‎‧₊˚✧Elli✧˚₊‧

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]

⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]

PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]

PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]

PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]

PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]

PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]

PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓★ — TBA

─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆

TBA

─── ⋆ MISC ⋆

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

Whether it be cinnamon scrolls.

Cookies of all sorts. 

Brownies with a twist. 

Treats baked with a delicate buttery puff pastry. Strawberry danishes with a hint of pistachio, or simply pear with a little crumble on top. 

Tarts, cakes, and everything else in between. 

You simply made sure that whatever you brought in, could be eaten with ease, could be eaten in a hurry.

Being the daughter of a charge nurse meant knowing that time was of the essence when it came to working in the ER. 

Nothing was ever stale.

Bringing only the best of the best for these hard workers. 

Even treating them with new creations, offering these all up for free and all you’d ever ask, is for a bit of advice on whether the recipes needed a little tweaking. 

Not that anyone had a single complaint. 

Merely that there was never enough, Trinity would teasingly complain. 

You were kind, with a humorous wit that matched your mother’s. 

So no one thought too deeply over the fact that you dropped by. 

Not realising that on days you’d stop by during the change over, whilst you’d leave side by side with your Mama. 

Just outside, just out of sight, you’d be met with a gentle kiss and sweet hello. 

By the very fearsome, intimidatingly brooding orthopaedic surgeon, the Shark. 

Otherwise known as Brendon Park. 

Your husband.

You couldn’t say for sure that you meant to keep it a secret. 

You couldn’t say that you intended to hide your relationship. Not even your Mama worked very hard to conceal this link.

In fact whenever Park would be summoned down to the ER, he’d always make an effort to stop by and check in with Dana. 

He knew how much you worried cared for your Mama. So whenever he could, he would say hi. 

And she’d be just as happy to see him. 

Perhaps with a little teasing remark. That always kept him on his toes.

For however brief the interaction was. It meant a lot to Dana to see Brendon make such an effort. 

Because she knew that deep down, behind his cold facade and abrupt nature. He was as soft and gooey as the brownies you would bake. 

It just happened that no one had noticed. 

Simply believing Park to have the decency to be nice towards the ER’s charge nurse. It wasn’t uncommon, seeing as he could be civil with Robby, the nurses and a few others in the ER.

Only ever truly being curt and clipped towards the juniors. He could be most impatient when it came to improper handling of cases. 

His method of teaching being more akin to throwing them in the deep end rather than holding their hand in a wading pool.

…Truly, besides knowing that you were Dana’s daughter and an owner of a bakery, with a knack for making the very best treats. 

Not much was known about you. 

Well.

With only a handful of people knowing more of your personal life. Including Robby and Jack, Lena and Lupe, as well as most of the nursing staff, especially those closest to your Mama, such as Princess and Perlah. 

All of whom knew better than to divulge your personal life. 

Leaving many of the medical students and newcomers to wonder about your life. 

Whenever time was on your side, you’d do your best getting to know them. 

Listening intently when Dennis would speak about his youth growing up on the farm–giving him a little advice here and there. You had of course picked up a few things being Dana’s daughter.  

Gently teasing Victoria when you saw her stumble over her words as she spoke with Mateo, feeling a burst of pride while you watched her confidence grow. 

Samira would gravitate towards you and rant about her day, whilst you let her frustrations roll off. With a sympathetic smile, and always a little treat to quell her stress. 

Frank would greet you with a wide grin, endearingly calling you “Baby Evans” in honour of your mother often calling you Baby.

Unfortunately, that nickname had caught on…

“Hey Baby Evans–what’s new with you? It’s been a while since you stopped by,” Trinity grinned, leaning upon the desk as she looked at you. 

From where she was standing all she could see was your top half as you sat at the station.  

“Well–uh. Funny you should ask,” you smiled gently, a small coy glint to your eye, “Maybe you’d like to guess?” 

She rests her head in her hand as she looks at you. 

A slight glow to your complexion, but that wasn’t overly unusual. 

A slight glossy sheen to your hair. 

And a wide smile upon your face. 

But–

Trinity tugged Mel as she passed to stop her, while pointing a finger towards you, “Does something seem different with Baby Evans today?” 

Mel’s brows knitted together, “Uh–”

"Something's different and I can’t quite put my finger on it” 

Mel looked at you, as you gave her a little wave, before she glanced back at Trinity. 

“She seems a little more glowy today? But that could be because of the pregnancy,” Mel replied a little quizzically. 

Trinity blinks rapidly before her eyes snap back to you, “What?-”

Your laughter cuts through the room as you nod. 

Trinity’s lips curl into a smile, rounding the corner, “Congratulations–Why didn’t you tell us?” her arms wrapped around you from behind, while you reached up to hold her arms. 

And now as she stands beside you, she can see your growing stomach, rounded and full. 

Smiling with such delight you answer, “We were just waiting a few weeks, just to make sure–wouldn’t want to jump the gun, a few weeks just happened to turn into a few months” 

Trinity nods before glancing up, interrupting Dana and Robby mid conversation, “Dana! Why’d you hold out on us!” 

Dana looks up, eyes peering over her glasses, before plucking them off, “Like N/N said, just wanted to make sure everything was tracking along ok,” her gaze drifts down to you, “Did you tell them the other news?” 

You shook your head, “You can” 

Dana nods with a smile, walking over taking Trinity’s place by your side, looking down at you fondly, “My Babygirl is going to be having twins,” she beams with pride. 

A round of congratulations pour out from everyone, all of them taking the time to say hi and congrats to both you and Dana. 

And so with this news. 

The murmurs of gossip began. 

All revolving around, who was the lucky guy to call you his partner in life? 

With only a few tidbits of information to go on. 

For one. 

He was considerate. Caring. 

It was no secret you were very much in love, with never a bad thing to say about your husband besides the fact that he worried too much over you. 

Two. 

He was a doctor. 

It had come up in passing. So brief. Barely even a moment spent on the topic. 

Merely a fleeting comment, whilst one of them fussed over you, insisting they help you with the boxes of baked goods claiming the stress wasn’t good for the babies. 

You had simply swatted them away with a small chide, “Oh please don’t fuss over me, I get that enough from my Mama and my husband cause he’s a doctor” 

And then three. 

Dana never had a bad word to say about him. So he must’ve been a great guy to have gained her approval.

Oh. 

And that he was handsome. But as that information came from you, that could’ve easily been a subjective opinion. 

That was it. 

That was all they had to go on. 

And instead of asking either you or Dana outright. 

They had resorted to trying to work it out themselves. Sifting through whatever snippets of information they could gather. Trying to piece together this little mystery, 

Unaware that the answer was right beneath their noses. 

Unaware that your husband worked alongside them. 

“So who do you think it is?” Trinity asked Victoria, her eyes glancing at you from across the room. 

“Who?” Victoria asks, without looking up from what she was doing. 

Trinity clicks her tongue, “Who?–Pay attention Crash–I’m obviously talking about Y/N’s husband”

Victoria nods in understanding, before shrugging, “I don’t know, is it really any of our business”

“I’d still like to know,” Trinity says, biting the tip of her pen in thought. Before adding, “Do you think it’s someone from the night shift? I mean she always arrives at changeover–What do you think, Huckleberry?” She drags him into the conversation. 

He shakes his head, “Uh–uh, I am not getting involved in this. I still want Dana to like me” 

She rolls her eyes at him, before directing her gaze once more to Victoria. 

Who hums in thought, “But her showing up at changeover doesn’t really prove anything, I mean she could easily be with someone from the dayshift” 

Trinity sighs in agreement. 

Her eyes narrow, observing you whilst you happily chatter with those around you. All of them trying to guess the sex of your babies, listing off plenty of names as suggestions. 

Olive and Sage. Poppy and Colby. Or even Hazel and Brie.

Seemingly everyone found it very amusing to suggest names relating to you being a baker…

But you held your cards close to your chest. Not once showing whether you favoured one name more than the other. 

Though you did scrunch your nose in distaste when Jesse offered the name Graham…after you had brought in graham cracker crusted tarts.  

And you definitely broke down into a laugh when Princess had whispered the name Hunter with a knowing look in her eyes. 

And yet. 

The med students were no closer to figuring out who your husband was…the only other clue they had was that he had to be quite well off, considering the very sparkly ring they saw upon your hand. 

Whilst your due date grew closer and closer. Your Mama loved to fuss more over you. Trying her best to dissuade you from coming to the ER. 

With worries such as, “It’s not safe, patients can be erratic” 

“The stress of the ER isn’t good for you”

And everything like that…

Unfortunately for her, you were as strong headed as she was. Waving off her concerns always with the same response. 

Whilst you’d gently squeeze her hand, “Mama,”  looking her in the eyes, “I like coming in here, I like coming to see you, and besides–I’ve got plenty of baked goods and you all deserve a little sweetness too” 

However both your Mama and Brendon had managed to convince you to take it easy at work. To reduce your hours and hand over more responsibilities to your employees. 

Telling you to take it easy. 

To rest and stay off your feet a little more. 

And whilst at the start you had complained…you were starting to see their point once you began to get winded more easily, feet growing sore, back aching. 

Especially noticing that your bladder was growing weaker as your babies pressed upon it with each little shift. 

Leading to times like these. 

Dropping the box of cookies at the hub with a quick hello, before rushing past your Mama to the bathroom. 

And then. 

The elevator doors open. 

Brendon Park steps out, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Icy blue eyes scanning the room, noting the familiar box of cookies at the hub. 

He strides over to Dana, with a small raised brow. As interns and students alike duck their heads to avoid eye contact. 

Question on the tip of his tongue. 

“The babies decided the bathroom was where they wanted to go,” she explained. 

He nods his head in understanding, “And how are you today?” 

Dana nods with a smile, “Not bad”

Their conversation cuts short as Trinity waltzes up to the hub alongside Dennis, as she plucks a cookie, sending Dana a look before glancing at Brendon. 

“Didn’t know we needed an ortho consult?”

Dennis’ eyes widen in panic trying to avert himself from Brendon’s eyeline. 

Whilst those around hold their breaths. 

Waiting for the bite back. 

For the sharp retort. 

But it never comes. 

Brendon simply arches a brow. His eyes flicker down to meet Dana’s who meets his, before she looks back at Trinity. 

And then. 

Dana huffs out a laugh. 

Stunning those around them – well those of them who didn’t know the relation between the two. 

“If you’re not here for a consult, then why are you here?” Trinity probes further. The cookie in her hand, now half eaten. 

Grinning widely, Dana wraps an arm around Brendon with a small pat on his back, whilst his arm slings across her shoulders. 

She answers, with a slight sense of pride, “He happens to be my son-in-law” 

Shock enveloping everyone around them. Whilst those who knew stifled a laugh at the sheer surprise flooding everyone’s features. Robby and Jack bite back a grin as he sees his colleagues freeze from the information. 

Princess lets out a giggle whispering with Perlah, who hands her a $10 note with a small sigh. 

Trinity almost chokes on the cookie in her mouth. 

Victoria’s mouth agape. 

Samira’s mind racing. 

Dennis blinked in shock. 

Cassie lets a smile stretch across her face with a small nod as she takes in the news. 

Mel and Frank share a look of disbelief. 

Until all they can simply do is watch as you walk over from the bathroom. 

Seeing how your eyes light up at the sight of Brendon, shuffling over to him, with a soft smile – your gaze only focused on him. Not noticing the stunned expressions of those around you. 

Simply delighted to see your husband’s handsome face. 

Dana lets her arm fall from Brendon who walks to meet you halfway. You’re arms wrapping around him, “Hey love.”

He leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head, a soft smile creeping onto his face. 

An expression so unfamiliar to those around him. 

They had to pinch themselves to believe it was even happening. 

“Hey Angel,” he murmured with such tenderness. 

Sighing you relish in his company, so comforting and soothing, “How’s your day?” 

“Better, now that you’re here – what about you?” he replies, sincerity drenching his words, his hands drifting to caress your cheek, before settling onto your stomach, “Hope you both have been good to your mom.”

You shrug, lightly with a small laugh, hands shifting to settle on his as they’re warm against your stomach. 

“I’ve been good and they’ve been good, making sure I keep my steps up though, constantly making me need the bathroom today,” you reply cheekily, before you notice everyone coming to a stand still around you. 

The silence broke as Ellis nodded, crossing her arms over her chest, “I knew it,” she remarked to Trinity. 

The crowd of med students and interns all share their own thoughts, whilst Ahmad divides out the money from the bets placed pertaining to who your husband could have been. 

Both you and Brendon sigh as you watch it all unfold. 

You grin up at him, patting him on the arm, “I better go talk with them about this”

“You didn’t mention I was your husband?”

You shoot him a look, retorting with a teasing lilt to your voice, “It’s not like you said I was your wife” 

He tuts at your words, folding his arms over his chest, “Everyone in my OR knows I’m happily married to you”

You lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips before stepping back. With a wink, “Good luck, living this one down” 

He sends you the slightest of smiles, the expression reserved only for you, while you leave his grasp. 

Brendon is pulled into talking with Robby, and Dana, while Jack pats him on the back. All of them watching the others flock to you.  

And in a moment you are swarmed by all those who were surprised by this revelation as they ask you any and all questions that come to mind. 

How?

Why?

When?

All wanting to know, just how you managed to make Shark become as soft and sweet as a shortbread cookie. And even more so, how Park had managed to gain Dana’s approval.  

In the midst of talking with Samira and Trinity, your breath hitches slightly, “Oof–”

Samira’s eyes furrow in concern, sharing a look with Trinity, “Are you okay?” 

“Hm? – Oh, yeah. I’ve just been having these pains for a little bit – but I had them before and they weren’t anyth–oof” you hunch over just a little, hands settling to rest on your lower back, breathing deeply. 

“Hey can you get Dana or Park here?” Samira asks Trinity, who nods. 

You wave them off, “I’m fine”

Samira ducks slightly, hands resting on the sides of your arms to support you, “I’d rather not take the risk – especially considering you’re related to Dana and Park”

She observes you, slipping into habit as she asks, “How long did you say you were feeling like this?” 

“Over the last hour or so, but I’m sure they’re just braxton hicks or whatever–” You explain. Not overly concerned. 

“You really don’t think you’re going into labour?” 

You think over her words. Over how you’ve been feeling, the discomfort and pain. How you had simply chalked it up to just being pregnant. 

“I mean–now that you mention it–”

“Hey Baby, what’s going on?” Dana steps beside you, joined by Trinity. While Brendon joins your other side. 

“Oh–hey Mama, Brendon, uh–everyone seems to think I’m going into labour,” you say with an airy laugh. 

Both of their eyes look at you in concern. 

Dana glances up, a questioning look entering her eyes as she looks to Samira and Trinity. Who both nod in agreement. 

“Ok, well lets get you up to the labour ward and we can get you sorted,” Dana’s hand soothingly rubs across your back. 

“Do you think you can walk, or would you like a wheelchair?” Brendon asks. Ready to step into action. 

About to argue, insist that you could walk, you stop yourself short as another wave of pain enters your abdomen with a sharp breath. 

Hand gripping your Mama’s. 

“I think I’ll take that wheelchair”

He nods and moves quickly to grab one, before settling you down. 

Feet moving quickly, steadily as he pushes you towards the lift. 

Everyone calling out their good lucks and words of support as you leave. 

While Dana walks quickly beside you both, grabbing at her bag as she passes by, nodding towards Lena, “Sorry I can’t help more with the hand offs–” 

Lena gives Dana’s hand a gentle squeeze, shaking her head, “Don’t even start. You just make sure your Babygirl’s ok when she has her babies”

Dana nods gratefully, before disappearing into the lift alongside you and Brendon, her hand slipping to hold yours. 

Looking up at them both. 

You smiled, a slight mist entering your eyes. Grateful for their support. For their love. Breathing deeply. 

Calm. 

Assured. 

That your babies were coming into a family so full of love. 

A loving father. Brendon’s hand resting on your shoulder, so soft and tender. Looking at you with complete adoration and affection. 

A doting grandma, Dana, who had quickly called Benji, asking for him to pick up your pre-prepared baby bag back at your home.

While she informed your sisters of the recent development. Who were more than ready to be adoring aunts for your soon to be born twins. 

It made your heart swell at the thought. 

You couldn’t wait for the next chapter of your life. 

After a long night. 

Soon, your struggles came to an end, as you were handed over your beautiful babies wrapped up in cotton blankets. 

Tears welling up in your eyes, forehead sticky from the long labour. 

Smiling widely, while Brendon kissed your head firmly, his own eyes growing misty. Heart melting at the very sight of your babies. 

“I love you so much,” he told you. 

Within his grasp he held his entire world. Your two precious little twins, Finnick and Rosie. With bright wide eyes peering at you both with intense curiosity, fingers curling around yours. 

Whilst you beamed down at them, leaning against Brendon. Whose eyes lifted to meet Dana’s, gesturing for her to come over. 

“Would you like to hold one of them?” he asked. 

A smile stretches across her face, her eyes glittering as she looks upon the scene before her. 

What more could she ask for? She had a son in law who ensured her daughter’s comfort–who ensured that you felt loved every moment of every day. And two little baby grandkids to fill her days with joy…

Nodding, her arms stretched out while Brendon carefully placed Finnick in her arms. She coos softly at the little baby. 

Hours pass, as you all simply relish in the peace. 

The news filters its way down to the ER. 

And from the moment the news broke. 

Every so often, you would have a new guest knock upon the door. 

Friendly faces stopping by. 

To they discover, you with Brendon never far from your side, close and cosy, and the two little bundles of joys. 

Jack and Ellis made an appearance when the ER had succumbed to a rare moment of relative peace. 

Until soon the dayshifters began to filter in. 

Dropping off little snacks and some food for you, brought to you by Samira and Victoria, helped by Lena who told them all of your favourites. 

Trinity and Dennis had stopped by a stack of gifts neatly wrapped in their arms, from blankets, to two little plush stuffed sharks. 

Robby had briefly checked in, sharing his own congrats with you both. 

And of course, most of the nursing staff had taken the time to check in with you all. Princess and Perlah crooning over your two little sweethearts. 

And each time whenever someone would stop by. 

One of the first questions they would ask was. 

What are their names?

And each time you’d be asked that question. You’d share a glance with Brendon, a tender softness. 

Finnick Park.

This one. 

This one took a little arm twisting for Brendon to agree, catching onto your little joke immediately, as you were barely able to conceal your growing grin when suggesting it. 

But with a little effort, with a few sweet kisses you had managed to get him to agree. 

The nail on the head was just after you had given birth to them - there was no way he could say no to you.

But the next name. 

Rosemary ‘Rosie’ Park. 

That name took no effort at all to convince him. 

In fact as soon as the name left your lips he had fallen in love with the idea.

A small way to preserve the memory of the very first time you had met each other…

Years ago. 

Back when Brendon had only started out at PTMC. Had only just started his journey there. Already growing a reputation. A cold demeanour. 

But he had cracked this day. 

A slight fracture in his otherwise pristine facade…

A tough day that still had hours left. 

He had managed to slip out, for a bit of fresh air he had convinced himself that this was all it was – a bit of fresh air…

But as he walked down the street. 

He had come across the quaintest little bakery – a cafe. Friendly and welcoming, with butter yellow awnings. And a bright blue door. 

Sugar & Spice. 

The words neatly printed upon the glass pane. 

And for whatever reason. He had stepped in. The faint doorbell ringing out. Whilst he was enveloped in the fragrant warming aromas of all the baked goods, rounded off with the notes of coffee in the air.

A few people sat dotted around the space. 

Not quite flooded by people. 

Judging by the space it seemed to be relatively new. Perhaps only having been opened for less than a few months. 

This place was your dream come true…served with a side of stress. A small team of four, including you, worked to maintain the demand. 

Mind racing with a multide of things whilst you worked. 

But your gaze came to a halt. 

Stopping upon the lonely figure of a man sat by the window…

Unable to choose from the array of baked goods, Brendon had simply ordered a black coffee. 

Simple.

Just wanting something simple. 

But you had other plans. 

A small frown twisting at your lips while you watch him. 

How his dark brows furrowed. Lips pulled taut. 

Crystal blue eyes, now clouded over. 

Murky.

With that very same look you had seen a hundred times before on your own Mama’s…

How his shoulders’ slumped as though carrying the weight of the world. The brunt of the day.

Just like your Mama did. 

It was how you had known he worked in the medical field. 

…well that and the fact he still had his scrubs on barely hidden beneath his jacket. 

Now while better judgement might have told you it was a bad idea to give out free food so early on into opening your business.

Your bleeding heart had won out in the end.

The gentle clink of the ceramic plate broke Brendon from his daze.

Icy blue eyes met yours. 

Making your breath catch for just a moment.

Before regaining composure whilst you slide the plate closer to him.

A plate of rosemary shortbreads.

Fresh from the oven. 

A crisp and perfectly buttery crumble texture, with the salted edge from the rosemary, lifted by a citrusy twist from a touch of grapefruit. 

You watch as his eyes knit together in confusion, voice low, as though a gentle hum, “I didn’t order—“

“You’re not allergic to anything are you?” You had asked, tilting your head looking at him expectantly.

Only for him to shake his head. 

There was something about you. That had made his words lodge in the back of his throat. 

Nodding in satisfaction you added, “Good. Try these and tell me what you think of them before you leave.”

“But–“ he goes to argue. To counteract. Unsure what had warranted him this act of kindness.

“On the house,” You had flashed him a smile, before walking away. 

His eyes trailing after you. 

Gently lifting the unique shortbread to his mouth. 

Letting it simply overtake his senses as it melted onto his tongue.

Soothed by just a single bite. 

Catching your eye as he smiles your way in thanks.

Who knew. 

That that was all it would take to make him besotted with you. 

Leading you both to this moment now.

Your twins now fast asleep in their little bassinets. 

Whilst Brendon’s arms wrapped around you. So warm and steady. 

The rise and fall of his chest helping ease any worries.

Even when life would throw you troubles. Even if there would be disagreements or problems.

Those would always fade away. Would always be worked through. 

Embraced by his unwavering love and affection for you. 

Brendon was unconditionally in love with you.

Just as you were with him. 

Now this…

This was sugar and spice, and everything nice.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story ♥️ I can just imagine that when Brendon first met Dana as your boyfriend he was a nervous wreck. This was absolutely so sweet to write and explore!! I had a lot of fun developing these dynamics. (My heart is such a sucker for softy Brendon behind his steely facade) Also check out this recipe for rosemary shortbreads (they are delicious) Let me know what you thought ✨ Read Part 2: Gentle Hands & Gentle Hearts here! Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Help yourself and check out my other Pitt Works on My Masterlist Here!

Jack has been the way he is for so long that he can’t remember being any other way. He can’t remember loving the sun, the light, the way the breeze in the daytime felt as it carried both the noise of laughter and talking and cheering and the scents of the world. He can’t remember being at peace in a room full of people that aren’t patients or doctors. He can’t remember the last time he laughed because he thought something was funny. 

            He can’t even remember the last time, he liked himself. The way he is in the world, the way he moves or the way he looks. 

            He thinks Catherine took it with her, but not when she died. And that’s the hardest part. She sucked all of that away when she was still there in front of him, saying she would love him if. She would love him if, not always. She was conditional. 

            And then she died and he’s the one living with the guilt where his heart used to be. Guilt that he’s relieved, that he’s happy being free, that he likes the quiet of the house, the quiet of a world gone silent, but not from terror but from a kind of peace. 

            He thinks that Catherine stole a piece of him when she was still alive and when that aneurysm stopped her functioning, the piece she stole died along with her. 

            And with them, his hope died too. 

            And so, he lives with the guilt in the place of his heart, the guilt that he doesn’t miss her like he should, the guilt that he can’t even say her name with any kind of love. The guilt that he feels free. The guilt which chokes him, strangling him when he pictures moving on, forming a life. The guilt that makes him put a wall up around him. 

            The guilt which makes the world grow dark—the guilt he tries to pretend is grief. 

            But playing pretend is only really a game for children. 

            And Catherine stole his childhood too. 

            “Can’t you ever just fucking do what I say?!” Catherine yells, her voice high-pitched and scratchy, grating on Jack’s last nerve. He hasn’t been back to the house in a while, his leave finally here and while the guys in his troop—his brothers—came home, to family waiting, happy smiles and tears and kisses, he came home to no one. 

            Just a message to his email that she was busy getting her nails done and she’d see him later at home. 

            “Do what you say?!” he yells back, his voice deeper, but more broken, shattered. He loves her, or thinks he does, and yet when he’s around her, he doesn’t love himself. She makes him feel like he’s useless, like he can’t do anything right. 

            He doesn’t like being around her, the way his skin crawls as soon as he hears her call his name. He doesn’t like the knowing that whatever she says will only hurt him more. He doesn’t like knowing that at the end of the conversation, he will not be whole, a piece of him will be gone, torn out by whatever words leave her lips. 

            “Yes!” she yells and she steps towards him, her eyes narrowed in anger, face drawn tight, pinched and all Jack wants to do is reach for her face, smoothing away the wrinkles and the hatred. He wants her to look at him like she did when they were kids, when she looked at him like she loved him. Or, at the very least, liked him. 

            When her eyes weren’t filled with hate. 

            It’s that thought that has Jack sighing and nodding, grinding his teeth together, jaw rigid and tense, just slightly pained as the teeth grind the wrong way on each other, the jaw locking. But he’ll endure the pain if he can get her to smile. Just smile one goddamn time for him before he ships out. 

            “Sure, sweetheart,” he says, his voice quiet, scarcely a whisper because he doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t want to have the screaming matches she so loves. He just wants to change out of his uniform and curl up on the couch with his wife, watching whatever movie he missed when he was gone. “I’ll do what you say. What do you want?”

            “I want you to leave,” she says, her tone flat, lips drawing into a thin line as she folds her arms over her chest. “I want you to stay somewhere else for this leave. You wake up too early for me and it disturbs me. And I don’t want that. So, find somewhere else.”

            And Jack is frozen, standing there in his fatigues, bag still on his shoulder, every muscle still as if someone pressed pause on his body and he’s waiting for them to hit play again so he can live. 

            “You…you…” he struggles to speak, his throat growing thick and it’s hard to swallow, his chest constricting, lungs burning and head just slightly light-headed. “You want me…to-to leave?”

            “That’s what I said. And you’d said you’d do it, so, bye.” And then she walks off, her dark hair swishing against her back as she walks off down the hallway and Jack turns to leave, walking out of the house and to his rental car, only crying searing tears once he’s behind the wheel, his hands gripping the faux-leather so tightly that his knuckles are white and fingers numb. 

            He wonders what happened to the two of them, when they went from kids in love to this. Was it when he joined the military? Was it when they got married?

            Or was this the way things always were and he was just too blind to see it?

            See her.

            “Hey, Dr. Abbot,” he hears you call out, your voice soft and gentle, carrying through the ED like a beacon, one of kindness and hope and gentleness. A beacon that Catherine never was. And he hates himself for thinking that, for comparing you to her, for even trying to move on. For even trying to feel things for someone else when his wife is dead and gone and he should remain loyal to her. 

            Loyal in a way she never was. 

            “What’s up, Starlight?” he asks, turning from the nurse’s station, orienting himself like he always does, as if he would know wherever you are, no matter what. 

                         “Are you busy?” you ask him, your face pinched just slightly with concern, drawn together as if you’re worried not just over whatever patient is on the iPad you’re currently clutching like a life preserver, but also worried about him. 

            He finds it strange, you worrying about him, about if he’s busy. He finds it odd as if no one should really worry about him because he’s just not worth it. Wasn’t that what Catherine told him once? You’re just not worth the headache that worrying would cause. So, why are you worried? You don’t even know him and maybe, he reasons, that’s why you worry. Maybe it’s something wrong with him, so fucked-up that when people get to know him, they find the problems and then he’s not worth the trouble. 

            If you knew him, you wouldn’t care. 

            “Not at the moment, Starlight,” he answers, mind half-on the here and now and the other on Catherine, on the grief that feels a lot like guilt. “What do you need?”

            “I have a patient with a split leg and I believe that the proper suture method would be vertical mattress, but I’m not confident,” you tell him, hands still holding the iPad like a life preserver, like it’s the only thing that’s saving you from drowning. “So, I was hoping to get a second opinion. Although…you’re probably actually busy, so I will check with Ellis and see what they say.” You nod once as if convincing yourself of something and spin on your heel, turning, head just slightly turning as you look for Ellis, but Jack is frozen. 

            He is frozen because you’re trying to find someone else, just to make life easier for him. And no one’s ever done that before. 

            Catherine always made him do everything. She never lifted a finger and certainly never looked for anyone else. It was his job to take care of her, why make that job easier?

            But you…you’re looking for someone else even when it’s his job to help you, mentor you. 

            “Hey, wait, Starry!” he calls out, moving across the floor, ducking behind Lena’s chair and crossing the nurse’s station to you. “I said I’m not busy. Let’s check out this split leg, alright? How’d it happen anyway?” He knows he made the right choice when you smile at him, your entire face lighting up, shining on him like a star, just like your nickname—the one he gave you when he almost called you sweetheart once. 

            “He was working construction and something happened with a piece of equipment—sounded like his friend accidentally drove a chisel through his calf!” Your voice is eager and excited, the ED having not fazed you for a single moment, something about you able to look at the ugliest of humanity and still find the positive. Still find a way to spin the darkness to the light. 

            “Well, now I really gotta see it,” he says, following you to the patient room, his hand twitching just slightly, wanting to reach to take yours and that guilt, that grief rises, its hand closing around his throat and tightening. 

            Just like Catherine would have wanted. She liked him loyal even when she couldn’t be. Even when she never was.

            “Catherine? Cathy, you home?” Jack calls out, his voice tired and yet carrying through the still halls of the home he bought back when they got married, just five months after graduating high school. He hadn’t wanted to wait and he likes to believe she felt the same. “Cath?” No response. 

            And Jack thinks she’s not home, that he’s safe to get things ready for her birthday, the surprise. He worked it out with his commanding officer that his leave would land here and now on her birthday so that he could come home and celebrate it with her. So, that he could make her smile again when she hasn’t smiled at him in so long. 

            He just wants her happy. He loves her. 

            He drops his duffel at the door, darting through the house, up the stairs, the sounds of creaking echoing through the upper halls, but he thinks it’s just the stairs. He’ll have to fix those later, preferably before Cath comes home so she doesn’t yell at him about not getting everything fixed. That if he was home, he might as well do what a husband is supposed to. 

            It’s when he’s outside the bedroom that the cries reach his ears, his hearing not what it used to be after being exposed to gunshots, bombs and screams without hearing protection. The cries are Catherine’s, breathy and cracking, either in pain or pleasure. He doesn’t know and it’s why he opens the door—either way, he can help her. At least, if she wants him touching her now. She hasn’t for his last weeks of leave. 

            “Cath?” he calls out as he turns the knob, the metal cool and slippery against his palm as he pushes the old oak door, the sight of crumpled clothes beside the bed, the first thing he sees. Two pairs of jeans and two shirts.

            That’s when he looks up, the sight of his wife’s bare back, her ass settled on someone else’s naked legs, a hand fisted in her long black hair, her body pushing up and sinking down as she rides someone else’s cock. 

            “The fuck?!” he cries and that’s when she turns, her glassy green eyes pupil-blown, yet contracting when they take him in, rolling once before she turns back to the man on the bed. 

            “Get out, Jack,” is all she says and he’s helpless to do anything but listen, stepping back and closing the door behind him, the sting of tears burning his eyes, vision going slightly blurry as his hands curl into his fists, his lungs burn and chest constricts, a thickness growing in his throat. 

            But he pushes past it. Not because soldiers don’t cry—because they do—but because Catherine would only see his tears as weakness, something to exploit. Something to delight in. 

            And he doesn’t want to give her that, the knowledge that her unfaithfulness bothers him. Besides, he’s gone all the time, she should have some form of peace, of release. 

            He’s not able to provide it, but she still needs it. 

            This is really his fault after all. He really should give her more attention. 

            He’s pushed her to this after all. 

            “You okay, Dr. Abbot?” Another shift, another chance to hear your voice, the calm and soothing tone, the notes of peace and tranquility, of acceptance. Something Catherine never had. 

            “Fine, Starlight,” he whispers, his hands still white-knuckling the metal railing of the roof, the urge to just do it, to just end it and find that silence, that peace. That never-ending void of nothing—no thoughts, no feelings, no endless refrains of Catherine and her worst moments. 

            “I don’t think you are,” he hears you say, your words blunt and to the point, tone flatter than he’s ever heard it. “But then again, neither am I, since it seems we had the same idea.”

            “What’s that?” he calls out to you, hoping you don’t say what he thinks you’ll say, hoping you won’t say for it all to end, for the days to stop. He wants to picture you like the North Star, always shining, always guiding, sheparding and protecting. He doesn’t want to picture as a dying star, just waiting for implosion. He wants you always shining. 

            “The final leap, that final hurdle,” you say and your tone is sardonic and dark and not like what he’s used to hearing. It’s not the voice of Starlight, but is, perhaps, the real voice of you. The one you have when no one needs you to be that guiding star. “Eternal quiet.”

            “I just like the view,” he replies, his tone matching yours, playing at a joke, something Catherine would have hated, would have told him to stop saying because it’s just so fucking dumb. 

            “Kinda wish I’d just shut up then,” you tell him, smiling once at him, a shy smile, one dark and yet light at the same time. Your bag is slung over your shoulder and your eyes are tired, sad and tired, dark and light. 

            “Nah,” he replies, turning from you, back to the view of the city that stretches out before him, houses and skyscrapers, people and cars. “I like hearing you talk.”

            “Good to know someone likes my crazy rambling,” you mutter, leaning against the guardrail, your forearms pressing against the metal as you lean against them, stretching your back and sighing before looking out at the skyline. “Does it ever get easier?”

            For a moment, Jack thinks you’re asking him if his grief for Catherine will ever get easier, but then he realizes you’re asking about the Pitt, the Ed and not the pain of losing the only person he’s ever been with. The only person who could ever put up with him—at least that’s what she told him. 

            And she was almost always right. 

            “No,” he whispers, his words landing hard in the silence between you. “It doesn’t. Every shift will tear your heart out all over again until you finally just feel like giving it all up, but occasionally there will be someone in the ED with a smile and crazy ramblings who makes it better. Who makes it worth it to show up every day.”

            “Why, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you have a crush on me.” He turns his head, turning to you, orienting to you as if you’re the North Star and in a way, since you started working in the Pitt, you’ve become that for him. The bright guiding light that reminds him that people are worth the effort. 

            “I don’t think you do know better,” he says and he wants to take it all back, that pain ripping through his chest as he remembers Catherine, his wife, the woman who put up with him even when he didn’t deserve it. According to her. 

            “You do like me?” you ask him, lips pursing into a thin line, your beautiful eyes narrowing at him as you pivot, only one arm now leaning against the guardrail, your entire body facing him rather than the skyline. “You wear a wedding ring, Dr. Abbot. That doesn’t exactly suggest that I’m wrong.”

            “She died. Seven years ago,” he whispers, looking down at his hands, at the thick platinum band that he’s never removed because he’s always been more faithful than Catherine and why should that ever stop. Didn’t he vow for both life and death? Shouldn’t he uphold that even if she didn’t?

            “Doesn’t mean you’re over her,” you whisper and maybe it’s because you always sound like you care, in a way Cath never did that he replies. That he says fuck it to his vows. 

            “Doesn’t mean I’m not either.”

            Pain. 

            That’s the only thing he knows. Pain. Just never-ending waves of it, washing over him again and again and again, over and over and over. It’s like he’s trapped on a shore, unable to move out of the way of the ever-encroaching tide. The tide that threatens to kill him, drown him, yet never does completely. 

            Occasionally, it’s dulled. Occasionally, the waves only lap at his legs, not his whole body. Occasionally, he’s not in complete agony. 

            But even when the pain is dulled, his mind is still on fire, words echoing through his brain that he doesn’t remember ever hearing and yet cannot seem to get rid of. 

            “You’re lucky I married you before. No one’s gonna love you now.”

            The blue or the red tie? The black or the white shirt? Does he add a suit jacket or go without? 

            Jack is utterly lost as he looks at his closet, only half-filled, Catherine’s stuff gotten rid of before her funeral. He told everyone he couldn’t bear to look at it and that was true, because looking at it made it seem like he was still tied to her and he’s not, yet he is. 

            He knows that she was shitty, that, in truth, she was abusive and he didn’t deserve the way she treated him, yet he loved her. He loved her in a way that was desperate, that feeling that he was never going to have anyone else because he wasn’t worthy of it. The thought she placed in his head before and after the amputation. 

            He knows that he shouldn’t feel guilt for the relief he felt when he found out, the relief that he could finally know peace and yet he does. 

            Because he can’t get rid of the idea that she was right. That it was him. That he was a shitty husband who drove her to do the wrong things, to say the wrong things. That he was the cause of her pain, of her actions. 

            He wants to just feel fine living and yet he can’t. He can’t because Catherine is still a part of him, a piece of who he is, someone who still lives inside of his mind, in his skin. He remembers the good, back when they were kids, before she became who she was as his wife, but a part of him thinks she was always like that and he was just too love-struck as a child to remember and by the time he saw it, it was too late. 

            He was ensnared in her web, drawn into her lies and manipulations. 

            But…maybe it was his fault all along. 

            He’s drawn out of his thoughts by a ringing, one not from his tinnitus, one that exists outside of his sensory system, the stimulation where there isn’t any. One sounding from his phone. 

            A call—from you. 

North Star

            “Hi, Starlight,” he says, putting the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he holds up one tie and then another, still debating. “What’s up?” He can hear you sigh on the other end of the line, a soul-shattering sigh that has his heart jolting, his mind rushing, wondering how long it would take to get to you if you need help. 

            “Blue or red?” you say into the phone and he feels his entire pause, recalibrate, turning from emergency plans to fashion advice. 

            “Blue or red what? Because I’m currently in the same dilemma trying to choose between ties,” he says and he can hear you snort, the sound loud and undignified and the all the more perfect. Catherine never let herself laugh like that—she always had to be pretty, even when what she was saying was ugly. 

            “Shirt,” you answer, tone not quite flat, but not lively. An in-between tone as if you don’t know how to react, how to answer. “What colour do I go with?”

            “Mind if we switch to FaceTime so I can see the options?” he asks, a part of himself drawing in on itself, folding and tightening as he thinks of Catherine, of how he was always faithful, how he vowed that and he’s a man of his word. 

            But she never was. 

            Even if it was his fault for always being gone. 

            “Sure,” you tell him and he waits, not having long before your face is on his screen, a smile on it, not one that’s fake or curated for maximum attractiveness, but rather one that is real and toothy and crooked. “Hi!” It seems you like this better, waving once before switching the camera to backward facing, showing a view of your bedroom, the room exactly as he was expecting—neat, almost obsessively so and blue, decorated with…yep, stars. 

            “I see your room, Starlight, but no shirts,” he says and he can hear you sigh, but this one is different, it’s happy.  

            “Just wait, old man,” you call out and even those the name from most would be said with acid, yours is bright, teasing and affectionate. He wonders how it’s possible. How you can speak to him like that when his own wife never could. 

            Is it that you just don’t know him? Will you run when you see him? All of him? Is it that something inside of him is broken and breaking everything around him?

            Will you run when if it gets real?

            Will you be another Catherine?

            “Option one,” he hears you declare, tone high and dramatic, lilting like a musical song through his room. He looks at his phone, focusing, his mouth going dry as he sees just a hint of your stomach, just a glimpse of the black lacy bra as you hold one hanger up in front of your body, a sleek blue button-up hovering over your frame. It’s beautiful and professional and he knows you would look perfect in it. 

            “Where’s the second shirt?” he asks and he can see you roll your eyes in your reflection; the camera being aimed now at a full-body mirror. 

            “Close your eyes until I say open,” you tell him and he complies, the order not spoken with malice or control, but rather just a wish. Quiet and kind—a way that Catherine never spoke. 

            “As the doctor orders,” he says, closing his eyes while you switch out shirts, most likely not wanting him to see more of your body than he can around the shirt. 

            “Okay, open,” you say and he does, taking notice of the silk red shirt you hold up, the neckline more plunging than the blue, the material most likely more clinging, more fitting. “So, which shirt?”

            “The red,” he says, no hesitation as he swallows, the motion hard and just slightly uncomfortable, his mouth dry and his heart skips a beat and then another when you laugh and he can see your face crinkle in laughter, your body bending forwards with the force of the laugh. He can see the way your hair falls, your shoulders, your back, the lacy straps of your bra, the smoothness of your skin. 

            He feels a stirring that he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. He doesn’t think Catherine ever made him feel like that and all of a sudden, the feeling is gone. Sucked away just like she sucked away so much of him, that piece that he can never get back. 

            Maybe that’s what he grieves—not her. 

            “Then wear the red tie,” you tell him and then you hang up, his house still ringing with your laughter, tinny from the phone speakers but yet still oh so beautiful. 

            And he does. 

            But not because you make him feel like he has too. No, you make him feel like everything is a choice and you’re just there to help. 

            You are what Catherine never was. 

            But how long will that last before he poisons you too?

            “Can’t you fucking do anything?!” Catherine screams, her voice loud and shrill, cruel. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, only that he did something and he hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know, hates that just by existing he does something to hurt her. 

            “I don’t know what you want!” he cries, the feeling of being overwhelmed, overstimulated rising in him, that feeling of being unable to fix something that is broken. 

            And it’s him. He’s what’s broken if Catherine is to be believed. Although, his brothers, his troop, tell him it’s her, not him, but he can’t believe them. 

            He can’t because Catherine’s been there his whole life, telling him he’s broken and maybe she’s right. 

            But he can’t fix what he doesn’t how to. 

            “I laid out your outfit and yet here you are! I laid out a suit and yet here you are in your fucking uniform!” she screams and for a beautiful woman, she isn’t pretty when her face is mottled and twisted in rage. 

            “This is what I’m supposed to wear, Catherine! I’m a soldier!” he yells and he watches as she rolls her eyes and walks away from him, up the stairs, the door to their bedroom slamming closed. 

            “THEN GO ON YOUR OWN, YOU FUCKER!”

            And he does, silent tears falling down his cheeks as he drives himself to his best friend’s wedding, making excuses for his wife that his best friend just shakes his head at. 

            “She wanted to come,” he says, “she just felt sick.”

            “No, she didn’t, Jack. Stop making excuses for her, man. It’s helping no one.”

            “Can you tell me about her?” you ask him, your fingers interlaced with his, your head on his shoulder, Pretty Woman on his TV—a movie you said he had to see. “Your wife.”

            It’s been a precious month, one of hand-holding and sweet kisses and laughter. Lazy mornings and coffee on his patio, your legs on his lap, your voice lilting through his house, gradually helping to erase the echoing sound of Catherine’s angry screams. And even as precious as it was, he’s been wondering when the bubble will burst. 

            When the pretty idea he’s built up will shatter like Catherine always said.

            He supposes it’s now.

            “What do you want to know?” he whispers, pressing pause on the movie as you shift until your seated to face him on the couch, legs crossed as you look at him, your free hand coming to rest on his cheek, thumb tracing back and forth across his cheekbone. 

            “What was she like? How did you meet? I don’t know, I just know that she was a part of you and still is and if…if we’re gonna get serious…I should know her too,” you tell him, your nostrils flaring just slightly as your lips curve up on one side, touch grounding him in the moment. 

            And he finds that he doesn’t want to lie, doesn’t want to pretty up the truth for you. Most of the time, he spins Catherine so that she’s the perfect wife and he’s always the one at fault, but he wants just one person, just one to know the truth. 

            “She wasn’t an easy person to love,” he whispers and when you squeeze his hand, he spills everything to you, everything she ever said to him, every lie she told, every time he found her sleeping with someone else. He tells you, most of all, how it’s his fault. 

            He tells you that if he had been a better husband, she would have been a better wife. He tells you that the first thing he felt when she was gone was relief and then he felt so much guilt that he convinced himself it’s grief. He tells you that she stole a piece of him and he thinks that his grief is really just for that missing piece. 

            He tells you everything, crying when things get too hard, your hand leaving his, instead both of them resting on his cheeks, wiping away his tears, soothing him and grounding him. Holding him steady, guiding him forwards like the North Star. 

            And when he’s done, there is a silence that descends, but not the one of Catherine, not the one where she used it as a weapon, but rather a silence of rearranging. A silence of deciding but not of anger. Just recalibration. 

            “She was a bitch,” you whisper, tone soft but words blunt and matter-of-fact, cutting straight to the point in a way that makes it impossible for him not to laugh. And he laughs and cries at the same time and you are steady, simply holding him until he stops, until he falls silent, the peace he feels at you speaking what he used to think late at night before the guilt choked him into silence, submission. “You’re none of the things she said you were, Jack. You are kind and caring and perfect and wonderful and she was a horrible, abusive person. It was not you. Nothing you did caused that, that was who she was. You did nothing. You were—are—the victim, Jack. And I’m so sorry that you have been carrying this alone for all these years.”

            “How are you real?” he whispers, his voice soft and shattered at the same time, his hands coming to rest over yours, lifting them from his cheeks and folding them in his own grip, settling them over his heart and holding tight to them, letting you feel the beat of his heart that he is slowly becoming convinced beats for you. 

            “My parents had unprotected sex and I am the product of the fusion of two gametes,” you tell him, your lips quirking up on the ends, bottom lip folding back between your teeth, top lip pursing just slightly as you bite back a laugh that he wants nothing more than to hear. 

            “Good to know,” he says and then he’s letting go of your hands, gripping your face gently and pulling your face to him, his lips finding yours, pressing against yours with a hunger that he’s never felt before. A hunger that is desirous and ruinous and perfect in its messiness. 

            A kiss that is destructive, knocking down the wall he’s built around himself with his guilt, his fucked-up grief. A kiss that is ruinous but in the best way. The perfect way. 

            And when you pull away, your chest heaving just slightly with breathlessness, you smile, lips kiss-swollen. “You’re a very good kisser, Jack Abbot.”

            “Oh, am I?” he asks you, watching as your smile deepens and you nod, glancing down, the flick of your eyes, hinting at just a bit of embarrassment. A bashfulness that he loves. “I think you’re better.”

            The crutches are strange. Not because he’s never had a broken leg before, of course he has, but simply because this are the only reason he’s moving at all. When he woke up in the hospital, finally weaned off of the morphine and brought back to the present, he found out that the bomb that had exploded, that took his best friend’s life, took his leg. 

            Took only his leg because his friend knocked him out of the way. Took the brunt of the blast. 

            It’s a scar that he will carry forever, that knowledge that his friend could have lived, could have made it for his wife, for his son—if not for him. 

            “Thanks man,” he whispers to his troopmate, one of the other survivors, the luckiest, if you can say that, having survived with only a deep cut across his abdomen, internal bleeding fixed up good as new in surgery, or as good as any soldier ever can be. 

            “You don’t have to thank me, brother,” Flynn whispers, pulling him against him in a tight embrace, the two of them clinging to each other, silent in their grief, holding onto the pain, but also embracing it. Together yet alone. “I owe you my life.”

            “And I owe Jeffrey mine,” Jack says, his voice cracking just slightly as he pulls back from Flynn, pulling his key from his pocket, his weight thrown off and he stumbles just slightly unused to having no leg there to catch him if he falls, Flynn catching him and helping him unlock the door. 

            “You good to be alone?” Jack knows what he’s asking, but he doesn’t want to face that now. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. 

            “I’m not alone,” he says, smiling at his friend, the saddest, fakest smile he has ever put on his face which hurts more than that ripping feeling through where his leg once was and never will be again. “I have Catherine.”

            “That’s as good as being alone, brother. Probably worse.” But Flynn closes the door, shaking his head as he does so, leaving Jack in the entrance to his, most definitely not accessible house. 

            A house that Jeffrey has spent countless hours in. A house that Jeffery has laughed in and joked in and yelled in and cheered in. A house that Jeffrey will never again set foot in because he chose to save Jack. He chose to save his friend, to give him a second chance when he was the one with a wife so in love with him and a son who needed him. Jack doesn’t understand why Jefferey gave it all up for him. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t like it. 

            He doesn’t like this relentless ache in his chest, this feeling of being cracked open. He doesn’t like this feeling that no about of rubbing can get rid of, that no cough or yell or scream can dislodge, that no pain can erase and no painkiller can numb. He doesn’t like this emptiness yet present. 

            He doesn’t like feeling like something is missing and nothing to do with his leg and everything to do with the man who in two days will be buried. Who in two days, Jack will stand with crutches at his funeral, saluting the body of the man who saved his life. 

            And the feeling is why Jack crutches to the living room, sinking down upon the couch and crying, tucking his head between his knees—he was told he was lucky that his knee was able to be saved—and crying. And he doesn’t cry silently this time because as Deran, another troopmate another brother, assured him, soldiers are allowed to cry. 

            After all they see, they have every right to lose it when they need to. 

            “You’re pathetic,” Jack hears Catherine say and that just makes him cry harder. For his best friend, for his leg, for his best friend’s son and wife, for himself. For the life he could have had, had he not been so love-sick. 

            For the life he feels too guilty to want. 

            Maybe Catherine’s right. Maybe he is pathetic, but only because he stays. 

            Five months. 

            That’s today marks: five months of dating you. Of being with someone who lifts him up and doesn’t put him down. Who cares for him and his feelings and what he wants more than anything else. 

            Which of course, means that it’s the day his worlds collide. 

            “Hey, Uncle Jack!” he hears across the ED and he pauses for a moment, glancing down at the smartwatch you insisted on getting him, setting it up so that any major alerts of ill health would immediately be sent to your phone so that you could know he was okay and get him help if he wasn’t capable of it, noticing the red dot at the top. He swipes at it, noticing a text from Brett Barnes—his best friend’s son. 

            His nephew. 

            Whose here. 

            “What happened, Brett?” he asks, turning around, taking notice of the way he stands, the way he’s dressed, the cadet uniform and the buzzcut. 

            “Nothing except that I got leave to ask you something,” he replies, striding across the ED with the posture of a soldier, hands clasped behind his back, feet standing apart as he faces Jack, eyes locked on his face, those dark mahogany eyes so perfectly Jeffrey that it takes Jack by surprise, that ache solidifying in his chest, sharp pain ripping through the leg that once was but never will be again. 

            “You’re in training?” he asks, throat thick as he swallows, taking in the man that he’ll forever remember as the little boy clambering into his race car bed and begging for stories of his dad. The dad he never got the chance to meet. 

            “I’m about to graduate,” Brett says, voice barely above a whisper, still focused on Jack and Jack alone, already having Jeffrey’s singular focus. “And I got leave to ask you to come. To go with my mom and tap me out.”

            “You want me to…” Jack can’t finish his sentence, his throat too thick because Brett looks just like Jeffrey did back when they were cadets, back when they had hope and hadn’t yet seen the horrors of the world. 

            “Yeah, Uncle Jack, I want you to tap me out. And bring your girlfriend too, I’ve heard she’s around my age, might be fun to steal her from you,” he says, lips curving up just like Jeffrey’s used to. 

            “Sorry,” Jack hears you call out, your voice not far behind him, your hand finding the place in between his shoulders, “but I cannot be stolen.”

            “Are you sure?” Brett asks, his eyes not on you but on Jack, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face, which is so Jeffrey that sometimes Jack thinks he was just copy and pasted. “Because I probably have a lot more stamina than my ol’ uncle over there.”

            “You need a few more years on you before you’re hot enough, kid,” you reply and Jack can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips despite the pain flaring through him hot and bright. “But we’ll be there to tap you out. Jackie wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

            That’s another thing—you call him Jackie. 

            Catherine never did. She hated even saying his name at all. She said it like a curse. 

            You say it like it’s everything; like the whole damn universe. 

            “I hate you!” Catherine screams, her voice shattering on the last syllable, a screech more than real words. “I fucking wish you had died, you one-legged freak!”

            Jack wants to die, right now, right here. He wants the ground to swallow him whole, to end this. To silence the voice of Catherine and the voices she’s created in his head. He hates himself the most. 

            Because she’s right, he is a freak. He can’t do what he used to be able to do. He has to slow down and think about what he’s doing and he has to be conscious about things in a way he never has before. 

            He hates himself because he’s different. Because his entire life is changed. He has a whole new reality and every day is a goddamn struggle because this is not a world meant for him. He has to deal with sidewalks that have no ramps and walking with a prosthetic, a weight he has to throw differently, overcompensate for. 

            He hates himself because he can’t move without help. Either from a metal and plastic limb or crutches or a wheelchair.

            He hates himself because he’s weaker. He hates himself because of the pain he wakes up to everyday in the limb that was there but isn’t anymore and yet feels like it still is. He hates himself because this is fine for other people but not him. 

            He was never supposed to be this way. He’s supposed to be someone that everyone else can rely on, someone who can do what others can’t and yet here he is—the one who can’t do anything anymore. 

            He was never supposed to be like this even though he knew it could happen. It’s just that he went his whole life thinking that it wouldn’t and now here he is, living in a world that wishes he didn’t exist, living in a body that he wishes he didn’t live in because it’s just so damn hard and it’s just so damn painful. 

            But one thing that hasn’t changed—he doesn’t give up. 

            Dying would be giving up and that’s not who he is. He sticks it out even when others wouldn’t. He’s sticking out his marriage, after all. 

            He doesn’t give up. 

            He won’t give up on himself. 

            He can hate himself for now, but he knows like he knows the world, that he will conquer this. He will conquer it and it will be like his disability was never a problem at all. 

            If he can handle this, the loss of a limb, the phantom pain and the loss of his best friend, he can handle anything.

            “SHUT THE FUCK UP, CATHERINE!” he yells, his hand slamming into the wall, a dull slam echoing through the house and causing her to freeze. To look at him with glassy green eyes gleaming with hatred. 

            “You disgust me,” she hisses. “I don’t want you touching me.”

            Jack loves these moments with you, the intimate ones, the ones where you kiss him with a ferocity that has him gasping against your lips, his hands finding your hips, gripping them tight, pulling you against him, your hands wandering across his body, slipping underneath his shirt, trailing across his abs, up to his pecs, touch lighting a fire in him. 

            “Need you,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him again, licking into his mouth, your tongue brushing against his, making him groan against you, his hands drifting from your hips to your ass, squeezing it and making you gasp against him, one finger flicking against his chest underneath his shirt as he walks you backwards to the bed. 

            “How do you want me?” he asks you, tone serious as your lips find his pulse point on his neck, your tongue flicking out against it, his cock throbbing painfully hard in his jeans, but a kind of pain that is good, not the kind that destroys you. 

            “Do I really have to say it?” you ask him, your eyes pupil blown and Jack thinks that’s his favourite way to see you looking at him—love and lust and desire all rolled into one. 

            “Consent, love,” he whispers and he’s delighted in the way your breath hitches, the way you lick your kiss swollen lip, eyes glassy with desire and heavy-lidded. 

            “I want you inside me, Jackie,” you whisper and that’s all the encouragement he needs, his hands lifting your shirt up and over your head, his cock twitching again at the sight of your lacy bra, the one he’s pretty sure you wore on the first date that he saw a peek at on the FaceTime all those months ago. 

            “God, pretty girl,” he groans, his hands rising up to your waist, pulling you against him as he presses a kiss to your lips again, trailing his lips from yours, down your jaw and down your neck, licking and sucking and biting and trail to your collarbone, his hands creeping up your back, unhooking your bra and helping guide it off of you while his lips never part from your skin. 

            He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this, felt like this for someone. Most people would think Catherine, but he never felt this way with her, another piece of guilt that strangles him some days—that you make him feel a way that she never did. Catherine hated him even more after the loss of his leg, refused to let him touch her, said that he was a freak and he grew to believe it. 

            It’s why each time the two of you have had sex for the past four months, he’s kept his leg on. Even when you ask him if he wants it off, he says he doesn’t even though he really does, because he doesn’t want you to look at him like Catherine did. 

            He just can’t risk it. 

            “Jack,” you moan as he reaches your breasts, pressing kisses to them before taking your left one in his mouth, his tongue flicking against your nipple, your hands clawing at his back as he presses you down onto the bed. 

            But something happens today and pain shoots through him, not phantom pain but real pain through his thigh, something screwy with his prosthetic and he ends up on the bed beside you, hissing. 

            “Jack?! What’s wrong?! Honey, what’s wrong?!” you ask him, your tone panicked as you asses him for injuries, your hands drifting across his body, not for sex but for wounds. Your pull up his pantleg, taking in his leg, your expression growing irritated and just slightly angry. “Why the fuck does it look like you’ve had your prosthetic too tight? Or on during things it shouldn’t have been on for?”

            “It’s just the st—” he doesn’t get to finish because you cut him off, tears in your eyes. 

            “Jack! Don’t lie to me. I love you, okay? I’m in love with you and I want you to take your leg off when it needs to come off. I haven’t pushed you because I know Catherine was fucking ableist bitch, but I don’t fucking care if you have two legs or none, Jack Abbot. I just love you. It doesn’t fucking matter if she thought you were a freak because I don’t. I think you are a gorgeous and perfect and loveable and goddamn impossible with how precious you are. Your leg is not a problem, Jackie. It is beautiful, okay? Do you know? Because you survived. 

            “This says, I survived hell. This says, I survived something that most people don’t! This says you are a fuckingmiracle! And it’s also hot,” you tell him, tears pouring down your face, a strangled laugh escaping from the both of you. Jack has never had someone love him so loudly, so perfectly that it hurts him. 

            But for once the guilt is less. 

            “It’s hot?” he asks you and you laugh, your head thrown back and then you nod, your hand coming to rest against his cheek as you nod. 

            “Yeah, because it means you came home. We all carry scars, Jackie, and they all have meaning, but this…this is a scar that says I survived. It’s a scar that means I got the chance to love you. And that’s hot, okay?” And all he can do is nod as you press the softest kiss against his lips. “Now let me take care of you, okay?” And he nods again. 

            And then you help him undress, pulling his clothes off and getting down on your knees before him, hands undoing his prosthetic and gently setting it beside the bed as he guides himself backwards on the bed. 

            “I love you, Jack Abbot,” you whisper as you press a kiss against his leg, right on the scar where they repaired it. “I love you and all your scars.” And then you press another kiss against it, murmuring “beautiful” and Jack can’t help but let the tears slip down his cheeks, tears of pain and love and surprise and most of all, healing. 

            Because something in your voice tells him that it really was just Catherine. 

            That maybe he is that miracle. 

            “And I love you,” he whispers as you climb up his body, to his lips, pressing a soft and lingering kiss against them. 

            “Do you want me?” you whisper and he can feel the surprise cross his face and you arch an eyebrow. “Consent, love.”

            “Yes,” he whispers and then you shed the last of your clothing, sinking down upon his cock with a muted cry, your walls so perfect against him that he wants to cry just from that and as you begin to ride him, bouncing on him, breasts bouncing, your hand comes to his cheek, brushing a stray tear away. 

            “It’s okay to cry, Jackie. It’s always okay to cry.” And he does. Because this, sex with you, your words, your continued whisper of perfect, beautiful, I love you, you survived, miraculous all make him feel a way he never has before. 

            Loved. 

            And when it’s over and you lay beside him, arms around him, his around you, he tells you how much he loves you, how much he cares for you and how much he needed to hear what you told him tonight. 

            And your reply?

            “Tell me whenever you need to hear it, Jack. I’m here for you. I love you and I’m here for it all, the good and the bad. The ugly and the beautiful. You just need to let me be there.”

            And he’s starting to understand how one can do that. 

            He starts by letting go of the guilt. 

            Catherine didn’t deserve him when he was alive and she certainly doesn’t know that she’s gone. 

            He can live the life his best friend gave him that chance at now. 

            “I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot,” the morgue attendant says, voice somber and face pulled into an expression mock sympathy, eyes conveying how bored he is. 

            “Thank you,” Jack says, looking down at the body of Catherine, his Catherine. She’s still and quiet in a way she never was when she was alive, but even dead, she looks pissed. Face pinched and drawn tight even though it shouldn’t. 

            Maybe Jack’s just seeing what he wants. 

            But as he walks away from the body, knowing that he has to make preparations, plans, has to buy a plot, he can’t deny the feeling of relief. 

            The feeling that he can finally learn to love himself, to love the way he is. To live the life he never had. 

            To find a love she never gave him.

            And that’s when the guilt starts, the burning in his heart that he’s awful and evil and wrong. 

            Just like Catherine always said. 

            “Congratulations,” Jack whispers, throat thick, his hand in yours as he and Eve both tap Brett on the shoulders, tapping him out at his graduation ceremony. “Your dad would be so proud.” Brett looks at him with a soldier’s eyes but a little boy’s smile. 

            “I know,” he says and then he pulls Jack against him and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t curse Jeremy for his mistake. 

            Instead, he thanks him for the second chance. 

            And promises to always be there for his son, for his wife. To protect them along with his own. 

            And when he glances over at you, he wonders if maybe he will be a father. If every dream he used to have is a possibility again. 

            Maybe. 

Epilogue

            “This child is gonna be the death of me,” you whisper to Jack, your voice that familiar soothing note, that beacon of light that it has been since he met you. Since he started calling you Starlight because you’re his North Star, his guiding light. 

            “While, yeah,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your cheek. “He’s half you and half me. Of course he’s going to be wild.” 

            “Wild? You call him stealing your leg when we’re watching a movie, wild?” He can’t help but laugh, remembering when he took it and grabbed it, running off with it, leaving you to chase after him. 

            “In his defence,” Jack says, “he just wanted my footprint for that painting thing.”

            “Still,” you say and all he can do is laugh, pulling you onto his lap as your son dances around the lawn with the dog, the rescue loving him almost more than the two of you. “I just worry.”

            “I know,” he replies, kissing your cheek again, his hand pressing just slightly against your stomach where Baby Two grows, “but he’s us. He’ll be fine.”

            “I just don’t want the world to beat him down. Or take away his spark.”

            “We survived it didn’t we. I survived the scars she left behind and you survived the scars they left behind on you. We survived and we’ll make sure he survives.”

            “Promise?”

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

Disclaimer This story is 100% fiction. I do not own any of the characters presented and it is not based on true events. I questioned myself for too long whether or not to write this especially in the world we are currently living in. But my writing, as any of the things we do, is nothing but a reflection of myself as a political being. As a woman, as hispanic, as a human rights and victims advocate I can not be apolitical and yes, through this story it will become very clear where I stand.  With this, it is not my intention to caricature the suffering that millions of people experience around the world, on the contrary, to display how incredibly easy, unfair and unhuman these processes can be, along with the irreparable damage those around them face. No human is illegal. And I will live on that hill.

---

The world blurred at the edges of your vision. Your breath came in shallow, jagged hitches as you walked back into the hospital, your hands trembling so violently you shoved them deep into your pockets to hide them. You needed the distraction. You needed to be anyone other than yourself for the next twelve hours.

The sun was setting, casting long, mocking shadows across the ER as you reached the locker room. You punched in your code, your fingers sluggish. As you shoved your bag inside, you tried to mentally—and spiritually—lock your terror away with it, closing the door with a sharp clack.

You headed straight to triage. If you stayed busy—if you just kept moving—maybe you wouldn’t have to hear the echo of the call from this morning.

‘You need to find another way, or you’re out.’

“How long has your stomach been hurting?” you asked a man reeking of cheap tequila. You didn't wait for his slurred response; you were already moving to the next bay. You needed the noise of the ER to drown out the silence of your own desperation.

You pressed the wooden depressor to the next patient’s tongue and shone your pen-light down her throat. “Have you taken any unprescribed antibiotics?” She shook her head, though you knew the answer already.

“Breathe for me, please,” you murmured to a little girl clutching a teddy bear.

You cycled through patients with frantic efficiency, trying to discharge as many as possible to keep your mind occupied.

“Have you ingested any alcohol in the last 24 hours?” you asked a young man who insisted his stomach was shredding him from the inside. It was Sunday night; he looked every bit the part of a man paying the price for a wild weekend.

“No,” his voice cracked. “It hurts too much. I can’t even sleep.”

“We’re going to order some exams and—”

He started spitting blood.

“Fucking hell,” you muttered. “I need a gurney!”

Mateo helped you scramble him onto the gurney, guiding him into a trauma room. Abbot was the first one through the door, his eyes immediately assessing the chaos.

"Intubating now," you rasped, your voice sounding thin, detached from your own body.

Abbot was already at the bedside, his movements efficient and commanding. "I'm holding cricoid pressure," he announced, his hand firm on the patient’s neck to prevent aspiration as he kept barking orders to the rest of the room.

He saw the sweat beading on your forehead, the way your hand trembled as you visualized the vocal cords.

"You're second-guessing, Doc," Abbot said, his voice clipped and low, designed only for your ears. "Stay with the patient. Breathe."

You ignored him, forcing the blade in. You saw the cords and slid the tube home. You watched for the chest rise as you bagged him.

"Good placement," Abbot confirmed, grabbing the stethoscope to confirm lung sounds while simultaneously checking the capnography wave. "Bilateral breath sounds. Secure the tube."

The immediate medical crisis stabilized, but the adrenaline stayed with you. It didn’t belong to the patient but to you.

"You okay?" Abbot asked again, his eyes narrowing as he stepped away from the gurney, his posture still braced for a medical emergency.

"Where’s Ellis?" you asked, desperate to shift your attention elsewhere.

"She’s outside with some ICE agents," Abbot said, his tone shifting from professional to guarded.

“Some what?”

Abbot waved a hand, dismissive, as if this were just another bureaucratic hurdle. He didn't understand. 

But your stomach churned, the bile rising in your throat. Your knees betrayed you entirely. You stumbled backward, your hip catching the sharp edge of the supply cart, sending a tray of gauze and tape clattering to the floor, deafening the room.

You clawed at the edge of the counter, your knuckles white, but your muscles turned to water. You sank, sliding down the wall until you hit the linoleum, your chest heaving in jagged gasps. The room tilted violently, was it an earthquake? it couldn’t be. The fluorescent lights strobing above you. 

Abbot was with you in an instant. his strong hands on your shoulders, shouting orders left and right.

“It’s me,” you muttered between jagged, hitching breaths.

“You what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“They’re here for me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the monitors. “They’re coming for me.” and then the entire world faded to black.

You woke up in a room. Lights dimmed down and Jack Abbot, your boss, was sitting at the edge of your bed.

“Doctor Abbot” You composed yourself. There was an IV on your wrist, heart monitors clipped on your chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t know–”

“Spare me the bullshit.” His arms crossed on his chest. “What the fuck was that.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze, turning to see your own hands instead, tears dwelling up on your eyes. 

“I was here on a student visa” you said as the first tears fell, your voice soft and low. “And since my residency is ending in three months, I applied for residency. But it was denied.” 

His jaw unclenched. His arms fell on the sides of his body. You could see he was moved. 

You swallowed before continuing. “I am just waiting for the deportation order at this point. I don’t have many options.” 

“But you have some” he pressed.

A soft sigh left your mouth, it wasn’t really funny. But it was that for a man like him, options always existed.

“Yeah. I have two. One is to stay here for twenty-one years until a hypothetical child can sponsor me.” You scoffed, “Or find someone to marry.”

Abbot stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with that steady chief gaze. "Then get married."

“It’s not that simple. It has to be real. Photographs, dates, vacations, joint accounts, witnesses who can swear we’re in love. It’s–impossible. And I don’t have the time. I spent ten years here trying to be this” you gestured to the hospital,  “and I won’t be this anymore" your voice cracked, tears falling down uncontrollably now. You looked up at him, eyes stinging. "I’m going to have to go back to a place I haven’t called home in a decade."

“Don’t. Get married.” He said it like an order. Like he was telling you what to do in the middle of an emergency. And he was.

You scoffed, wiping your eyes. "Yeah, right. Who would do that for me?"

"I would."

You froze. The beep of the heart monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the silence between you."What?"

He didn't flinch. "I’d do it. I know anyone here would. But it’s your call.” 

“Doctor Abbot, that’s very kind to offer but–”

“You’d rather marry Shen? He can't lie to save his life—an INS agent would break him in ten minutes. Ellis? A black lesbian woman in this climate? Good luck with that." He took a step toward you, his presence grounding. "Or a white veteran who gave a leg to this country. You think a judge is going to deny me a wife?"

He stood there, waiting for you to respond. The ball was in your court and he had sent you a logical, almost perfectly reasonable proposal. He had thrown you a lifeline.

Then, he shook his head, looking toward the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t intrude int–”

“Yes.” You interrupted him before he changed his mind. 

His gaze snapped back to yours, his expression softening from his usual, unshakeable certainty.

“Jack Abbot,” you breathed, your heart hammering against the leads on your chest. “Marry me.”

Jack received the phone call at 3:48 AM.

It was his one night off, and his sleep schedule was so messed up that he didn’t sleep through the night even on off days. He was awake, staring at his buzzing phone, wondering why he was getting a phone call from Dana, of all people, at 3:48 in the morning.

“Dana, you okay?’

Dana stood on the other end of the line, free hand on her hip and wondering how the hell she was supposed to tell Jack the information that she had.

The silence hung heavy, something was wrong.

“Dana?”

Dana exhaled a breath, shaky and long. Your name tumbled past her lips and Jack nearly dropped his phone as he shot up off of his couch, fumbling for his prosthetic while Dana explained that you were there, in his ED, and he was still listed as your emergency contact.

“How bad is it?” He asked after getting changed and out the door, faster than he ever had while he fumbled with his housekey, shaky hands struggling to jam it into the keyhole.

“Just get here as fast as you can.”

“Page Robby.”

“Already did.”

Jack’s thoughts raced a thousand miles an hour as he drove the short distance to PTMC, after your divorce, he’d chosen a place close to the hospital so he could easily get out the door and to the hospital if he was needed. But he hated it, hated the small house he rented, not bought, just in case you’d ever change your mind one day and decide you love him still, decide you want him to come back and share your home again.

The house was small and cramped and rundown, but it did the job for a divorcee who didn’t do much but work and sleep. He thought the reason it was so void of warmth is because you weren’t there to fill it.

The day you handed him the divorce papers was the worst of his life, beating the day he lost his foot by miles. He worked too much, was no longer emotionally or even physically present. He was starting to feel like a roommate to you, not your husband. And he had let you go, you had given him a choice, and he let you go. He didn’t promise things would be different or that he’d change because he knew he couldn’t.

Or that he wouldn’t.

But as time drew on he realized more and more everyday how much he’d do anything to get you back, and was crushed by the weight that it was entirely too late. But now, as he sped through the streets of Pittsburgh to get to you, he realized he’d do anything for you to just be alive.

“I promise I’ll never ask you for anything again.” He whispered as his hands gripped onto the steering wheel, pleading and making deals with God, unsure if he could even hear him.

He didn’t know what he was walking into, but if Dana wouldn’t even give him details over the phone, he knew it had to be bad. So bad that Dana couldn’t even speak it.

His heart thundered in his chest, blood roaring through his ears when he made his way into the Pitt, having slipped in through the ambulance bay so he didn’t have to deal with the groanings of the very impatient patients that sat in chairs. The doors slid open and Jack was immediately met with two hands on his chest, stopping him from walking in any further.

“Jack, I need you to listen to me. Really listen.”

“Where is she?” His eyes were dark, darker than Dana had ever seen them, she was sure. There were too many people in between him and the only woman he ever loved and he needed her to move. But her feet were planted like cement to the floor, she’s seen worse.

“She’s already up in the OR with Walsh, Robby got her stabilized- Jack!”

As soon as he heard the word OR, his feet were moving, past both Dana and Robby who were trying like hell to keep him downstairs, but he tore his arms away from their grips and continued on his path.

Robby had to push him up against the wall, forearm barred over his chest to get him to stop. He felt bad and he was sure Jack would have a headache after but he didn’t have any other choice.

“You cannot go up there.”

Jack’s nostrils flared, moving his shoulder to make an effort to get out of Robby’s hold but Robby only pushed him further into the wall.

“She’s alone.”

His voice was cut raw as he spoke, each word painful.

Robby shook his head, “Walsh has her. She’s not alone.”

“She’s my wife.”

Robby hung his head, thinking over his next words carefully before realizing there was no gentle way to deliver the words he needed to deliver.

“Not anymore, Jack. Right now, you’re just her emergency contact.”

Jack’s breath sputtered, heart cracking in his chest because he knew Robby was right. He wasn’t even sure how he was still your emergency contact. He was sure you had friends, family, maybe even a new boyfriend to fill that space, but Dana had confirmed multiple times that he was the only one listed. Jack didn’t even know where to begin in finding someone else to call for you. Your dad died when you were in high school and your mom passed away during your marriage, leaving you with no other family except a few distant aunts and uncles and a handful of cousins. He didn’t know any of your friends anymore, didn’t even know if any of them were still around. He asked Dana to keep looking.

“What happened?”

Jack asked after Robby escorted him into a family room, finally give in that there was nothing he could do for you now, and he had to let the surgeons do their jobs.

Robby ran a hand over his face. He knew when Dana called him in that he would not only have to work to stabilize you and save your life, but he’d have to face Jack, and tell him what happened to you, tell him what he had to do to save your life.

He watched Jack’s face fall more and more as he explained you were in a car accident, hit head on and spun off of the highway and into a ditch. Explained how it took firefighters and EMT’s hours to figure out how to get you out of your car without killing you on the spot.

He told him how he didn’t recognize you when he entered the trauma room.

Robby had held his tongue for a moment before telling him that, but ended up realizing it was better for him to know what he was going to walk into when you were out of surgery rather than be blindsided.

He explained that they did, and are doing, everything they possibly can to save your life.

Jack would relive the day you gave him divorce papers over and over if it meant you never had to be here.

What Robby didn’t tell him, was that the guy who hit you was DOA, that he had seen pictures of your car and nearly vomited at the sight, and that your last conscious moments were spent terrified, asking for Jack.

It’s not what he needed right now, what he needed was to cling onto hope that you were going to wake up.

Hours drawled on, two friends crammed into a family room, sitting in chairs and couches that were two small for their large frames, unsure what time it was as they started to question reality by doing nothing except staring at the walls that stretched out in front of them.

Every so often, Jack would forget why he was there, forget why he was sat at an awkward angle staring at a picture of a pond that was supposed to be calming, then he’d remember and it would all hit him like a pound of bricks.

Robby fell asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.

Jack envied him. Every time his eyelids started to weigh heavily, pulled down by lack of sleep and upset, his body would jolt him awake, like it knew this was not the time for him to get to happily doze off.

He was waiting for you.

“Jack.”

His body jolted, head snapping up as he was caught in a moment of dozing off.

Emery Walsh was in front of him, expression unreadable, she looked drained, deflated to the bone. Her shoulders sagged and the normal whites of her eyes were beat red, hair wild and coming out of what once was a neat bun in the back of her head.

“Please tell me you saved her.”

Emery crouched in front of Jack, eyes the softest he’s ever seen them and he prepared himself for the worst as she looked at him.

She brought a hand up to grip his wrist.

“You can go see her, Jack.”

Jack felt relief tear through his body, a noise shot from his throat that he’s certain he’s never made before as he nodded, his free hand coming up to squeeze Emery’s in a wordless ‘thank you’. A woman who, in the past, has been nothing but a pain in his ass, is now the woman that saved your life. As he looked at her he saw someone completely knew, a person, who just fought tooth and nail to keep another person breathing. He’d never forget it.

Robby stirred at the commotion, immediately asking if you were okay before he could even peel his eyes open, his eyelids lined with thick sleep.

Jack just nodded in response, unable to form words.

The elevator from the ED to the ICU felt like hours, as Emery explained the extent of your injuries, Jack felt sick to his stomach.

“I’m going to explain this to you as if you know nothing, okay? Just listen.” She’d said the second Jack and Robby stepped into the elevator. “She has a DAI, diffuse axonal injury. While it’s not primarily an internal bleed, her brain nerve fibers were torn due to the acceleration of the car accident, causing small, microscopic hemorrhages.”

Jack felt he was going to be sick, he knew what all of this meant, he knew what DAI was, had seen it too many times. Too many times to know that people don’t just bounce back from this. You were never going to be the same.

His hands clenched in his pockets.

He followed Emery down the halls of the ICU, the only sounds being the echoing of their footsteps and the too slow beeping of monitors coming from the rooms that they passed.

Emery stopped in front of a door, which he was assuming was yours, but paused before turning to him, her hand hovering over the handle.

“Jack you should know-“

“I know.”

“I know, you know. But I’m required to tell you the risks of what she faces when she wakes up.”

Jack swallowed, thick, his own saliva feeling foreign in his mouth. She took his silence as a sign to continue.

“She might not wake up for a long time, that’s not a bad sign, okay? And when she does, Jack, she-“ She took in a sharp inhale, she’s delivered these words hundreds of times but never to someone she knew. Someone she’d even say she respected. “She may not remember you.”

Jack didn’t move, his hands still firmly shoved into his pockets, eyes fixed on the handle of the door.

Robby choked behind him.

“Due to the severity of the TBI, we hope that it’ll only be temporary. But she-“ Her head turned towards the door to your room. “She’s really gonna need you. This is not a time for you to disappear into your despair.” She turned back towards Jack, eyes sharp and serious. “Do you understand?”

“Let me see her, please.” His voice rasped and broke around the edges and he didn’t care. Each second he stood there, with a door barring him from seeing you, felt like agony. His skin burned with every minute that passed that he wasn’t holding your hand or brushing your hair out of your face.

Emery nodded, “She’s intubated. Just, prepare yourself, okay Jack?”

Robby’s firm hand squeezed Jack’s shoulder after he nodded, and he’d never been so thankful for his best friend as he was in that moment. He’d be too scared to walk into that room without him.

He realized when Emery opened the door he should’ve taken a few moments to prepare himself for exactly what he was about to see, he underestimated it tremendously.

You laid on the bed, practically lifeless, with a tube sticking out of your throat and white gauze wrapped around your head, eyes so swollen he probably wouldn’t be able to see your pretty irises even if you were awake. Your leg was in a cast, ending just above the knee, elevated with a strap that hung from the ceiling. Your arms were covered in bruises and stitches and he could barely tell that you were even there under all of that mess.

He stumbled into the room, breath catching in his throat as he brought a hand up to his chest, clutching at the material of his tee shirt as if they would do anything to hold his heart together as he felt it was being torn to pieces while he looked at you.

“Oh, god. Honey…”

His hands hovered over you, not knowing where he could touch you without causing further damage, and he settled for just resting his hands on the stiff mattress with his pinky finger pressed up against yours.

Emery backed out of the room without a word, gently shutting the door behind her. Robby stood by the door, arms interlocked over his chest as he watched his friend fall apart.

Not even he could walk him off of this ledge.

“She’s gonna fight like hell.” He said after a few moments of silence, watching Jack watch you.

Jack didn’t respond.

“And we are gonna fight like hell.”

Jack continued to stare at you, soundless tears slipped past his lashes. “I should’ve fought harder before.”

“Jack-“

“No.”

His voice was ragged, so broken as he still wouldn’t turn to face his friend, eyes glued to you.

“Maybe she wouldn’t be here if-“

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

“If I had fought harder for her before-“

He was panicking, chest rapidly rising and falling as he choked on his words.

“Nothing would have changed.”

Robby’s voice was stern, cutting through the anxiety that was radiating off of Jack.

“You hear me?” He stepped closer to him, so close that his voice rang in Jack’s ears. “Nothing would have changed. Fate has a habit of playing like that.”

Jack gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white.

“You’re here now. You can change it.”

“We’re divorced.”

That one thing, that one detail of this whole mess hung in the air, ugly and thick and Robby wanted to kick something.

“She needs you. Divorce or not. I’m here for whatever you need.”

And with that, Robby was out the door, and Jack was left with just you, your face being a cruel, physical manifestation of the heartbreaking reminder of what he’d done to your marriage. What he’d done to you.

-

It had been weeks, weeks of turning you over so you wouldn’t get bed sores, which took a whole team considering the countless other injuries that littered your body, Jack was just thankful you weren’t awake for it and prayed you couldn’t feel the pain through your sleep, the only thing that relaxed him was the steady rate of your monitor. Weeks of Dana coming in to administer your sponge baths while Jack waited outside the door like a guard dog, understanding that it wasn’t his place anymore. Weeks of reading you your favorite book, Little Women, aloud, and trying to ignore the ache in his chest when he got to the chapters of Beth’s sickness and eventual death.

“That’s not gonna be you, baby.” He’d said as he read to you.

It was weeks of waiting, not sleeping, and holding your hand once he’d worked up the courage to do so, after a little bit of encouragement from nurses and various doctors in the ICU. He was sure he looked like hell, curls awkward from sleeping in weird positions, heavy bags under his eyes, his irises watery and glazed over from his lack of sleep and tears. Every muscle and bone in his body ached from the discomfort of the hospital but nobody could convince him to leave because it was a thousand times worse for you and he refused to leave you alone here.

It was beginning to feel like routine, massaging your stiff muscles and sponge baths and turning you over and brushing your hair as gently as possible after Emery was able to take the gauze off of your head. Jack was beginning to think that maybe this was just life now, maybe this was all you were going to get and he was unconsciously okay with the idea of this being his new normal, if it meant you were safe from pain, comfortable, maybe somewhere nice in your sleep, he’d take care of you like this forever.

But a heartbreaking, sputtering breath brought him back to reality.

“Oh my god.” He pushed up from the chair he was in, the legs sliding across the ground with a sickening screech, and dropped the book he was in the middle of reading, the pages crumpling beneath him as they hit the floor, accidentally stepping on it as he scrambled to hit the call nurse button, not being authorized to remove your intubation himself.

“They’re coming, sweetheart.” He tried to comfort you as tears ran down the sides of your face, resting a gentle hand on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I know. Try to relax.”

His heart severed in half as he watched you struggle, at the painful choking sounds that came from your throat as the nurses pulled the tube out of you, the coughs that rang from deep in your chest, dry heaves that left spurts of saliva down the front of your gown as you cried.

“Breathe.” He soothed, finally smoothing his hand over your hair, his other hand grasped in yours.

“Wa-“ Your voice rasped and you couldn’t even finish your word before you were coughing again. He looked to the nurses and they nodded, busying themselves with pouring water into a small paper cup for you, sticking a straw into it and handing it to Jack.

“Small sips.” He instructed and you wrapped your lips around the straw, taking in probably too big of a sip and you closed your eyes with relief, whining when Jack pulled the cup away from you.

“I know, I’m sorry. More soon, okay?”

You continued to breathe deeply, cautiously, as if you were relearning how to breathe. The swelling in your face had gone down significantly, the bruises were either faded yellow or gone completely, your arms were returned to their original color and the cast on your leg had already been changed in the weeks you were still sleeping. You looked like you again.

Jack knew, he knew the whole time you’d been sleeping, having had weeks to prepare for you not to recognize him, and it still hit him like a tank when your eyes turned to him, confused and utterly helpless. You asked the question and Jack felt like the wind got knocked out of him. That dreaded question he’d put off thinking about for weeks.

“Who are you?”

Your voice was raspy and raw, as if you were talking through razor blades that were lodged in your throat, Jack winced at the noise and the pain that was evident on your face as you spoke.

Emery was in the room now, not exactly the doctor assigned to your care but she’d be damned if all she did was save your life and then disappear from your case.

Her eyes flitted to Jack, this had been a possibility, her and Jack had discussed it and still, it didn’t make this moment any easier.

Jack looked at Emery, almost for permission, not wanting to do anything that would stress you out or have to elongate your recovery.

She nodded.

Jack inhaled as he turned back to you, his hands awkward at his sides. He wore a soft smile to not scare you but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“We uh,” He coughed, “We were married.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared at him as he loomed over you. Familiarity flooded your veins but the lack of familiarity in your eyes spooked Jack as he watched you, waiting, hoping for something, anything.

“Tired.” Your voice was raspy, hardly above a whisper as you talked through the swelling in your throat, your eyelids started to flutter, Jack could tell you were fighting to keep them open.

“That’s okay.” Emery assured you, adjusting your pillows and pulling your blanket up around your shoulders. “Rest a bit, alright?”

She hadn’t even finished speaking before you were asleep again.

“She’s gonna hate me.” Jack spoke.

“Maybe.” Emery said, “Maybe not. Why don’t you give her the chance to decide?”

-

When you woke up again, peeling your eyelids apart like they had been glued shut while you were sleeping, the room was empty, quiet aside from the slow beeping of your heart monitor.

You groaned as the light seeped in through your squinted lids. Whose idea was it to make these lights so damn bright in here? And where even is here anyway?

“Hey, hun. Let’s turn these lights off, hm?”

A voice rang throughout the room, and suddenly the lights were dimmed and you relaxed, as much as you could with the throbbing in your head.

A woman with nearly white blonde hair entered your eyesight, a small smile playing on her lips as she looked down on you. She was dressed in grey scrubs and a pair of glasses were perched on the end of her nose. She wore a badge and you strained your eyes to read what it said.

Dana Evans, charge nurse.

“Aren’t you a vision in hospital wear?” She joked and you wanted to laugh, but everything just felt so scary and unfamiliar that as soon as you went to laugh you ended up choking on a sob instead.

“Oh, honey.”

You kept crying, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as your body wracked with sobs, tears were slowly turning into panic as your heartrate rose rapidly, the monitor being much faster than it was before. Your chest was burning, something thorned and sharp and unforgiving was lodged in your chest and you gripped at the sheets underneath you, wanting to curse and scream but feeling like a prisoner in your own body as you writhed and struggled.

“You’re safe.”

A new voice cut through the air and that same rush of familiarity sank into you, seeping through your skin and bones and settling deep into you.

A large hand laced through yours, and despite your confusion, you gripped back, harder. The hand was warm, calloused and rough but impossibly soft in yours, it was what you needed.

Jack had been sitting out in the hall while you slept, guilt started to creep in to his chest when you didn’t recognize him, unsure if you even would want him there if you knew who he was, if you remembered why your marriage failed and what he had done, or more so lack thereof, to get you to the broken place you are now, a place where he was afraid to even hold your hand.

Emery’s words rang in his head, a constant, aching reminder.

“She’s gonna need you.”

“This is not a time for you to disappear into your despair.”

He hated how accurately she read him, like a damn picture book on display for everyone to see and understand. Because as he sat here, eyes fixed on the lifeless walls of the ICU, all he wanted was to disappear, for Dana to find your real emergency contact, not the outdated one, and let you be taken care of in the way you deserved. And he was contemplating it, really truly thinking about walking away when a hand touched his shoulder.

“She needs you.”

Those three words snapped him back into place, back to the present.

You needed him.

He cannot disappear.

And now he was there, his hand clasped in yours, desperate for you to calm down, to stop crying and looking so scared because it was ruining him. The woman who was usually so confident, so sure of herself, now horizontal in a hospital bed, every limb and finger shaking because you didn’t know where you were and everything was confusing and you were so scared.

A noise broke through Jack’s voice as he watched you struggle, a mix between a whine and a choked sob, his body was trying to erupt with emotion at your pain but he had to hold it together, he couldn’t break. Not here, not in front of you.

“I promise. I promise you’re safe.”

Pet names were desperate on his tongue but he didn’t want to confuse you any further than you already were, so he pushed through with everything in them to keep them at bay. His free hand fretted over you, never really landing because he was just so unsure of his place in all of this. In where you wanted him.

“Keep talkin’ to her.” Dana encouraged, tilting her head towards the heart monitor and Jack was astonished to see that it was helping, your heart rate was going further and further down with each word he spoke.

“Just breathe, okay? Match mine.” He instructed, breathing in and out loudly so you could follow his steady motions. “Breathe when I breathe.”

You struggled for a minute, each breath being caught by the panic in your chest, but Jack was incredibly patient.

“It’s okay. Keep trying. Doing so good.”

His words were steady, his tone even despite the shake that threatened to break through his throat.

Eventually your breaths were matching his completely, eyes wide and teary as you looked up at Jack, completely enthralled by his presence despite still not understanding why he felt so comfortable to you.

“Good, that’s good. Good job.”

Your hand didn’t leave his.

 “Did you ever find her emergency contact?”

Jack spoke low, mouth turned away from you in an effort to only have Dana hear him.

Your eyes widened, “I don’t have an emergency contact?”

Jack cursed at himself for not speaking low enough, your hand gripped his harder and he scrambled to find words, find an explanation. To figure out a way to tell you that he’s your only emergency contact, but there’s a high chance that you may not want him there.

“No, no. You do. I’m your emergency contact, but-“

“I don’t know you.”

Dana had already pulled out her phone and called for Emery, now that you were awake again, there was unfortunately a lot of questions to ask.

“Do you-“ Jack choked on his words, hating how he even had to ask this question. “Do you know who you are?”

You blinked, staring at him like he had just asked you the stupidest question in the world, but eventually the expression in your eyes began to fade, eyes widened and your grip on Jack’s hand tightened even harder because the answer was no, you had no idea who you were, or why you were here, or why this man kept holding your hand and looking at you like you were going to break in half.

Jack could tell just by your reaction, the mist forming in your eyes, what the answer to his question was.

“Hey, that’s okay. It’s normal after-“

“After what?!”

Emery opened the door then, giving you a tight lipped smile as she entered the room, stale with grief and antiseptic.

“Glad to see you’re awake again.”

Your eyes followed her as she crossed the room, each footstep methodical and properly placed, after doing this countless times it felt like a routine for her, but she had to remember now, in this room, this wasn’t routine, this was Jack Abbot’s ex-wife, the only woman he ever loved and things were different. She wasn’t on this case because of routine, she was on this case because Jack trusted her and her skills and because you could not be another routine rotation.

“I’m Dr. Emery Walsh, can you tell me your name?”

You just stared at her, face unchanging, stoic, even.

“Can you tell me why you’re here?”

You shook your head.

Emery nodded, giving you a small smile. “You were in a head on collision. Hit your head pretty good and got stuck under your car for a while,”

Something sharp twisted in Jack’s stomach.

Emery moved about the room as she asked you questions, checked your heart monitor, rest your IV, logged onto the computer and was now typing your responses into your chart. She explained your broken bones, what happened with your head and how they fixed it, and lastly that these scary moments of being unsure where you were, were totally normal all things considering.

“Post traumatic amnesia.”

She’d explained.

“Dr. Abbot, would you step outside with me?” Emery turned to Jack after bombarding you with probably too much information, and motioned for the door. Your grip on him tightened and his chest ached, he promised he’d be back, and that Dana would stay with you, he wasn’t leaving you alone. Jack followed Emery into the hallway.

“Post traumatic amnesia is temporary, Jack.”

Jack knew she had more to say, “But…”

“But sometimes it takes years.”

Jack swore, crossing his arms and turning away from the surgeon, biting at the inside of his mouth to try and control any sort of emotion that was threatening to expose him on his facial features.

“Why does she cling to me like she does?”

Emery sighed, “Even though her brain doesn’t recognize you, her body does. She probably notices little things in you that she doesn’t in anybody else she’s met so far. You were also there when she woke up, a comforting presence. She’s latched on.”

Jack wonders if you’d have latched onto him if you remembered anything.

Every bit of information that stuck in his brain from school, training, years in the field betrayed him, fled from his mind as if evacuating because of the sheer panic that was now living there, for the first time in his life, Jack Abbot didn’t know what to do.

“What do I do?”

Emery was more than sympathetic, more than she usually would be with Jack, because he was going through hell, and this was completely normal for doctors and surgeons. All of their muscle memory and protocol seemed to fly out the window as soon as it was someone they cared about, it’s why it was against the rules for them to work on their own family members and loved ones.

“Talk to her. Tell her things about herself, about you, about what you’ve done together.”

Jack sucked in a breath.

“And the divorce?”

Emery studied him for a moment, the way his fingers were shaking but he had them held so tightly between his arms that it was barely there, how his lip was wobbling but he was trying to hide it. The deep bags pressing into the skin below his eyes from his lack of sleep. He was wrecked.

“Tell her all of it, Jack.”

-

“Where did we get married?”

Jack smirked, “Courthouse down the road. You wore a white dress you found at goodwill and a cheap bouquet from the convenience store two doors down.”

You nodded as you soaked in the information, what kind of person you were, what kind of person Jack was, the kind of couple you were together. To you, it seemed as though you were the type of couple who just wanted to be together, and didn’t care about much else. The kind of couple that could get married at a courthouse and honeymoon at a motel on the edge of town because you were just so wrapped up in each other that none of the planning or grand gestures seemed worth it to you.

You looked at him now, nestled into a crappy hospital chair that was too small for his large frame and you wondered where it all went wrong, but you weren’t sure you wanted to know. You didn’t want to taint the picture perfect image you had of the two of you in your head, didn’t want to know what could have possibly happened between you and the handsome doctor that refused to leave your bedside as you recovered.

“You seem like you were a good husband.”

He wiped your face after you ate, he stood outside of the bathroom door while the nurse on shift helped you shower or use the toilet, he massaged your feet and read you books and reminded you everyday that you were beautiful despite the thin layer of grime that never seemed to go away even after you washed yourself multiple times. He’d brush your hair and rub creams and moisturizers into your skin and even brush your teeth for you when it all just got too overwhelming and tiring.

He didn’t respond, his eyes were fixed on the pink sheets that brought a little bit of life into your hospital room. Jack had gone to your house and brought back blankets and pillows, comfortable and familiar things for you to have here, even some childhood family photos you had framed and pictures of friends. Friends who hadn’t come by yet. The oblivion you had broke his heart, and he was eagerly awaiting yet mostly dreading the day when your memory came back and everything hit you, unforgiving and heavy.

You'd refused to look at the pictures.

“Emery said you can go home soon.” He avoided your comment, voice rougher than it was before. You noticed how familiar he felt to you, how you noticed sudden drops in his voice and small tremors in his hands or mouth. Despite your memory being completely shot to hell, he felt real to you. You knew him. You took comfort in it.

Home.

As sad as it was, this hospital was your home now. You don’t have any memories outside of the four walls of your hospital room and the hallway from walking up and down it with your physical therapist. Jack had pushed to get you outside multiple times but you kept refusing. You couldn’t admit that you were scared, feeling like a child for being afraid of going outside, but you were unsure of what waited for you outside, unsure if the trees or fresh air would trigger a memory and to be honest, you’d become nervous of regaining your memories.

You had already triggered a memory, just walking down the hallway of the hospital, something small. A quick flash of light and Jack next to you in scrubs, hands shoved in his pockets. It took your breath away.

Your nurse asked if you were okay and you nodded. You still haven’t told anyone about it. You knew they would take it as a good sign and would just push you more to look at pictures or go outside and you weren’t ready for it yet. You knew you had a life outside of this place and it scared you, because it was a life without the man you’d grown so fond of, and what if it was just a life of heartbreak and emptiness waiting for you. You really only asked small questions here and there, usually when you were tired and Jack would massage your arms with scented lotion, the kind that you liked when you were married, he said. You found that you still liked it now too.

You hummed at his statement, of going home, not giving a definitive answer because you weren’t sure what to say. As much as you didn’t like the smell of the hospital and the death and devastation that surrounded you, somehow you couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s all that waited for you outside of here too. At least here, it was contained. Controlled.

Jack watched as your heavy eyelids fluttered while he rubbed the sore muscles in your arms and he couldn’t help but wonder if you were just as afraid of your memories as he was.

“Go to sleep.”

-

You went home on a Tuesday.

The rest of the world went on, people got in their cars to drive to work, clocked in at their jobs, babies cried and people got married and kids in school took their tests and went on field trips and you were going home.

Emery agreed to release you only on the condition that Jack stay with you, which was his biggest relief yet worst nightmare. The two of you sharing your home together again would surely bring back memories, maybe even bring back memories of the last night you had together, the grief and the devastation and the words he didn’t mean. He couldn’t watch your heart break all over again.

But nonetheless, his fear of you remembering was conquered by his want to get you out of that hospital room and back to your real life.

He had all of your things packed into his car, the last thing being you, and your blanket, waiting for him in a wheelchair with a nurse in the lobby of the ICU wing of the hospital.

You were in a pair of your favorite sweatpants, or at least Jack said that they were, and his too big black sweatshirt that smelled just like him. He had bought you a nice pair of ugg slippers while he was out one day and your feet were slipped into those, clutching the blanket from your own home as if it was the last of your belongings.

Jack’s car pulled up, a shiny black truck, and an uninvited memory flashed behind your eyes.

A car dealership, a sunny day, Jack’s smile and his hand in yours.

Jack recognized it as soon as he walked through the automatic doors, the recognition in your eyes that had never been there before. You couldn’t pretend in front of Jack, couldn’t fake that your memories weren’t coming back. He’d spent years memorizing your features, every look and every small change in your irises, he knew it all.

He crouched in front of your wheelchair, cautious but eager as his hands hovered over you. “What’d you remember?”

“Your uh, your truck.”

Jack turned to look at his car, amazed at how something so simple like his basic black truck could trigger something for you, slowly bring you back to him.

“Yeah, honey? What about it?”

Honey.

“Jack…” Tears filled your eyes as you looked at him, that word dripping past his lips triggering so much emotion in you that you didn’t know was in there.

“Hey…” His voice softened at the tears spilling past your waterline, hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb catching the stray tears that were falling. “Sweetheart.”

Honey. Sweetheart.

You gasped, choking on more tears.

The nurse holding your wheelchair looked at Jack, raising her eyebrows in a question, asking him wordlessly if this was a good or bad sign. Jack gave her a slight nod that went unnoticed to you, telling her this was good, you were remembering. And it scared him to no end.

“You wanna go home?”

You nodded, movements frantic as you practically fell into Jack while he stood up, arms reaching for him. You didn’t have exact recognition of your memories but there was something there, this wasn’t just the man that you were told was your husband at one point, that you were growing to like. This was your husband. You could feel it blooming in your chest as the words lingered in your ears.

Honey. Sweetheart.

“Let’s get you home.”

Your home, you found, was warm. Low, warm lights filled each room, complete with pretty pictures adorning the walls and books tucked into every corner, draped with soft looking blankets and pretty colored rugs and cushions. You smiled when you saw it, the inviting glow of it chipping away at the fear that had built a wall around your heart.

“This is mine?” You asked, hands running over the dark brown wood of your bed frame as Jack got you situated in your room.

“Yeah, all yours.”

You didn’t miss the way Jack winced when he said it, and you realized this had been his home at one point too. This was your shared house. He’d let you have it.

“Are you going to stay here?”

Jack nodded, “Doctors orders.”

You watched as he unpacked your bag for you, putting everything back in it’s exact right spot, you must’ve not moved things around much after he left.

“And if it weren’t?”

Jack froze, muscles tightening as he clutched on of your tee shirts in his hands. The smell, the layout, everything being the exact same save for the pictures of the two of you on the walls was suffocating him. It hadn’t felt like this when he came back here alone to pick up your things for you.

“I wouldn’t leave you alone. Not for a second.” He said after he continued to move, busying his hands with putting your things away.

For some reason, his answer frustrated you. Because now, being in your house again, you remembered that your marriage failed, that the two of you were separated now and you didn’t know why, all of your past tangled feelings of not wanting to know, of wanting to stay in your oblivious bubble popped. The bubble was gone, you were back in real life, starting your life again.

“But you did leave me. Alone.”

Your voice shook, “I live here alone, don’t I?”

Jack didn’t respond.

“No friends came to visit me, or family. The only people I met in the hospital were doctors and nurses. So tell me again Jack, about how you wouldn’t leave me alone?”

Jack winced at the edge in your voice. He thought maybe it would be best to let your memories come back to you, but now, as you stared at him, anger and impatience laced in your voice as you exhaled through your nose, starting at him, demanding answers. He couldn’t keep it from you any longer.

“You asked for it.” He hated the way it came out, almost accusing, as if him leaving you was your fault, as if he couldn’t have fought harder for you. “You wanted the divorce. I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. “Why?”

Jack shook his head, avoiding eye contact with you as he placed his hands on his hips.

“What did you do?”

Jack’s chest caught as he took in a breath, gearing up to say the words he hated himself for. The words he beat himself up about over and over again, the reason he couldn’t sleep at night, the reason his wedding band taunted him on his nightstand, laughing in his face over the biggest mistake he ever made in his life.

“I didn’t choose you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You told me, medicine or you. And I didn’t choose you.”

Your jaw dropped and a broken sound escaped your throat, exactly the reaction you gave that night you gave him the choice. Jack wished he didn’t have to relive it but knew he deserved it.

“I want you out.”

“Please-“

“Out of my house!”

Your words cut deep, like a knife to his chest. Your house.

“I uh- I can’t leave you alone.”

You were fuming, chest heaving, angry at the audacity of the man in front of you, how he’s spent these past few months fooling you. Coddling you, making you believe there was a chance, that between the two of you hung something sweet, something good. Something worth saving. Everything felt broken around you.

“Out of my room then.”

Jack looked like he was going to say something but decided against it, the nodded, and ducked out of the room, purposefully trying to make himself smaller in your presence.

“You tricked me!” You yelled once he was out of the room, slamming the door shut and Jack flinched at the booming noise that echoed off of the walls of the house.

As he walked out of your room and down the stairs toward where he knew the guest bedroom was, he tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, the dryness that coated his mouth and the twitch in his muscles. He shut the door behind him and finally let a dry sob escape his lips, covering his mouth with his hand so you wouldn’t hear him.

Your words taunted him, pointed a finger in his face and laughed at him because the last thing he was trying to do was trick you. He loved you, was completely devoted to you in every way and as hard as he tried he knew he couldn’t take his words back from that night. The night where he chose medicine over you, words that he didn’t mean because he was mad, but now it was too late because he had said them and it was over and you shoved divorce papers in his face and there was nothing he could do to make it better. He thought maybe this was his chance, nursing you back to health and reading to you and telling you about your favorite colors and animals and food that you hated, reteaching you how to braid your own hair and crochet. You had to go through the grief process of learning your parents were gone a second time and he held you through it, wiped your tears and stoked your hair and whispered to you that everything was going to be okay, that he was there. He just wanted you to feel loved and safe because this was all so scary, but the other side of him knew, deep down, that he didn’t want you to hate him all over again, the selfish part of him thought maybe he had more time. That maybe you’d remember him as your husband first and ex husband later. He thought he had more time than just a car ride.

Hours went on, loud silence hung in the air of the house as the hours crept later and later. He decided that despite the argument, he was still here as your caregiver, and it had been too long of silence from you, and he should check on you. He was about to make his way upstairs when he heard a loud crash, and suddenly his cautious footsteps were purposeful and quick as he raced up the stairs to find you.

Another crash and a scream rang from his old office, now your storage room, and the sound shot straight through his heart, his foot and prosthetic couldn’t carry him fast enough as he swung open the door and quickly fell to his knees in front of you, body crumpled to the floor, surrounded by scrapbooks and photographs splayed out on the floor around you.

He took your arms in his hands turning them over and assessing you for any injuries, just hoping and praying nothing was self-inflicted because he knew that could happen all too often with cases of amnesia. People becoming frustrated and suffocated by unfamiliarity and just needing to be in control of something.

“What hurts?”

You were crying, loud and ugly tears and Jack peeled the hair from your face, sticky with snot and tears and pushed it back.

You shook your head.

“Get off of me.”

Jack paused a moment, this wasn’t a spill or a surgery complication or an injury, you were having an episode.

This was rage.

“No.”

Him leaving you alone to drown in your despair would help nothing.

You looked at him then, eyes widened from the audacity for him to say no to you. You pushed him but he didn’t move, his body sturdy against your grip while his arms still held yours.

“You left me!”

Jack’s face faltered as you yelled and screamed at him, still trying to push him away.

“I’m here now.”

His voice was even, not climbing even the slightest bit despite thr frustration he felt.

“That means nothing!”

You were getting weaker, dissolving into your own tears. “You should’ve come back for me sooner!”

“I should’ve.”

Eventually you had tired yourself out, your body slumped closer to the floor, away from Jack, arms still in his hold, head practically hanging.

“Why don’t I take you to bed?”

“M’tired.” Your words slurred.

“I know.”

Jack leaned forward to gather you in his arms, ignoring the sting from his prosthetic that he had been wearing for too long as he lifted you up, trying to hide the groan that escaped past his lips, not that you’d notice with how tired you were.

His heart broke as you held onto him tighter when he put you into bed, all he wanted was to be able to climb in next to you and hold your body against his, to pull you on top of him and revel in the comfortability of your body weight on his. But he unraveled your arms from around his neck and pulled the blankets up to your shoulders.

Once again, leaving you alone.

Jack wasn't asleep for long when his eyes shot open, sensing something had shifted in the house, sensing your discomfort even from all the way downstairs. He waited for a moment, eyes raking through the darkness of the room, a sharp cry set him into motion, securing on his prosthetic in record time and launching himself up the stairs and into your room.

Your limbs were tangled in the sheets, and Jack didn't have to get close to know that sweat drenched your forehead and soaked into your hair as sharp cries tore through your chest.

"Wake up, baby."

He smoothed your hair back, wiping the sweat from your skin.

"Baby." He shook you lightly and your body jolted forward, chest heaving and eyes blown wide as you tried to adjust to the dark.

"The car." You rasped out. You had a nightmare of the accident, one of the few things Jack dreaded you remembering.

His heart broke at the thought of how terrifying it all must have been, getting hit so hard then being stuck in your car, injured and bloody, not knowing if anyone was coming for you. If he was coming for you.

"You're safe."

"The car, it-" You were blubbering, messy tears fell down your face and onto your tee shirt and Jack's heart broke clean in half.

"It's over. It's all over. You're safe now."

"Don't leave." Your grip on him strengthened.

"Not leaving. I'm right here."

You fell asleep with him sitting at the edge of your bed, stroking your hair, and when you woke up again, he was gone.

-

Days passed with the two of you just coexisting, more memories came back to you as days went on, small things here and there, you didn’t share them with Jack but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice. How your eyes lingered on pictures of your friends or how your eyes bore into certain objects that belonged to your parents. You had already told him, the second you were recovered, you wanted him out, so he kept to himself. Kept himself busy by cleaning and finding various projects around your house, fixing whatever needed to be fixed.

“My name is (Y/n).”

Jack nearly jumped at the sound of your voice after going so many days without hearing it. You had been sitting outside, stretched out on a blanket in the yard, letting the sun hit your closed eyelids, and Jack was inside, tidying and reorganizing the kitchen.

He blinked at you, taking in your appearance, your jeans were rolled up to your ankles and a blue striped sweater hung off of one shoulder, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. You looked so cute that he wanted to scoop you up and kiss you all over right then, but he stayed in his spot.

Jack’s brow furrowed at the emotion hanging in your face because you knew your name, you were told your name when you woke up,

“Yeah.” He nodded, voice unsure as he looked at you, worried that maybe you were backsliding in your recovery.

You shook your head, screwing your eyes shut and letting a few tears fall down your cheeks.

“No. I know.”

Jack still looked confused, so you took a step forward.

“I remember. I know.”

Jack’s face washed with relief, eyebrows softening and eyes widening as it clicked into place. The confidence in your shoulders despite the tears and the assurance you carried in your posture. You weren’t being told your name, learning the sound and the letters of it, you knew your name. It was yours. It came back to you.

“Oh my god.” Jack breathed out a laugh and you ran to him, launching into his arms and he didn’t hesitate to catch you, securing his arms around your frame and squeezing tight because this was huge.

“You’re Jack.”

Tears were soaking his shirt and the top of your head, both of you a mess as you held onto each other, the tightness of your grips spoke a thousand words for each of you.

“Yeah, I am.” You were both laughing through sobs, probably the most joyful noise that’s filled your house since he left.

Jack pulled away, framing your face in his hands, beaming.

“This calls for celebration.”

It had been days of you ignoring him, giving him nothing but the cold shoulder and icy stares and yet, here he was, grinning ear to ear after happily cleaning your kitchen and celebrating your small wins, looking at you with nothing but adoration and love in his eyes that it made you feel weak in the knees. You remembered he’s Jack and that he bought a shiny black truck and that he’s a doctor who works in the ED of the hospital and nothing else, but as you look at him now, admiring the beautiful smile that adorned his face and the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, your stomach erupted into something unfamiliar, a certain excitement as heat crept into your cheeks.

You had a crush. On your ex-husband.

“I only remember my name, Jack.” You murmured, burying your face back into his shoulder, suddenly feeling embarrassed for being so excited over such a small thing and for your previous outbursts and silent treatment towards him.

He was here, proving his devotion to you as each day passed and as you watched him clean the kitchen and reorganize your photos and deep clean your rugs that maybe love was possible again.

“Hey, that’s a big deal.” Jack rubbed circles into your back. “Will you look at me?”

You pulled your head up off of his shoulder and reluctantly looked at him.

A smile pulled at his lips, and the sparkle in his eye was completely captivating as you practically watched his thoughts dance behind his eyes.

“Will you go on a date with me?”

-

You looked at yourself in the mirror, knowing that the girl in the reflection was you, but not fully recognizing you.

You’d slipped into a black maxi dress and the pair of shoes you liked the most from your closet, something casual but pretty. You did your hair and spent too much time on your makeup, having to call Jack in to help you because your movements were still shaky and uncoordinated, you were happy you hadn’t put your outfit on yet, so Jack could get the full effect later.

You looked pretty, and you were satisfied with what the mirror showed you, but it felt so foreign, staring at your reflection and not being totally sure if it was you looking back at yourself.

A knock sounded from your bedroom door and your heart thumped in your chest.

You answered the door and nearly got the wind knocked out of you from Jack in his dress shirt, nervous hands clutching a bouquet of flowers, various different colors spilled out of the plastic wrap and you wondered when he even found the time to sneak out and get them. Your hands instinctively shot up to clutch your cheeks.

“Hi.” Jack said, holding the flowers out for you.

“Hi.” Your voice was a whisper.

You took the flowers, bringing them to your nose so you could get a whiff and you closed your eyes, taking in the scent.

Flowers. A ring. A party. Multiple parties. Jack.

“These are my favorites.”

“You remember?”

You nodded as you continued to stare at them, “Just now.”

“Wanna put them in water before we leave?”

“Yes.”

Jack guided you down the stairs, watching you closely as you moved the flowers from their wrapping and into a fresh vase. His heart squeezed as you took a moment to just look at them.

“You ready, sweet girl?”

You nodded and Jack held out his arm for you, escorting you out of the kitchen and through the front door. You found it all a bit silly, but incredibly sweet and endearing and you threw your head back in laughter when Jack opened the door for you and made a big deal of gesturing you into the car, bowing as you passed him as if he was your personal chauffer.

He played your favorite song for you in the car, a memory that had come to you recently, something he noticed from the subtle turn of your head and sparkle of your eyes when he played it in the kitchen.

“I Will” by the Beatles.

“Love you forever and forever,” Jack sang in the car with the windows rolled down, voice cracking and pitchy but he’d sing like that forever with no shame if it kept you giggling and looking at him the way you were now. “Love you with all my heart.”

“Love you whenever we’re together, love you when we’re apart.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eyes, hoping you knew it wasn’t just words he was singing, but declarations to you. Words he meant.

With the look on your face, something told him he did.

He pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, the place where you had your first date. He hoped that in taking you here it might trigger some more memories for you.

He did all of the stereotypical date things, held open your door, pulled out your chair, held your hand across the table, and told you how beautiful you looked, over and over.

“Did I tell you you look beautiful tonight?”

You smiled, “Only like 100 times.”

“Good. Gonna say it 100 more times.”

Once you got home, stomachs aching from too much bread and laughter, you asked Jack if he’d watch a movie with you.

He was breathless, and hoped this whole day hadn’t just been a mood swing, the ones Emery had warned him about. He prayed and begged for this to be real, for this, falling in love, again, to be your new normal in your healing process.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That’d be nice.”

You squeezed his hand and disappeared into your room, mumbling something about getting comfortable and Jack stood frozen for a second before scrambling to do the same.

You beat him to the living room, curled up on the couch with you favorite blanket draped over you, picking at your nails as you stared ahead at the blank TV screen in front of you.

“Hey.”

Your head turned, eyes brightening as he entered the room.

“Hi.”

“What movie do you wanna watch?”

“Whatever was my favorite.”

Jack smiled, “Now there’s two answers for that one. You want the fake answer you’d give to other people when they’d ask or the real answer?”

You gave him a look, a smile tugging at your lips, “Real answer.”

Jack plopped down on the couch next to you, remote in hand.

“Good choice. Madagascar it is.”

“What was my fake answer?”

“Little Miss Sunshine. That would’ve been a good choice too.”

“Can we watch that one next time?”

“Anything you want.”

You were basically draped over Jack when the movie ended, his arm holding you up and in place with your cheek smushed against his chest, eyes drooping as the end credits rolled.

You turned your head to look up at him only to find he was already looking at you.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you kiss me?”

You could feel Jack’s heartrate pick up in his chest. He just looked at you for a moment, his eyes flickered to your lips and in that moment you knew it was a done deal.

“I-“

He was going to protest, unsure if that was something you were ready for. He wanted to push you to heal but he didn’t want to push so hard that he broke boundaries, and he feared this was teetering the line.

“Please.”

It was desperate, real and raw as you practically begged, eyes filling with tears at the sheer emotion of just needing him closer.

His hand came to cradle the side of your face and he nodded, he’d agree to do anything if it meant you wouldn’t cry.

“Shh, okay. Okay, baby.”

Baby.

He pulled your body up so you were more situated in his lap, facing him instead of straining your neck away from the  TV.

He brought his lips to yours delicately, not daring to tease, and you choked back a sob at the feeling of his lips on yours.

Jack, your Jack.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as the kiss deepened, his other hand coming up to clasp the back of your neck, lips working against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, the two of you desperate to pull each other impossibly closer.

His wife.

He pulled back, leaving one last chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away from you, breathless and lips swollen as he continued to hold you.

“You took me where we had our first date.”

“Yeah.” His voice shook. “Yeah, I did.”

-

The next few weeks were exactly like that. Almost like a honeymoon phase. Stolen kisses in the aisles of the grocery store, playing Beatles records while you made breakfast together, and watching all of your favorite movies to end your nights. You were starting to fall head over heels for him and as much as it scared you it excited you even more.

 Jack had taken sabbatical so he could stay with you longer, and everyday you were more and more in awe of him and less and less upset about learning why it all ended, the two of you working through the negative feelings that came up as you drew closer, growing in deeper understanding of one another.

And the day the actual memory came back to you, you wished none of your memory even came back at all.

Jack had left for the store that morning, insisting you stay home because of the small headache you’d been complaining about, he said the fluorescents would only make it worse. Once you finally wandered out of your room after he left, you saw something perfectly placed on the kitchen island, propped up next to the most recent flowers Jack had given you.

The backside of a photograph with messy handwriting scrawled across it, written in blue ink. Jack had come across it while he was reorganizing some of your things and the photo and the note he'd scrawled on the back made him smile, he thought maybe you'd want to see it too. He had no idea the ugly ties you had with that specific photograph.

It read, “Since the first time I saw you, I have belonged to you completely.”

You turned the photo around and a gasp got caught in your throat.

The picture was of you and Jack, your arms thrown around his shoulders, a big smile stretched across your face as you looked at the camera, Jack’s arms wrapped around your waist as he looked at you. You were both standing on the street, you were wearing a long white dress and Jack was in a black button down and jeans.

White dress.

This was your wedding day.

Your stomach was in knots as you stared, memories starting to push through the dam in your brain and you slammed the picture on the countertop, twisting your eyes shut and trying to will the memories to go away.

Crying, glass piercing into your knees, the picture lying on the floor surrounded by ruin.

Jack yelling, you screaming, throwing things, empty threats cutting through the air.

“I’m not doing this with you anymore.”

“So what is it? Me or the ER.”

Silence.

“And if I choose the ER?”

“Then you’ve ruined our marriage.”

Jack disappearing out the door, his mind made up.

Your hand clutched your chest as your breaths came out uneven and rapid, crying and clawing at the material of your shirt.

“Oh my god.”

Jack dropped the bags at the front door, running to get to you and trying to push the panic down when he realizes you’re already deep in it.

Your hands clutched the kitchen island, muscles shaking from the force you were using and tears were relentless, marring the skin of your cheeks and rolling down your neck. Jack tried to pull you away but you weren’t budging, he could easily move you if he wanted to but he didn’t want to startle you or make things worse.

“Sweetheart.”

His hand gripped your wrist, the other coming to rest on the back of your head.

“I’m here. Breathe. Breathe for me.”

You continued to cry, but at the sound of the desperation in his voice, you crumbled, top half bending over the kitchen island, your forehead resting on your arms.

Jack felt helpless as he watched you fall apart, none of his normal tactics seemed to be working and he was seriously wondering if he should take you to PTMC.

“Baby, please.”

You were choking so much on your own breath and sobs that Jack was seriously worried, so much so that he ditched the gentle approach, pulling your body off of the counter top and grasping your wrists in his hands, guiding you backwards until your back hit the counter and his body caged you in.

“You’re not breathing. Breathe.” His voice was stern, face hard and serious even though you still refused to open your eyes.

“I remember-“

You opened your eyes then, starting to be in pain from screwing them shut so tightly. “I remember you leaving.”

He thought telling you was bad, you remembering it crushed him to pieces.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled you against him then. “Sweetheart.”

He cradled you to his chest, letting you cry but reminding you to breathe as you did.

“I don’t want to remember that!”

“Me neither.” Jack confessed, wanting to press a kiss to your hairline but not wanting to overstep, knowing this was incredibly fragile for you.

“I want it to be just us again. Just us with happy memories.”

Jack ached because that’s all he wanted too. But he knew better than anyone that with falling in love came all of the ugly stuff. Part of love was loving despite hurt.

“I wish that’s how it worked.”

Jack wasn’t sure how much time passed, him holding you like that. It could’ve been minutes or hours, but it was long enough for you to stop crying and for him to start humming as he swayed you back and forth. Long enough for your voice to be hoarse when you finally did speak again.

“Jack?”

“Hmm?’

You surprised yourself with the words you spoke next, despite the suffocating pain of your newest memory, the words that tumbled from your lips were all you felt.

“I love you.”

-

You had a checkup with Emery at PTMC, and you were beaming from ear to ear with her satisfaction with your progress. From the past year of your recovery and Jack living with you, sleeping in your bed again, being your partner again, Emery estimated you had nearly 80% of your memories back, and they were still coming steadily. She even predicted that you’d have 100% of your memories back if you stayed on the course you were on now.

Life felt easy again, you thought you loved Jack without your memories, but with each one that came back you found that you somehow loved him more, even with the bad ones, not even knowing you even had the capacity to love another human being that much.

Jack decided that was cause for celebration, and invited his friends, now your friends, over for a barbecue at your house, together.

Your friends had tried reaching out, too little too late. Spilling excuses about husbands and kids and work. You’d assured them they were forgiven, but they just weren’t welcome in your life anymore, not that you were ever really that close anyway. Despite the ugliness and the pain and the devastation, you had fallen in love again. You had a family again.

You were in the backyard, making sure all of your roses were facing the sun, when you nearly fell over Jack as you walked backwards to make sure they were all looking their best before you expected company.

You turned to find him on one knee and the breath nearly knocked out of you as your hand shot up to cover your mouth that hung open, your hand gripped into the skin of his shoulder as he looked up at you on one knee, a small black box in his hands, and a delicate diamond ring placed in the center of it.

“Hi, baby.”

Your eyes moved from the ring to his, and you noticed how nervous he was. The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyebrows furrowed, just the slightest bit, eyes misted over with tears.

“Hi.” You whispered, but it was barely audible over your hand that was clasped over your mouth.

“Over the past year, I’ve had the pleasure of doing something not everyone gets to do.” Jack cleared his throat, “Falling in love with the love of my life, for a second time. I almost lost you and I-" His breath sputtered as tears swelled at his waterline, "I was given a second chance with you and i don't want to waste it."

Something in your heart splintered as he referred to the last year as something sweet, a privilege, instead of something you both wished deep down had never happened. You’d never thought about it that way, and suddenly you were overcome with thankfulness for it too. A second chance.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, one hand wrapped around his wrist and the other held onto the side of his face. You looked at him with so much love in your eyes Jack thought he might break, he thought he’d never get to see that again.

“I love you.” You spoke, breathless.

“I’m so in love with you.”

He turned his face and pressed his shaky lips to the palm of your hand, letting them linger there for a moment as he leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed before bringing his gaze back to you. A single tear ran down his face and smeared itself into your hand.

“Will you marry me?” He paused, a small smile playing at his lips, “Again?”

You just threw your arms round his neck, nearly knocking him over into the grass he hugged you back.

You pulled away, hands finding his cheeks and lips peppering kisses all over his face.

“Yes, yes, yes. 1000x forever, yes.”

Jack laughed through his tears and took the ring out of the box, pulling your left hand away from his face so he could slip it onto your ring finger, the diamond caught the sun and shone so brilliantly you thought you’d never take your eyes off of it.

“I think there may be a white dress for you to change into on our bed upstairs...” Jack said, feigning oblivion. “Might wanna put it on before the engagement party.”

-

After a night of just pure sweetness, all the girls fawning over your ring, bone crushing hugs from Robby and Dana once you worked up the courage with a little push from Jack to tell them both that you remembered them, too much food and stolen glances between you and Jack across your yard, he carried you upstairs to bed with whispered promises of cleaning up tomorrow.

“My bride.” He cooed as he set you down on the bed, his thumb running over the diamond on your finger.

“I love you.” You hummed. “Gonna lose my memory again just so I can fall in love with you even harder, again.”

“You are so terrible.” Jack reprimanded but he stifled a laugh before he pressed a kiss to your cheekbone.

“That’s just how much I love you.” You shrugged, humor laced through your tone and Jack loved it because it was real and you were here and he would go through it a thousand more times with you if it meant getting to where you were now.

"What a blessing in disguise that you were still my emergency contact." You said.

"Yeah, how'd that happen?"

"Never changed it."

Jack looked puzzled.

You swallowed, thick with emotion, "I knew you'd always come."

Jack buried his face into your shoulder, pressing kisses into your skin there and all the way down your arm, torn apart with fondness at your words.

“I'm never gonna stop falling in love with you." He confessed in a whisper against the soft skin on the inside of your arm.

“Fall in love again and again forever?" You asked, voice incredibly soft as you admired the man who was hopelessly lost in you.

"What?” Baran mouths with a quirk of her lip, which quickly morphs into a frown as Dana holds up a single finger, silently commanding her to wait.

Dana’s voice drops low, gruff with an edge Baran rarely hears from her. “And how soon will you be here? Okay. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

Dana exhales through her nose sharply before covering the receiver. Baran waits for Dana to scan the bay, look for a resident or a charge nurse or to assist with what Baran assumes is an incoming trauma. But Dana looks at Baran specifically, her eyes don’t drift. Baran lifts her chin, trying to wrest away the nausea that just swept over her.

“What is it?”

Dana crosses the desk, grabbing Baran’s arm and trying to lead her away. "Can I pull you aside for a moment?”

Baran plants her feet. "Tell me here. What’s wrong?”

Dana purses her lips. “Dr. Al-Hashimi, please, follow me.”

“No,” Baran snaps, and a few heads turn their way. “Tell me, Dana. Who was that? What’s wrong?”

Dana levels her with a mom-glare, but Baran is a mom too and is impervious to it. She won't be moved. Dana breaks quick enough.

"There was an MVA,” Dana says carefully. “EMS called ahead because they couldn’t get a hold of you but they know you work here. They’re about eight minutes out.”

“Couldn’t get a hold of me?” Baran breathes, head spinning. “Why would they— was it Y/N?"

"The incident was reported at seven-forty-nine," Dana is saying. She's watching Baran with that careful, steady look. "ETA is four minutes. A teenage driver, illegal street racing, ran a red at the intersection of—"

"Her injuries," Baran says. "What did dispatch tell you?"

"Head trauma, possible rib fracture, lower extremity injury. She was responsive at the scene,” Dana replies. “GCS of thirteen."

Thirteen out of fifteen. Disoriented but not unconscious. Thirteen is not fourteen, which is where she’d want it, but thirteen is also not eight, which is where she’d start to make very different preparations.

"Baran,” Dana takes one step closer. She must’ve been calling Baran’s name, who didn’t hear it. "What do you need, hon? What can I do?"

Baran takes one breath in through her nose and releases it slowly through her mouth, hand coming up to squeeze tightly around her wrist.

"Please get Abbot and Langdon, if he’s still here," she says. "Tell them incoming trauma, MVA, head injury and possible rib fracture. I want imaging on standby and I want ortho paged."

Dana is already reaching for her radio. "Done. Anything else?"

"Yes." Baran straightens. "Would someone grab my phone from my locker? The code is 4-7-1-9."

Dana nods once, her movement slowing to a stop, and her eyes drift back up to Baran. "Are you going to—" She finishes the sentence without words, instead raising a single brow.

Baran only offers one singular nod before she's beelining to the ambulance bay. She hears the siren before she sees the lights, the Doppler shift of it growing closer, and she forces herself to stand still and breathe even as other doctors rush out to help her receive you. Her wife. Baran has been in room after room after room delivering this kind of news about someone that someone loves, and she has watched what they do. There’s usually the one who crumples, or goes rigid, or flees. She always had empathy, but now she has a direct understanding. She wants to do all three. Her chest feels like it’s going to implode. She feels both weightless and leaden, like she’ll either crack through the earth and plummet to its core or float off, somewhere far away.

The ambulance pulls in. The back doors open before the vehicle has fully stopped and the paramedics are already yelling: "-y year old female, restrained driver, T-bone impact on the driver's side, airbag deployment with delayed activation, she's been in and out—"

Your body jolts around like a rag doll as the stretcher bumps its way out of the back of the ambulance. Your head lolls this-way-and-that as if weightless. There’s a C-collar on you, a line in your left arm, a pressure bandage along the hairline where your head must’ve slammed into something. Baran can hardly breathe at the sight of it all as Langdon and Mel descend upon your stretcher, jogging with it as you’re rolled in.

A treating physician cannot have a primary care relationship with an immediate family member. It compromises the objectivity of clinical judgment in ways that can lead to either over-treatment or dangerous minimization, because love is not a diagnostic tool and it never has been.

But Baran is also the chief attending on duty, which means it is ultimately her call to make, which means she can assign Abbot as the primary and oversee, or she can assign Abbot as the primary and step back entirely, or she can (and the protocol is grayer here than people admit) take primary herself on the grounds that she is the most qualified physician in the building and that the injuries in question, while serious, are not so acutely life-threatening as to require surgical intervention, and that her training is specifically relevant to every item on this presentation. Baran is someone whose hands do not shake. They are perfectly steady now, even as her pulse thrummed in her teeth, in her spine, behind her eyes.

She is through the door, back into the ER and coming up alongside your moving stretcher before Langdon can finish his first thought. "Hold on," she says. "What's the reasoning on that?"

Langdon looks up, eyes a little owlish.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi—"

"The reasoning, Langdon."

"I'm cautious about the rib given the mechanism. I want to rule out pneumothorax before we—"

"Breath sounds are equal bilaterally," Baran says, because she can hear them from here, has been hearing them since she walked in. "Trachea is midline. Sat is ninety-seven. This isn't a pneumo." She pulls a pair of gloves from the box on the wall. "Order the CT chest anyway, I want to see the full picture. But we're not holding on that basis."

Langdon holds her gaze for a moment. He is a good doctor and a careful one, and she respects him. But it is more important in this moment that he respects her.

"Sure," he says slowly, letting the words go reluctantly.

"I'll take primary," she says curtly. "Someone get Abbot in here, and Langdon, stay. I want you on the imaging review because I want your eyes on it independent of mine, and you are to say something if you think I'm wrong about anything."

Langdon nods once as Mel rushes off to get Abbot, and Baran steps up in her place.

Close up, it's different. She can see the blood at your hairline more clearly, a gash of maybe two centimeters that has been partially dressed by the paramedics, still oozing slightly. Your hands are resting open at your sides, which is either calm or the absence of enough presence of mind to close them. Baran puts her gloved hand over yours, heart pumping hot blood through her veins. “Y/N, eshgham, can you look at me?"

Your eyes drift around aimlessly for a moment before arriving on hers. She shines her penlight in your eyes as your stretcher keeps moving, apologizing with a raspy voice as you whine.

“Do you know where you are, hon?” Dana asks as they finally reach a room, getting ready to transfer you onto the bed.

"Hospital," you croak.

"That's right. Do you know what happened?"

You groan as they start to jostle you. "There was a car."

"You were in a car accident. Someone hit you,” Baran confirms, "I need you to tell me where it hurts. Can you do that?"

"Head," you wheeze with visible effort: "Side. My side."

"Your ribs?" Baran is already reaching to palpate, carefully, feeling for crepitus. You hiss at the contact, trying to pull away. "I know, I know. I'm sorry,” she responds, blinking the tears out of her eyes, trying to push it all back, down, far away. There’s a fracture, possibly two. "What about your ankle? How does it feel?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to locate that specific pain among the throbbing ache everywhere. You can’t really pinpoint it, so you just supply: “Ouch.”

Langdon huffs out an amused breath as Abbot bursts in, still pulling his gloves on. "What the hell is going on here? Y/N? Baran, you're primary?"

"Yes."

"And you want me—"

"To help. Eyes on everything I do. You countermand me the second you think I'm compromised, you have my full authorization and I mean that." She glances at him then, just briefly. "Jack."

His crossed arms drop as she rounds the bed. "Jesus," he exhales. "Okay. Right. Hi, Y/N. You’re not lookin’ nearly as bad as I thought you would be going off of Baran’s face.”

You hold up a loose-armed thumbs up. “I always look good. Tha’s why she calls me hot stuff,” you slur.

Jack’s eyes shoot up to Baran in amusement. “You drug her?"

"She got two of fentanyl in the field," Baran says. She's already peeling back the paramedic's dressing at your hairline, gazing down at the still-oozing wound. She holds the pressure and looks up. "Langdon, I need this closed."

"On it." He's already moving to the supply cart to get the staples.

She turns back to the room. "C-collar stays until we have the head CT. Cardiac monitor, second IV right arm, supplemental O2 at two liters. Any update from ortho?"

"They said ten minutes,” Dana says.

"Please ask them to be down here in eight."

Dana gives her a look and picks up the phone anyway as the beeping of your heart rate monitor ticks up. All eyes fall on you.

"Baran." Your voice has gone thinner, frightful. Your fingers scrabble at the bed rail. "Baran, I can't— something's wrong, I can't— "

"It's the medication," she softens her voice. Langdon has come back with the stapler and is setting up at your head; she shifts fractionally to give him room without releasing your hand. "Keep your eyes on me."

"Wait,” you gasp, “‘t doesn’t feel right."

"I know it doesn't." She keeps her voice even as an anchor. She has done this ten thousand times with people less important. She can help you through this. "Find my face, honey. Right here." Your eyes find hers and then skate off, glassy and searching. You're trying to reach for something with your left hand, the one with the line in it, fingers splaying open uselessly.

"Hey." Dana catches your wrist before you can pull the IV, "Leave that alone, Y/N. That's keeping you comfortable."

"Well, I don't feel comfortable," you moan.

"I know," Dana says sympathetically, guiding your hand back down on the bed. "But you gotta try to stay still."

"Tracking's better than field report. I'd call her a fourteen,” Abbot updates the room.

Baran knows this, she's been watching. She just nods without taking her eyes off of you. You make a low, distressed sound, head moving restlessly against the pillow, C-collar shifting with it.

"I’m serious, something really feels wrong."

"Nothing is wrong, Verstappen," Abbot says. He has moved down to your ankle now, palpating carefully, watching your face for the pain response. "Your brain is lying and telling you that because of the medication. Your vitals are good."

"It doesn't feel like it's lying," you repeat miserably.

"I know," Baran smooths her thumb along the uninjured side of your hairline, gloved and careful. "That's what makes it convincing. But you’ve got several doctors in here to make sure you’re okay. Including me."

Your eyes squint at Baran, something finally clicking behind your eyes. Then, small and muzzy: "You're not supposed to be my doctor."

Abbot coughs noisly behind you, then oofs as Dana juts her elbow into his ribs.

"No," Baran agrees, ignroing them both. "I'm not supposed to be your doctor."

"Are you in trouble?"

Still hunched, Abbot mouths ‘yes’ behind Baran with an exaggerated nod of his head while Baran’s own expression remains impassive. "Not yet."

You grin, letting your head thunk back against the bed. Your eyes drift shut, then drag back open with visible effort to glare at Langdon who’s approaching you with the stapler. At least he has the courtesy to offer you a sympathetic smile.

"I’ll make it really fast,” he promises. “Just a few small pinches.”

You flinch at the first one and make a sound through your teeth.

"Three more," he says.

"I hate this stupid ED," you inform him, though your syllables are all jumbled. His grin spreads wider across his face.

"Two more."

Your grip on Baran's hand tightens with each one, which she happily allows (it makes her feel at least semi-useful.) Her gaze flicks between the cardiac monitor — rate 104, sinus tach, no big deal — and watching your chest rise and fall and watching your eyes.

"Done," Langdon says. He steps back, strips his gloves, reaches for a fresh dressing. There are four staples across your forehead now, injected in a clean line. "Lac's closed."

"Good." Baran looks across at Abbot. He's finished with the ankle, already straightening.

"Displaced, probably," he says quietly, just to her. "Ortho's going to want to look at that tonight." She nods. That's a problem for twenty minutes from now.

"We're going to take some pictures," she tells you. "Head first, then chest. The collar has to stay on until we rule out a neck injury. I know it's uncomfortable."

"S'fine," you murmur.

"Is it?"

You purse your lips. Caught. "No."

Abbot steps up on your left. "Radiology's ready. You want to take her down?"

"Yes," Baran replies quickly. “Please.”

Dana has already moved to the head of the bed, hands on the rail. "Ready?"

"Where are we going?" you ask the ceiling.

"To get your picture taken," Dana reminds you.

A loopy frown pulls at your lips, memory already lapsed. "For what? I look terrible."

"You look fine, hon."

"Liar," you groan, slurred enough to make Dana laugh. Baran takes your hand as they start to move, fingers lacing through yours. Your grip tightens immediately around hers, a tiny little breath puffing from your mouth in what she takes to be near-contentment.

"Close your eyes,” she whispers, leaning down to place one soft kiss to your forehead. “I'll tell you when we get there."

໒꒱ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

abbotyogaofficial

♫ sunrise - norah jones

liked by drabbot, danaevans and 409 others

abbotyogaofficial as grateful as my body was for our beautiful trip to italy, i can't wait to get back in the studio this week

abbotyogaofficial forgot to mention! i will be running more meditation classes this week, a healthy soul means a healthy body!

-> docrobby you married a doctor, you can't seriously think you can meditate your way to good health?

-> abbotyogaofficial maybe if you practiced some mindfullness every once in a while, micheal, you wouldn't be so negative all the time

-> drabbot thats my girl!

-> docrobby you really believe this stuff?

-> drabbot nope. not at all. just like seeing you get humbled!

huckledenny wait is this her?

-> trinsantos 'abbot yoga and wellness studios'? it must be...

-> torijavadi well that was not what i was expecting

drabbot

♫ heaven - bryan adams

liked by abbotyogaofficial, mateodiaz and 90 others

drabbot a week stuck inside the pitt means connecting with nature again

abbotyogaofficial this weekend was so healing

-> docrobby don't start again

-> abbotyogaofficial you're a doctor, you should know spending time in nature is good for the immune system

danaevans looks like you both had a lovely weekend

jjshen no way you get to just 'reconnect with nature' while i have to remove chopsticks from a kids nose

trinsantos why is abbot's wife the coolest person ever?

-> drabbot she's not cooler than me though

-> abbotyogaofficial yes i am

-> drabbot yes ma'am.

abbotyogaofficial

♫ paradise - sade

liked by drabbot, trinsantos and 615 others

abbotyogaofficial spent the weekend planning a new yoga flow for tuesday's class and getting in touch with my creative side as the moon shifts towards the waxing crescent tonight

drabbot can't wait to see what recipes you come up with this month honey

trinsantos wait she's an astrology girlie too

-> torijavadi we should go to one of her classes

-> abbotyogaofficial trinity i have three spaces left for my tuesday class if youre interested!

-> trinsantos oh my gosh yes definitely

-> torijavadi three spaces you say...

-> huckledenny oh no.

-> abbotyogaofficial ill see you all next week!

trinsantos

♫ one hand in my pocket - alanis morissette

liked by melking, huckledenny and 103 others

trinsantos see there's this thing called yoga, and me and my gang, well, we suck at it

abbotyogaofficial you guys did so well for your first class, yoga isn't just about your body but your mind as well and showing up is one of the hardest parts!

-> trinsantos you're my favourite abbot

huckledenny at least i didn't fall asleep in the savasana...

-> trinsantos i was being mindful and relaxed!!

-> torijavadi you were snoring

samiram i can't believe i missed this one, i'll be back next week!

-> abbotyogaofficial we missed you mira! can't wait to have you back with us next week