i’ll pay for it♡

Most days you could ignore it. Most days you smiled politely, accepted the concern for what it was, and carried on. You had chosen to keep working. You loved your job. The emergency department was exhausting and chaotic and occasionally heartbreaking, but it was yours. It gave structure to days that might otherwise have been swallowed whole by anxiety.

The anxiety was harder to admit, but nobody seemed concerned about that part. Nobody saw the moments you sat alone in your apartment after a shift with one hand resting over your stomach, wondering if you were making the right choices. Nobody saw the nights when you woke up terrified by the sheer scale of what was coming.

You were going to be somebody’s mother. The thought still knocked the breath out of you. You were going to do it alone, and that part was worse.

The baby’s father had left months ago, long before anyone at work knew about the pregnancy. There had been no screaming argument. No dramatic betrayal. Just a gradual retreat until one day you realised you were the only person still fighting for something that no longer existed.

You had survived it. You would continue surviving it. You didn’t have any other choice. Which was why you absolutely refused to become somebody else’s responsibility, especially Jack Abbot’s.

“Why have I got room fourteen?”

The question escaped before you could stop yourself. Dana looked up from the desk.

“What about room fourteen?”

You stared at the assignment sheet in your hand. Room fourteen contained the sweetest little old lady currently waiting for discharge paperwork. Room twelve contained a man with a minor fracture. Room nine needed routine medication.

That was it. No aggressive intoxication. No psychiatric hold. No combative family members. No complicated trauma patients. Nothing.

It was practically a holiday.

You narrowed your eyes. Across the department, Jack was discussing scans with one of the residents, words thorough and professional despite the toll the rare day shift was taking on him.

Your gaze lingered. Unfortunately, Jack’s eyes lifted almost immediately. Straight to you. The man possessed some supernatural ability to know when you were looking at him.

Your stomach performed an irritating little flip. That was becoming a problem. Actually, no. The crush was the problem. The stomach flipping was merely a symptom.

Jack’s expression remained perfectly neutral. You pointed at your assignment sheet. He looked away immediately, seemingly guilty.

You knew it.

Ten minutes later you cornered him near the medication room. “Stop it.”

His eyebrows rose. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You keep changing my assignments.”

“I don’t make assignments.”

“Jack.”

His mouth twitched. That tiny almost-smile somehow made him more infuriating.

“You have no proof.”

“I don’t need proof.”

“Yes, honey, you do.”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Jack. You keep giving me easier patients.”

Jack folded his arms. The movement pulled at the sleeves of his scrub top. Your traitorous brain noticed entirely too much about him these days. The broad shoulders. The wedding ring he still wore. The permanent exhaustion around his eyes.

The gentleness he tried so hard to hide beneath sarcasm. “You think I have nothing better to do than secretly manipulate patient assignments?”

“Yes.”

That earned an actual laugh. A short one. Rare enough that it briefly distracted you. Jack shook his head.

“I think that’s insane. You’re being a bit… God, what did Javadi call it? Delulu?”

“Never say that again. I’m serious.”

“God forbid a guy try something new.”

You stared at each other. The familiar tension settled into place almost immediately. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. Nobody else seemed to notice it either, which felt impossible.

You noticed everything when it came to him. The way his voice softened around frightened patients. The way he instinctively positioned himself between vulnerable people and whatever was upsetting them. The way he always appeared beside you whenever a shift became overwhelming.

That last one was definitely intentional.

The problem was that Jack never did anything obvious enough to challenge. Every act of care was disguised as practicality.

A patient would need transferring and somebody else would mysteriously volunteer before you could. You would arrive at the break room to find tea already waiting. A difficult relative would somehow end up redirected towards an attending physician instead of a pregnant nurse nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift.

None of it was dramatic. None of it could be called out without sounding ridiculous. Still, you knew.

“You don’t need to look after me.”

The words came out quieter than intended. Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the department seemed strangely distant.

“You know,” Jack said eventually, “it’s possible for people to help each other without it meaning something.”

The statement should have reassured you. Instead it hurt. You weren’t entirely sure why. Perhaps because you wanted it to mean something. That was the truth you kept trying not to examine too closely. You wanted his attention. You looked for him at the start of every shift. You noticed when he wasn’t there. You noticed when he looked tired. You noticed everything.

The feelings had arrived slowly and then all at once. Now they sat heavily in your chest, impossible to ignore.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“You still need to stop.”

His eyes held yours. For a second you thought he might argue. Instead he sighed.

“You are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That’s rich coming from you.”

A trauma alert sounded overhead. The moment vanished instantly. Jack pushed away from the wall. Professional mask sliding neatly back into place.

You hated how easily he could do that.

As though he could simply lock parts of himself away whenever necessary. You wondered what it would be like to be that controlled. To not feel everything so intensely all the time.

“Come on,” he said. “Work calls.”

You fell into step beside him. Close enough to hear his breathing, and to smell hospital soap and coffee. Close enough that the ache in your chest returned before you’d even reached the trauma bay.

You wished it would stop. You wished it would get worse. Neither option seemed particularly safe.

Especially not when Jack glanced at you as the doors opened and asked, quietly enough that nobody else could hear,

“You feeling alright today?”

The concern in his voice was genuine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Somehow that made it harder to answer than any question you’d faced all week.

The trauma ended up being far less dramatic than the alert had suggested. A motor vehicle collision. Two patients, both conscious. One broken wrist, one nasty laceration that looked significantly worse than it actually was. Nobody needed a miracle.

For once, the emergency department managed to survive a trauma call without the world ending. You should have felt relieved. Instead, the restlessness that had settled beneath your skin earlier refused to leave.

Jack’s question kept replaying in your head. ‘You feeling alright today?’. Such an ordinary thing to ask. People asked it all the time. The difference was that most people weren’t really asking. Most people wanted reassurance. A quick smile and a simple yes.

Jack always seemed to want the truth. That was what made him dangerous. He paid attention. It would have been easier if he didn’t. Easier if he were merely an attractive older guy with freckles and muscles and curls. A crush based on appearances would eventually burn itself out.

Unfortunately, every shift seemed determined to reveal another reason to fall for him. You hated that. Mostly because there was absolutely nothing sensible about it.

Jack was older than you. Widowed. Emotionally complicated in ways you suspected only a therapist fully understood.

You were carrying another man’s baby.

The timing couldn’t have been worse if someone had deliberately arranged it.

Yet every time he looked at you, some foolish part of your heart seemed convinced there was still something worth hoping for.

By three, your lower back felt like it had been replaced with concrete. The baby had apparently decided sleep was for cowards and had spent the last hour enthusiastically rearranging your internal organs.

You were updating notes at the nurses’ station when a sharp kick landed beneath your ribs. The involuntary wince escaped before you could stop it.

Unfortunately, somebody noticed. Of course somebody noticed. “Everything alright?”

You looked up. Jack. Again. The man appeared with the consistency of a haunting. You straightened immediately.

“Fine.”

“You know I was literally standing here when that happened, sweetheart.”

“I’m still fine.”

“You made a face.”

“I make faces all the time.”

“You looked like somebody stabbed you.”

“That’s slightly dramatic.”

His expression remained unconvinced. The irritating thing was that he wasn’t hovering. Not really. He wasn’t fussing or ordering you to sit down. He was simply standing there looking concerned. Which somehow made it impossible to dismiss.

The baby kicked again. Your hand moved automatically towards your stomach. A subconscious gesture. One you’d barely realised you’d started doing.

Something softened in Jack’s face. The sight of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No awkwardness. No discomfort. Just warmth.

Your pulse stumbled. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

“You should take ten.”

“No.”

“Five.”

“No.”

“Two and a half?”

A laugh escaped despite yourself.

“You negotiate with trauma surgeons like this?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They aren’t as terrifying as you.”

You rolled your eyes. Jack looked suspiciously pleased with himself. The sight made something warm spread through your chest. You hated how often that happened around him. The feeling had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Particularly during the quieter moments.

Those moments were always the worst. Those were the moments when you remembered how easy it felt to talk to him. You couldn’t pinpoint when it had started. At some point he’d stopped feeling like an attending physician and started feeling like Jack. The distinction mattered more than it should have.

“You know,” he said eventually, leaning against the counter beside you, “it’s alright to admit that you’re tired.”

You stared at the computer screen. The blinking cursor suddenly seemed fascinating.

“Who says I’m tired?”

“You’ve had three cups of coffee in ninety minutes.”

“Maybe I like coffee.”

“You hate coffee.”

Your head dropped backwards. “Oh, come on.”

His smile widened. “You told me.”

“When?”

“Six months ago.”

You looked at him. Actually looked. The man remembered entirely too much. The realisation struck with uncomfortable force.

Six months ago.

You couldn’t remember half the conversations you’d had yesterday. Jack remembered an offhand comment from six months ago.

Your chest tightened. The feeling wasn’t entirely pleasant. Part of you wanted to bask in it. The rest wanted to run. Nobody had paid attention to you like this in a very long time. Not before the pregnancy. Certainly not after.

The baby’s father had forgotten things constantly. Appointments. Plans. Conversations. You had spent months shrinking your expectations just to avoid disappointment.

Now here was Jack remembering your coffee preferences. The comparison felt unfair. Your emotions didn’t seem particularly concerned with fairness.

The silence stretched. Jack’s smile faded slightly. Concern replacing amusement. “You okay?”

There it was again. That impossible gentleness.

You swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

His gaze lingered. Not challenging. Not pushing. Just waiting. You wondered whether he knew how difficult that made things. Most people demanded explanations.

Jack simply offered space. The urge to step into it was becoming overwhelming.

A sudden rush of emotion caught you completely off guard. Exhaustion. Fear. Hormones. Loneliness.

Whatever combination was responsible, it hit hard enough to sting behind your eyes. You looked away immediately. Embarrassing. The last thing you needed was to start crying at the nurses’ station.

Jack didn’t comment. Another kindness. He simply moved slightly closer. Close enough that you could feel the steady presence of him. Not touching. Never assuming. Just there. Ready if needed. The gesture nearly hurt.

“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes.”

The words were quiet. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely sure he should be saying them.

You laughed softly. A humourless sound. “That’s easy for you to say.”

His expression shifted. Something sad flickering briefly across his face. “You’d be surprised.”

The answer lodged somewhere deep. You knew enough about Jack to understand what wasn’t being said. The grief he carried everywhere despite pretending otherwise. Perhaps that was why being around him felt so different.

He never treated pain like weakness. He understood it too well.

A call light sounded down the corridor. The interruption should have felt annoying. Instead it came as a relief. The conversation had wandered dangerously close to honesty. Neither of you seemed entirely prepared for that.

You pushed away from the desk. Professional instincts taking over. Work was easier. Work always had been. People made sense when they were patients. Charts and medications and treatment plans were infinitely simpler than feelings.

Jack watched you stand. Something unreadable lingered in his eyes. Then it disappeared, locked away behind professionalism once again.

You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that he would let you see what lived underneath it. The frightening thing was that you suspected he wished exactly the same thing about you.

The shift should have ended an hour ago. That was the thought repeating itself through your head as you stared at a computer screen that no longer seemed capable of forming coherent words.

Every part of you ached. Your feet hurt. Your back hurt. Your shoulders felt impossibly tight. Even the baby seemed exhausted, the constant movement from earlier reduced to occasional sleepy stretches beneath your ribs.

The emergency department had entered that strange period between night and morning. The chaos was winding down. Exhaustion was settling over everyone like a heavy blanket.

Those were always the dangerous hours. The hours when emotions started slipping through cracks you’d spent all shift holding together.

You rubbed a hand across your face and tried to focus on the discharge paperwork in front of you. The words blurred. For a moment you simply sat there staring at them.

Then, completely without warning, your eyes filled.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” You muttered it to yourself.

Nobody else heard. At least, that was what you thought. You blinked rapidly and forced yourself to take a breath. You were not going to cry.

Not here. Not now.

The ridiculous thing was that nothing had actually happened. It was just exhaustion. Pure, relentless exhaustion. The kind that seemed to hollow you out from the inside.

You loved your baby already. Loved them with a fierceness that still startled you.

That didn’t mean you weren’t frightened.

Every day seemed to bring a new thing to worry about. The nursery. Money. Childcare. Labour. The future. The endless responsibility waiting just around the corner.

Most of the time you managed to carry it.

Tonight it suddenly felt very heavy.

“You missed a spot.”

You jumped.

Jack was standing beside the desk, a takeaway cup rested in one hand.

You stared. Then frowned. “What?”

“The discharge summary.” He pointed towards the screen. “There.”

Sure enough, you’d missed an entire section. Your shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

Jack studied you for a second. Long enough that you knew he’d noticed. The tears. The exhaustion. All of it.

You looked away first. Humiliation immediately flooding your chest.

“You should go home.”

You laughed quietly. “I was planning to.”

“No.” His voice softened. “I mean now.”

The concern in it almost made things worse.

You swallowed hard. “I’m nearly finished.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

“Then go home, sweetheart.”

Something inside you cracked. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough that holding everything together suddenly became impossible.

You looked down at your hands, at the hospital ID badge hanging from your neck, at anything except him.

The words came out before you could stop them. “I don’t get to stop.”

Silence.

Your throat tightened. You hated this. Hated feeling exposed. Hated feeling weak. Most of all, hated how desperately you wanted somebody to understand.

“I don’t get to fall apart,” you continued quietly. “Everybody keeps telling me to rest and take breaks and ask for help, but at the end of the day it’s still just me.”

The confession hung between you. Entirely honest. You hadn’t meant to say any of it. Months of fear seemed to have slipped free without permission.

“I go home and it’s just me.”

Your voice wavered. You pressed your lips together immediately.

For a long moment neither of you spoke. The department carried on around you, life continuing exactly as normal. Meanwhile your entire chest felt like it had been turned inside out.

Then Jack set the coffee cup down. Carefully. As though sudden movements might break something. And, maybe they would.

His gaze never left yours. “You know what’s been driving me insane for the last few months?”

The question caught you completely off guard. You frowned. “What?”

“You.” Jack huffed out a short laugh. Not amused. Nervous. The sound alone was shocking. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him nervous before. “You refuse help from everybody.”

Your mouth opened.

He continued before you could interrupt. “You carry everything yourself. Every shift. Every appointment. Every problem.”

“Jack—”

“You never let anybody look after you.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Emotion immediately tightened your throat again. You looked away. He wasn’t finished. You could tell. The realisation sent your pulse racing.

“I keep telling myself to stop.” His voice had gone quieter now. Rougher. “I keep telling myself you’re perfectly capable and none of this is my business.”

You slowly looked back at him. Neither of you seemed capable of looking away anymore. The space between you felt impossibly small, despite the fact neither of you had moved.

“I know you don’t need me.” The confession sat heavily between you. “I know that.”

His jaw tightened briefly, the way it always did when he was forcing himself to continue.

“But every time you walk into a shift looking exhausted, I want to help.”

Your heart stumbled, then stopped entirely.

“I want to take the difficult patients.” His eyes never left yours. “I want to make things easier.”

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

“I want to be the person who carries some of it when it gets too heavy.”

The world seemed strangely quiet. Every sound fading into the background. Your eyes burned again. This time you didn’t care. You’d spent months convincing yourself you were imagining it. Misreading kindness. Projecting your own feelings onto harmless gestures.

Now Jack was standing in front of you looking like he’d rather face another mass casualty event than this conversation.

The sight nearly broke your heart.

“You know why that’s a problem?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. The answer came anyway.

“Because somewhere along the way I stopped doing it just because I care about my staff.”

The breath left your lungs. “Oh.”

Brilliant response. Truly. Jack laughed quietly, a little helplessly. The sound made your chest ache.

“Oh,” he echoed.

For one terrifying second neither of you spoke. Then something shifted. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or relief, or simply the fact you’d both spent too long pretending.

Whatever it was, it finally pushed you forward.

“You make me feel safe.”

The words escaped before you could second-guess them. Jack froze. You continued anyway.

“If that’s a horrible thing to admit, then fine.”

A shaky laugh slipped out. Your eyes filled again.

“You make me feel looked after. I keep trying not to need that.”

Jack’s expression softened completely. “You don’t have to earn being cared for.”

The sentence hit harder than everything else combined. Nobody had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not as though they genuinely believed it. A tear escaped, and then another, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Jack stepped closer. Slowly. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn’t. His hand settled against your arm. The simple contact nearly undid you.

For months you’d been carrying everything alone.

Not because you wanted to, but because you thought you had to. The difference suddenly felt enormous.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

There wasn’t much left to say. The truth was already sitting between you. Visible at last. Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve. A tiny movement so careful that it made your chest ache.

The man looked at you as though you were something precious. The realisation was terrifying. It was also wonderful.

For the first time in a very long while, the future didn’t seem quite so frightening.

Nothing had magically been fixed. You were still pregnant. Still scared. Still facing a thousand uncertainties.

Jack was still carrying grief of his own. Life remained complicated. Messy. Difficult.

Yet standing there beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with exhaustion pulling at both of you and dawn beginning to creep through distant windows, something fundamental had changed.

The loneliness wasn’t quite so sharp anymore.

For months you’d been trying to convince yourself that strength meant carrying everything alone. Looking at Jack now, you finally understood how wrong you’d been. Sometimes strength looked a lot more like letting somebody stay.

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