teeth, then came downstairs to tidy up the mess that your children left in the living room and kitchen this morning.

Your brow furrows as an unexpected knock comes from the font door, and that furrow deepens when your neighbor, who you ask to babysit sometimes when no one else is around, is on the other side of it.

"Oh, Hi Bertha," You can't hide the confusion in your tone. "Can I help you?"

She nods once, big framed silver glasses that match her hair slide down her long nose, "I'm here for baby Cody."

You open your mouth to tell her you have no idea what she's talking about, but are interrupted by Pope appearing from behind you. He has Grumpy and a diaper bag in hand.

"Thanks," He says curtly as he hands off your baby boy. "The family matter isn't too serious, so we should we only be two-” then his gaze flicks to yours and his mouth quirks sideways to hold back his smirk and he corrects himself, “-maybe three hours.”

Your jaw drops. Not entirely believing that your husband lied about a family emergency just so he can get some alone time with you. But before you can say anything, Pope plants a kiss to Grumpy's cheek, mutters a goodbye to Bertha, and slams the door.

After a single blink of gawking at him, you throw your hands up.

You absentmindedly take a few steps backwards as you shriek, “Oh my god!" You continue to wave your hands around until your opposite him, the coffee table sitting in between you. "You’re unbelievable, Andrew!”

Your husband simply shrugs, “Decided I couldn’t wait.”

You scoff, the delirium of being a mother of four and the apprehension coming from the prospect of a fifth already starting a tiring mental battle in your mind.

“I am not having sex with you! It’s barely 9am and you just-" pregnancy brain kicks into overdrive and frustration bubbles up as you fight to string a sentence together- "You just carted off our youngest son to our neighbor!”

Pope scoffs in response, as if you would ever actually deny him. Annoyance prickles up your spine, adding to your already formed aggravation.

This man has the nerve to get you pregnant again and be all smug about it?

When he tries to round the coffee table to reach you, you step away, crossing your arms and basically glaring at him.

Pope raises a brow. He takes another step forward, you take another step back. After a second of confusion, a mischievous glint darkens his eyes.

He licks his lips, “Hmmm you haven’t played hard to get in a long while sweetheart.”

Your breath catches.

This is... not where you were expecting this to go.

You manage to fake an eye roll, trying to act as if his words didn't make your stomach tighten, “I’m not playing hard to get. It’s not happening.”

The words don’t fall as stern as you’d like them to, because you feel a dull throbbing sensation starting to build up in between your legs.

Damn your husband and his sexy face, voice and body.

A sly smile overtakes his face as the two of you start to slowly circle the coffee table. Pope's voice morphs into a taunt that send goosebumps across the back of your neck. “Wanna make me work for it? Okay honey, I’ll work for it. Don't gotta worry 'bout that.”

Nervous laughter bubbles out of you as you try to fend off the flush of arousal that he’s probably already spotting from a mile away.

A tense game of cat and mouse ensues as you round a corner and he rounds the opposite one. Over and over and over.

“You don’t need to work for anything. We’re not having sex.” You get even more irritated when your voice waivers embarrassingly on the last three words. Your husband tracks the sound and hunches over slightly, as if he is literally trying to snatch you up you like a hunter catches an animal.

You don't really want to think about why it sends a rush of dampness to the boxers- his boxers- that you're wearing.

You have to stay strong. Follow through with your scolding. Why can't you ever deny him? Probably because he has the biggest-

Pope dawns a casual look. Nonchalant almost. But his eyes stay blazed as they take in your skittish steps and uneven breathes.

A shrug accompanies his next wide stalk around the corner of the wooden table, “Alright. Stop walkin' away from me then.”

You feel your body betray you, growing all hot and fuzzy in wicked anticipation as you try to steady your voice, “I will. Once you stop following me.”

His movements falter for a second, thinking about it. He looks at you, then the remaining space between you, and opens his mouth.

“Nah.”

He lunges for you.

Reacting instinctively, you yelp and jump sideways out of his reach that grazes your waist. You land parallel to him across the table once again.

He groans as if this is the sexiest foreplay he could ever ask for, “Fuck sweetheart. You want me to chase you?”

How did you end up here? Weren't you just throwing up in the sink??

Damn these pregnancy and postpartum hormones that make Pope Cody even more irresistible.

While you are very flustered by the ridiculousness of the whole scenario, you are also, very turned on.

You've completely forgotten why you said no to sex in the first place at this point. The only notion that rings clear in your mind is that you really, really want him to chase you.

“N-no.” A lie.

Your hesitation has him chuckle darkly, “My day just keeps gettin’ better.” It’s spoken quiet, meant for his inner thoughts but slips through the cracks in the heat of the moment.

Pope slowly eyes you up like you’re his prey and then he cocks his chin up once. A vague gesture to the rest of the house that sits behind you.

His already deep voice drops an impossible amount of octaves as he rasps, “Better get movin’ sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen. Heart dropping all the way into the basement where only Pope goes because theres crickets down there.

You turn and bolt through the living room before he can make his next move.

A disbelieving gasp-shriek sounds from you as you run as fast as you can through the first floor of the house he bought you.

The exhilarating rush you get at the though of him chasing you has your heartbeat thump in your ears and somewhere else you don't need to dignify with naming. You haven't looked back once as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

Your racing mind has half a thought that you've gained some distance, but then you hear Pope's heavy footsteps thud behind you in the hallway.

Then up the stairs.

Then into your bedroom.

You squeal like a school girl when he finally gets his hands on you.

Pope- gently because he would never actually hurt you- throws you onto the bed, easily pinning you under him within seconds.

He has one large hand holding both of your own over your head. The rest of his body is pressed on top of you, faces inches apart. You feel your hearts rapidly beat against each other as you're chest to chest.

“You can never outrun me,” His rough whisper ghosts your lips, making you realize you haven't kissed all morning.

You close the gap and place featherlight kiss to his mouth. Your voice is delicate despite what you just did and the position he now has you in, “I never want to.”

All the buzz starts to settle in your body. Melting into a safe and glowy feeling that engulfs you and your soulmate.

He stares at you for a second when you pull back. The heat in his gaze melts into something different. Something softer.

He exhales through his nose, gulping audibly as he mumbles what he always does when he finds out you're pregnant.

“Thanks for givin' me another one.”

You smirk at him, wrapping your legs around his thick waist tightly, “Could be two again.”

You giggle at the pleasure coated groan that sounds from him at the thought.

Pope presses his face into your neck, pressing his hips into you. When you feel the large bulge that has made it's way back into his jeans, you know just how much he liked that thought.

He places hot kisses up your neck until you’re squirming beneath him. He says lowly into through kisses, “I love you so much.”

You whisper back, “I love you too, Andrew.”

“So much," he continues. "Too much. I wish there was a way I could show you how much.” His breath is warm on your skin, the affection only you see from him sends your heart fluttering.

Pope means it sweetly. A true testament to romance.

But there’s still some adrenaline coursing through you from the chase, so you can’t help but tease, “You could give me an orgasm for each kid?”

He exhales a sharp laugh against your collarbone then drops his hand, releasing both of yours. Your fingers automatically shoot up into his auburn curls with their newfound freedom.

His lips twitch upwards when he pulls back to meet your eyes. He softly presses his lips to yours, murmuring, “Sounds like a good start.”

“Start?” you raise a brow at him.

Pope grinds his hips firmly into yours, drawing a soft moan from you. His tone gets serious. Determined.

"Honey, I bought us over two hours of alone time. I plan on giving you three times the amount of our kids.”