jack keeps staring at you. this is not unusual. jack stares at everybody all the time, loves forcing the people around him into some non-judgemental eye contact to keep the day interesting as it is long. the only issue seems to be your imperviousness. itâs like you just donât notice him, and itâs driving him crazyâif jack doesnât get a good look at you soon heâs gonna make it everybodyâs problem.
over patient heads and across bayâs, in company and all alone in a quiet break room, jack tries to prompt your gaze with dedication. eventually youâll have to look at him, but you just donât. itâs statistically impossible to not meet his eyes at this point, and itâs breaking his heart wondering what the hell it is thatâs upset you. thatâs gotta be what this is, right?
but the day chugs on and you sound like youâre in good spirits. jack listens to you talk to doctors, nurses, patients and porters with your usual dulcet tones, but forces himself to play things cool.
so, he says eventually, decidedly uncool about your downturned gaze, any plans tonight?
finally, finally! you raise your head and meet his eyes. it wouldâve been rude not to, and youâre his polite girl. nothing exciting, just⌠stuff, you say.
he ducks his head when your eyes drift, forcing the contact. what stuff? tell me about it.
your eyes squeeze shut. you wonât like what iâm gonna say.
oh, so you wonât look at me because youâre feeling guilty? here i was thinking youâre a big girl. what am i not gonna like?
have to go home, sorry. my plants need watering.
youâre not looking at me because you canât come to my place? jack laughs. laughs hard, wrapping his arm over the front of you so you can wear his bicep like a belt, his chuckle warming your temple as he attacks you with scratchy kisses. i thought something was wrong. all day iâve beenâ he snorts. hey, listen, iâll forgive you if you let me look at you, yeah? let me look at those eyes and weâll pretend my heartâs not breaking.
you smile shyly, all gentle and apologetic under his arm, and jack finds it way less funny, then. begins pleading his way into your bed. if the plants need watering, let him water them.
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Chapter summary: After your failed dinner Harry has to face the consequences of his neglect.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Chapter warnings: angst, marriage falling apart, barely mentioned sex, trying for a baby mentioned, language
Words: 2.7k
Notes: Okay, here we go with the second chapter. Iâm so excited and I didnât expect that many nice comments! It really warms my heart, I love how you get excited for this series as much as I am. Also English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. Please do not copy my work. Thanks!đЎ
Harry came home late. He knows that. He hasnât seen the missed calls, or messages. His phone dropped dead around seven.
And now itâs after two and he quietly enters the penthouse. Everything is dark, but he sees slight shadows and soft edges thanks to the city lights outside. He has to admit⌠heâs a bit drunk. It wasnât intentional, just Peter kept pouring him more and moreâŚ
Stumbling just a bit he steps further into the dark space. Thatâs when his blurry vision helps him see the table. All set, with fresh flowers, burned out candles and food. All cold and miserable. Shit. He approaches it and then something crunches under his boots. Glass. A shattered wine bottle. âWhat the hell?â he mutters, realizing he fucked up.
Heâs aware lately he wasnât a great husband. And seeing this beautiful table, set just for him and his success⌠He only sees how big of a failure he is. Everyday heâs eaten by this enormous guilt when he has to rush for a meeting, or focus on some important documents. This shame is so big, he skips the dinners even more frequently. Itâs awful, but he canât stand your gaze when he calls off yet another date. Heâs unable to face his mistakes, he chooses to run. Itâs safe. Itâs what he has done all his life.
He grabs his phone, he charged it a bit in a cab. He scrolls through the missed calls. âFuckâ he mutters. Then he listens to the voice message you left.
âUm⌠Hey, baby. I was wondering if youâre heading home? I made dinner⌠itâs getting cold. And Iâm worried. JustâŚâ a sigh âCall me.â
Harry closes his eyes. This was a call from 8 P.M. He knows he really messed up. Youâre going to be so pissed in the morning, he already braces for that. Itâs not like he doesnât deserve it â God knows he does. He really meant to be home earlier tonight just⌠everyone in the office was so ecstatic about the successful deal⌠His brother insisted on getting out and heading to a bar. Itâs such a lame excuse, Harry winces. He realizes heâs gonna need something more than just that.
So with a sigh he cleans up the mess from the floor, itâs the least he can do now. Then careful, not to wake you up, he gets to the bedroom, changes into just fresh boxers and a tee. When heâs ready to sleep he takes a moment to look at your sleeping form. Guilt runs through his veins. He doesnât want to hurt you. Itâs the last thing in the world he wants. He just doesnât know how to end this vicious cycle. He settles under the covers next to you and closes his eyes exhausted. Heâll make it up to you tomorrow, he believes. You always forgive his little slip-ups.
*********************
What Harry surely didnât expect was being brutally woken up few hours later, by the loud thud in the closet. Confused, he gets up, rubbing his eyes to sharpen his senses. He doesnât have to look at your side of the bed to know youâre not in there anymore. Which is weird, you usually like to sleep in.
He shuffles to the closet and freezes the moment he sees you.
Kneeling beside an open suitcase, throwing your clothes in it.
You donât look up at him. Youâve had enough.
âBaby, what⌠What are you doing? You going somewhere?â he asks completely stunned. You canât help, but roll your eyes. âYeah, to Cassandra.â
âBut why? Something happened?â he takes a step closer, still not getting it. You zip a pouch in your suitcase with a little too big strength. âYes, my husband doesnât give a shit about me.â you answer sharply.
After you woke up and found Harry fast asleep next to you, smelling like his cologne and sweat⌠something snapped in you. You were furious. There are no words for how many different things you felt at that moment. You only knew you couldnât take it anymore. Thatâs how you ended up, packing in your walk-in-closet. You hoped heâll wake up later, but the suitcase was too heavy, you dropped it a bit too loud. Well⌠maybe itâs good. Now he can see how badly he screwed up.
Thatâs when it gets to him. Finally. âLove, I know I messed up last night⌠My phone dropped dead, we closed the deal. Peter wanted to celebrateâŚâ he gives excuse after excuse. âI promise itâs the last time I pulled something like that.â
âOh yeah, you bet itâs the last time.â frustrated you stand up and pass him heading to the master bathroom. You donât even want to listen to what he has to say. He hurt you. He had taken you for granted so many times you even wonder if youâre really married. You grab your toiletries from the counter. âBaby, wait...â he reaches to grab your wrist, but you pull away.
âNo! Donât touch me!â Angry you set the toiletries back on the counter with a thud. You take a calming breath. âDo you know how long I waited for you last night?â you glance at him. âFive hours. Five fucking hours, Harry!â
The memories of last evening come back to you. How excited you were, how you spent most of the day in the kitchen⌠All this for the food to go cold and your heart to break once again.
âI know, Iâm sorry.â he looks at you pleading. âSorry isnât enough.â you say bitterly. âMaybe it wouldâve been the first time, or second⌠But something like that happened countless times! Iâm not gonna be the idiot waiting for the great Harry Castillo to come home. Not anymore.â
You finally decided to fight for yourself. He either can pick up that fight, or choose his work. Once more. But for now? You need to change your surroundings, get away from this shiny, suffocating walls of your shared penthouse. You used to love your home. Still do. But lately it has been nothing, but a reminder of how lonely you are.
âWhat do you meanâŚ? You canât be serious. I know Iâve been busy, but⌠Letâs just talk about it. Donât leave⌠Itâs not like you.â he says hoping that will get to you, but the truth is it only makes you see things clearer. You felt so lost last night and when you woke up and saw him laying beside you like nothing happened⌠You donât wanna be that woman. That wife, that doesnât even know what time her husband gets to bed. You swore to yourself, he will never humiliate you like that ever again.
âWhatâs not like me is standing aside and letting you treat me like some trophy.â you see his confused expression. âFor the last few months I was nothing, but an afterthought to you.â
âBaby, thatâs not trueâŚâ
âYes, it is!â you rise you voice frustrated. âYouâre gone all the time. Constantly some meetings, some new deals, some emergencies in the office⌠And when youâre finally home, itâs still like youâre absent. Always on the phone, or with your nose in your fucking laptop. Oh, how I hate your laptop.â you shake your head, finally letting out every single frustration you kept bottled up, leaving Harry absolutely speechless. You grab your cosmetics again and head back to the closet, throwing them carelessly into the suitcase. You can hear heâs following you. âYou spend with it every single night. You donât even look my direction when I get to bed. I dress up in those satin nightdresses hoping for at least a pathetic glance and I get nothing. Nothing!â you zip your suitcase and set it ready to go. His hand instantly grips the handle.
âSo thatâs what it is about? Sex? Youâre mad I am working my ass off and am too tired to fuck you?!â he also lost his temper at this point. You huff ripping the suitcase out of his grip. âYou know exactly what I mean. You know itâs much more than that.â you stare into his deep brown, puppy eyes. God, do not think about his eyes, or youâll be damned. He canât draw his gaze away from you either. Two people who love each other deeply, now just standing on the opposite sides of the same front. When did that happen? All your anger drains out, replaced by the pure regret and sorrow.
âYou said⌠that weâll start trying for a baby right after the Japan deal.â you whisper. âYou closed this deal three months ago.â
âJesus, I know. I know it delayed, but we still can. We can right now if you want.â Harry takes a step closer, willing to do absolutely anything. âGosh, you donât understand shit.â shaking your head, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. You take a handle of the suitcase and pass him. You need time to process everything. Away from him.
âThen explain it to me, damnit!â he shouts after you, following you down the hallway. He hates fighting with you, he feels like a lost child then. Stupid for caring that much, he always had a problem with that. Heâs aware he hurt you and reached some limit. But love was always something foreign to him. How the hell does he fix that? His pride still envelops his sense of remorse. âWhat the hell do you want? Iâm right here, we can fix everything. You want a baby? Weâll have it.â
âItâs not just this baby, or sex, or even this missed dinner last night!â you stop, turning towards him in the middle of the living room. You both donât realize your housekeeper, Magda, already cleans up in the kitchen, able to hear your whole fight. âItâs about you not noticing me! You ask me what I want?! I want to feel like your fucking priority again! Iâm your wife, Harry! For Godâs sake!â you rise your hand to his eye level. A diamond ring, shining like mistakes he made. Shining with the love that still bounds you two. Prove of his devotion to you that lately became eclipsed by his neglectful behaviour. The sight of it hits him like a punch. So what a human does in that situation, facing the harm they caused? The worst. They get defensive.
âYouâre right, youâre my wife, so you should understand my work is important! You whine about the dates I missed, but itâs me whoâs paying for all that! For your fancy dinners, your jewelry, or designer clothes! Money wonât earn by itself.â
âYou did not just say that.â
âWhat? You mean you could afford all this thanks to your stupid books?â his words cut like a knife. He has never, not once in your shared life, degraded your job like that. Youâre speechless for good few seconds. They seem like a lifetime, as you recall every single time he encouraged you, or said words of pride. You take quiet breath in.
âI donât think we have anything more to talk about now.â you whisper, completely stunned and so hurt. This is not your husband. Not your marriage. And maybe he realizes he went too far, when you silently turn around towards the elevator. His expression softens, suddenly aware youâre really leaving. He takes desperate steps towards the elevator entrance, where you just stood, he stops the door from sliding closed.
âDarling, I didnât⌠I didnât mean it. Come back, we can talk about itâŚâ
âNo. Not now, Harry. I guess we both need to cool down now. Please, step back.â you answer and when he hesitates, you add quietly. âPlease.â
He doesnât know what makes him do what you asked for. Is it your eyes? Pleading and filled with those sorrowful tears he hates so much? Is it your defeated voice? The curses, the excuses and accusations that flew this morning? Heâs not sure, but he takes a slow step back. Letting you go. Just for now. Itâs for the best. âJust⌠please text me when you get safely to Cassieâs.â
Your gaze softens as you nod. ThenâŚ
The elevatorâs door slide closed. Leaving you alone in this lifeless metal tube. Leaving him alone in this lifeless luxurious penthouse.
He already regrets everything he said. Everything he did. He regrets making you cry and making you wait endlessly for him. But⌠he wonât admit it. Not out loud, when he feels so embarrassed. Like a cheap imitation of a man. He shakes his head, turning away from the hallway. Thatâs when he catches Magdaâs scolding gaze. âPlease, not now.â he sighs defeated and walks away, needing space to think.
He paces in your bedroom, the same one you just slept in few hours ago, made love countless times. The one you cried in and he held you through it, or cuddled watching your favourite romantic comedies (theyâre his favourite too). He canât believe how badly everything went to shit. How badly he screwed up⌠He knows itâs his fault and maybe thatâs why he snapped at you. He thought he could focus on his work and youâd just be there at his side no matter how lost he gets. But he was wrong. So wrong. He got it out on you and thereâs nothing he regrets more.
Frustrated with himself he heads to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, but it doesnât help. Reaching for a towel, he notices thereâs none. Oh right, itâs Saturday. A day of changing towels in the whole penthouse. Apparently because of the fight, Magda didnât have a chance to put fresh ones. He sighs, grabbing few pieces of toilet paper. Once his face is dry he aims at the bin.
He misses.
âFuck!â he shouts and in few long strides he approaches the poor bin and kicks it. As it falls with all the contents spilling onto the floor his gaze drops to a tiny pink stick. Kneeling he picks it up. A breath catches in his lungs. You said⌠that weâll start trying for a baby right after the Japan deal. Your words ring in his head as he stares at the negative test. You closed this deal three months ago.
You were right. He did promise youâll start trying. And now this pink stick is glaring at him, reminding him what an awful husband he is. Itâs not how all this is supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy together, to have a family already. Instead he begun coming home later and later until it broke you. That is the moment when he realizes how much he failed you. Sitting on a cold bathroom floor he just observes the pregnancy test and sheds a few tears full of regret.
Despite being a feared, confident CEO that shines on âForbesâ or âGQâ covers, Harry is a sensitive man. He feels a lot of emotions, heâs ashamed of them. And only with you he was able to express himself without feeling like a complete idiot. Youâre his rock and heâs yours. At least he was. That is why he handles poorly any fight you have, he hates the fact that heâs failing you. Because Harry knows you deserve so much better than what he gives you. He knows heâs not perfect despite what people think about him. It was you who taught him that he doesnât need to be perfect., that heâs enough the way he is. âYour imperfections are just perfect.â â the first time you said that was after he showed you his height surgery scars. You didnât run, or laugh. You understood. You kissed his scars.
Youâre the most precious thing in this world.
And now heâs terrified he might not be able to fix this. All because of his selfishness. Because of his fear. Your marriage is on the verge of breaking just because he couldnât face the pain he caused you. He feels like a child lost in a fog when youâre not around. Your love is the only love he isnât scared of. And now your love is the one he might lose.
Heâs not having that. Absolutely not.
Heâll be better. He needs to. Heâll give you everything you want.
âYou fucking idiot.â he whispers to himself.
*****************
Ending chapter notes: I want to thank everyone for engaging in this story! As you could notice Iâm getting my inspirations from my favourite songs and every chapter is named by a different song. I also hope you like my version of Harry. After watching the movie I really fell in love with his avoidant side. I donât think this side of him is approached often and I wanted to try. Thank you againđЎđŤĄ
The Winner Takes It All | 1: My Man On His Willpower
Pairing: Harry Castillo x reader
Chapter summary: Harry works another long night and you feel rejected. Worried about your marriage you prepare a dinner. It doesnât go as planned.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Chapter warnings: language, neglect, struggles conceiving, barely mentioned sex
Words: ~2.8k
Notes: Well itâs my first chapter of my first series. My apologies for any mistakes, English is not my first language. I hope youâll like it! Enjoy and thanks! Please, do not copy my work. Thanks!
HARRY CASTILLO TAKING OVER THE PRIVATE EQUITY SECTOR
HARRY CASTILLO NOMINATED FOR THE CEO OF THE YEAR
HARRY CASTILLO - WILL THERE BE ANY HEIR TO HIS GREAT COMPANY?
You read the titles of the newest articles that were posted on the internet. You asked your assistant to always email you if thereâs something new associated with your last name. And there is. Thereâs always something new.
You just like to know things. To be prepared. It makes you calmer, knowing what the world has to say about you, or your husband. And now? Now heâs on top. Now he has everything and heâs going for more, thatâs the way Harry is.
With a quiet sigh you set the phone down on the counter, right next to yet another negative pregnancy test. Your gaze remains glued to the tiny, pink stick. Why does it have to be so hard? Why other couples seem to have no problem with conceiving? You look up at the mirror, at your reflection⌠see the delicate, blue nightgown and the flat stomach that hides underneath. Well⌠you and Harry havenât been trying, not exactly. But you werenât careful either. And you were talking about kids, you both want them. Youâre married for over two years now⌠All you need to be fully happy is a baby.
With a sharp movement you throw the pregnancy test to the bin. Itâll happen. Sooner or later.
You walk out the bathroom, right into your specious bedroom. Itâs pretty late already. The always active New York City noise is muffled by floor-to-ceiling windows and the only light is coming from bedside lamp on Harryâs side. Itâs cozy. Harry hired the best decorators to make your penthouse feel domestic and comfortable. They used the best materials here. Oakwood floor and furniture⌠ecru soft goods and warm lighting⌠You love this place. Love spending time here with your husband andâŚ
Your jaw clenches slightly, when he doesnât even look up at you from his laptop. Heâs already in bed, blanket over his legs, wearing glasses that protect his eyes from the blue light. Heâs working. Again. You decide not to get angry. Yet.
You slowly make your way to your side of the bed, grab a vanilla and cashmere body lotion. Thatâs your usual after-bath routine. You sit on the edge of the bed and deliberately soothe it into the skin of your bare legs, hoping to feel Harryâs gaze on your back. But you donât. Only hear him typing away on the keyboard.
You donât give up, after applying the lotion, you turn towards Harry and crawl closer to his side. The mattress dips a little under your weight, thatâs when he spares you a single glance. Finally.
âHarryâŚâ You whisper, pressing your soft lips to his shoulder. He keeps fucking typing. So you leave another sweet kiss, this time to the warm skin of his neck. âBabyâŚâ He exhales quietly. And then another kiss on the neck, begging for his attention. At first Harry tenses slightly, but the feeling is gone as soon as your hand lands on his thigh. âLove, I have to finish this.â He says, clenching his jaw in guilt. His eyes meet yours, he hates seeing you like this, feeling like you have to beg for his time. But work has been so busy lately⌠He closes deal after deal, he needs to keep up.
âItâs after midnight⌠Iâm sure your laptop can wait until morningâ you say âYour wife canâtâŚâ. He sighs, fixing the glasses on his nose.
âNot tonight. You know itâs not that easy. I have an important meeting tomorrowâ
You lean back and stare at him as his gaze is again on the screen. You donât want it to turn into a fight, but, fuck⌠you miss him. It feels like you both are drifting apart lately. You hate it, you want him to notice you⌠You open your mouth wanting to say something more, but you see how he brushes his face in exhaustion, how stressed he looks. He told you about this meeting, some another twenty-million deal⌠Itâs better not to burden him, right? Thatâs what a good wife would do⌠Right?
âJust⌠Donât stay up too longâ you finally say defeated and lay down under the blanket. âI promiseâ he answers and again you can hear typing. Your back is to him, you face the window. The dark night is glaring at you, the city lights now scattered because of the rain drops, the soft hum of drizzle making your eyelids go heavy.
But not only your eyelids feel heavy. Your heart does too. You wanted to talk to him, to discuss the topic of a baby again⌠Or at least feel him close, skin to skin, mouth against mouth. You miss the way he filled you until your breath caught. Miss the sweet words and praises he whispered to your ear as his fingers were knuckle-deep inside.
You fall asleep with a single tear dried on your cheek. Completely unaware of apologetic gaze that burns into your back. Harry feels guilty, of course, but he knows he canât just drop all the work for you. A whole company depends on him. Thatâs many people. A lot of money and different lives. Sure, he misses you⌠But heâs right here, next to you. Isnât it enough? Thatâs what he chooses to believe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the morning you wake up to the sound of a commotion in the walk-in-closet. You slowly sit up, hair mussed from sleep, itâs so bright in the bedroom, you have to squint your sleepy eyes.
âShit.â You hear a frustrated mutter from the closet, you get out, sliding your feet into your fluffy sleepers. You shiver, itâs not so warm outside the duvet.
You enter the closet and see Harry struggling with his tie in front of a mirror. It draws a soft chuckle out of your mouth. Thatâs when he notices you. He looks a bit sheepish, caught on the fact that after all these years of being a businessman, he still needs his wife to help him with a tie.
âLet me.â you approach him, reaching for his tie. He instantly relaxes, thankful that he doesnât have to do it alone.
âSorry, didnât mean to wake youâ he says, his voice low and warm. Always working on you like a cozy blanket. âItâs okay, didnât sleep well anywayâ you say, hoping that maybe heâll bring up last night. That maybe heâll apologize and youâll finally feel importantâŚ
âYeah, me too. I kept thinking about this meeting today. But itâll all be over in few hours. Iâll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.â while saying that, he rests his hand on your hip, his thumb brushing over the delicate silk of your nightgown. You feel goosebumps on your skin at the sensation. You crave every little touch he gives you. âYeah?â you look at him hopeful, finally finishing dealing with his tie. Your hands stay on his chest though, on the crisp, white shirt he wears.
He nods. âMaybe weâll go on some holiday? Somewhere warm, like⌠Majorca, or Bahamas. Bahamas were fun last spring.â he smiles at you, you can notice a slight ghost of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. His question makes your heart swell with hope and love. You were right, you just needed to be patient.
âReally? That sounds great.â you grin. âItâs been a while since weâve been somewhere.â
âI know.â he sighs, his thumb gently rubbing your hip. âAnd itâs on me.â
âWhat? No, youâve just been busy. I know company is in a crucial moment.â
You really said that. You really justify his actions. But⌠he seems sincere. You want to believe him. That long hours in the office will be gone. That lonely dinners are over. That pleasureless nights will be burried as only bad dreams.
âYouâre a saint, sweetheart.â Harry kisses your forehead.
And then his phone rings. A quick peck on your nose and then he leaves the wardrobe, too busy with the person on the phone. You stand there, wrapping your slender arms around yourself. Tonight⌠Everything will come back to normal. Heâll be in a good mood after closing the deal. Heâll have more time. Iâll make some fancy dinner tonight â you think to yourself â Weâll spend nice evening⌠Iâm gonna talk to him.
With these hopeful thoughts, you decide to go about your day. After marrying Harry, he insisted for you to quit your job at publishing house. He wanted to provide for you and you agreed. This work wasnât exactly something you loved anyway. You loved books. You loved writing. And that pushed you to write your own book. There was one. Then the second. And then the third. And before you realized youâd became a bestselling author. Youâre known for your romance novels. Many people think this genre is trivial. But you think love is the most essential human feeling, needed for survival in this cruel world. Itâs a cure for any lost soul. The answers are always hidden in love.
And thatâs why lately you couldnât get any inspiration. You feel stuck with your writing, itâs the reason you took a break for some time. Your publisher wasnât thrilled, but fortunately you have already worked for your reputation.
And for now? You have the lady of the house duties. After eating breakfast you help your housekeeper, Magda, clean up a little. You coordinate the flower delivery. Once a week you order new flowers to your apartment. This week you chose peonies. You look at the arrangements at the entrance, on the dining table, or by the fireplace. Perfect.
âMagda, take the rest of the day offâ you say to an elder woman. âIâll make dinner by myselfâ you canât help yourself and smile.
âOh, I see. Mr. Castillo closes a big deal today.â she smirks.
âYes. Iâm planning something great.â
âI could help you, Mrs. CastilloâŚâ Magda insists, sheâs a very devoted worker, you really like her.
âNo, go meet your grandkids. Iâm sure they miss you.â you respond, knowing she has a lot of them. Magda is like an aunt or grandma to you, so keeping her here, just to do her hours feels ungrateful and mean.
âThank you, Mrs. Castillo.â she says and heads to the exit, she grabs her bag on the way. âHave a nice dinner, tonight.â
âI will, thanks.â
After Magda left, you went to the kitchen with a big grin on your face. You carefully write down a list of groceries and soon leave the penthouse. First you have your pilates class with your friend Cassandra. You like a good workout, especially when youâre nervous about something. And today⌠you really want everything to be perfect. Later, you gossip a little over the coffee and bagels at your favourite cafe in Tribeca.
Your day went on, after saying goodbye to Cassie, you went to a grocery store, preparing for the dinner. As you walk through the aisles you fidget anxiously with the list you made at home. This is important. In few hours heâll be home.
Youâre gonna eat delicious meal, drink his favorite white wine. Finally spend some quality time together. And maybe finally youâll be brave enough to mention your concerns about conceiving. You long for a family. You long for a family with him. You can see it, the way Harry would be with your child⌠You blink few times to avoid tearing up in the middle of the vegetables aisle.
******************************
The evening comes. You spent almost three hours in the kitchen. Salmon in lemon and dill sauce. Mashed potatoes. His favourite Chardonnay. Home-made apple crumble for the dessert (and maybe you, if youâre lucky).
The glass table in the dinning room is set with peonies and vanilla-scented candles. The food is warm, waiting, because Harry can be home any minute. You smooth your black mini dress with your hands and check the time. 8 P.M. He texted you at six â a brief text heâll be around eight.
So here you are, waiting.
Tapping the surface of your phone. Hoping for maybe some text, like: Hey, stuck in a traffic jam, or: Stopped by the floristâs. But no. Nothing.
You go fix your makeup in the bathroom. Some more blush, a little touch with your Chanel lipstick. You look at your reflection. Hopeful. Dressed up. Just for your husband. You start second guessing. Maybe that dress was a wrong choice? Maybe you shouldâve worn the purple, halter one? No⌠it makes your hips look bigger. Maybe your hair shouldâve been pinned up? No⌠you donât want to seem old. Shit, where is he? Maybe he had an accident⌠Maybe heâs at some hospital fighting for his life⌠No. Itâs your anxiety speaking.
âGet a grip.â You mutter angrily to your reflection.
You go back to the dining room and check the phone for any notifications.
None.
You decide to call. You go straight to the voicemail.
âUm⌠Hey, baby. I was wondering if youâre heading home? I made dinner⌠itâs getting cold. And Iâm worried. JustâŚâ you sigh âCall me.â
You put the phone down on the table. It hits the glass surface a bit too hard, wincing you check for any damage, but fortunately thereâs none.
âSon of a bitchâ your voice cracks, because deep down, you know. It has been like this for months. But after this morning you really thought he feels bad. He acknowledged heâs been neglecting you. That has to mean something, right? You take a breath. Not yet. Donât give up on him yet. Heâll be back.
You sit. You wait, checking the time. 9 P.M. It happened before. He can walk through that door anytime, you believe.
By the time the clock hits ten, you open the wine. You sip the liquid staring at the food that has absolutely gone cold. The salmon seems to look and laugh at you. Like it canât believe you were that stupid to think Harry will celebrate with you.
By eleven, youâre tipsy. (Youâre drunk.)
After midnight you finally break.
âI knew it.â you let out a sob. âYou fucking idiot.â you stare at your reflection in an empty wine bottle. Some impulse makes you push it down the table, with the force you didnât expect of yourself. You watch the glass shatter on the floor, but the sound of it isnât louder than the sound of your breaking heart. You donât even mind cleaning that up. You just stand up heading towards your shared bedroom.
Itâs always the same. You wait. He fails. You cry. You⌠make peace with it.
Itâs so hard, being the one standing aside and watching as someone you care about climbs the career ladder, leaving you behind. You were once a team. What the hell happened to that?
You step into the shower hoping, hot, streaming water will wash your sorrows away. Your tears mix with the droplets. To make yourself feel even worse, you use his body wash. It makes the tears flow even harder. Sliding down the tiled wall, you curl up under the cruel stream.
By 1 A.M. you lay in your shared bed, contemplating silently about your shitty marriage. When did that happen? This question repeats in your head over and over. He wasnât like that. You, you werenât like that. You used to call him out on his bullshit, not just accept it, taking every punch of disrespect with grace.
You hug your pillow tighter. It feels so lonely here. Youâve never felt worse.
Iâll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.
Thatâs what he said. You repeat these words in your head.
Iâll finally have some freedom after closing this deal.
But now, you realize his freedom wasnât destined for you. You thought he meant heâll have time for you. Instead⌠the freedom apparently means time for other deals. Other business-related bullshit. Not you.
Never you.
When did that happen?
******************
By 2 A.M. you fell asleep, lulled by your tears and the sound of a breaking heart. Just in time not to notice a text message you got.
2:23 A.M. â Harry
Hey, love. We went out with George and Peter to celebrate closing the deal. Be home soon.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, drinking, sexual tension
word count: 7.5k
a/n: a slight trim from 8k but still a long chapter for you guys <33 i hope you enjoy it! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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It's been three days since Olivia left. Three days since you moved into the guest room.
Three days since Jack has slept more than an hour at a time.
He'd expected that he'd miss you, but he hadn't expected his body to react so viscerally to your lack of presence. Hadnât expected it to feel like something essential had been pulled out of himâlike his body didnât know how to settle without you.
It's familiar in a way he hates. The restless energy buzzing under his skin, the sharp edge of awareness, the way his mind keeps searching for something to doâsomething urgent, something loud enough to drown everything else out.
He'd caught himself earlier, halfway to the drawer where he'd hidden the police scanner, until his mind caught up to his body. He wanted to reach in, grab it, but he didn't. Because if he did, heâd go. And as long as you were hereâeven in another roomâhe wouldnât.
He'll reach for it when you're gone. Not a second before.
You've left for the guest room half an hour agoâyour room nowâafter getting ready for bed. He'd convinced you to keep your things in his bathroom, arguing that it made more sense than to move themâa weak excuse that somehow worked.
It meant that he could sit against the headboard, listen to you potter around in there and get a sweet smile from you before you eventually leave.
After that, he could creep under the covers, drag your pillow into his arms, and bury his nose deep into the fabric where your scent still lingers. Pretend for a moment that you haven't leftâthat you're still in the bathroom.
But this time the familiar scent is not there. He'd turned the pillow around, rather desperately, hopingâprayingâto find it.
He didn't.
You'd changed the sheets. Washed off the last bit of evidence he had that you'd been there. He lay back down with a thud, pillow still hugged tightly to his chest, and resigned himself to a night of no sleep.
He was wrong. It isn't a night of no sleepâit's much worse. Because when his eyes close, he's right back there.
Dry, suffocating heat sticks to his skin. Lungs burning with each breath. Sand grinds between his teeth. There's a sharp, metallic stink of fuel and blood.
Someone's bleeding.
He's pressing down, his hands slick, trying to keep it inâbegging stay with me, stay with meâbut it won't stop.
It never stops. It's one after the other. Faces blur. Voices overlap. Orders shouted over choking breaths.
He's too slow. He's always too slow.
A broken sound tears out of him. His hands twist into the sheets, knuckles straining white, fabric biting into his palms. He doesn't feel it until something pulls him up, drags him outâ
His eyes snap open to another nightmareâone that hurts in an entirely different way.
You're sitting beside him, watching him with worried but sympathetic eyes. Close but not touching him like he wishes you wouldâhe wants nothing more than to feel your warmth, even if it's just a mind's trick. His chest is still heaving, lungs refusing to settle, heart slamming hard enough it hurts. Adrenaline courses through him. He doesn't moveâcouldn't if he wanted toâso he just stares at you, waiting for the inevitable moment when you fade away again.
"You're okay," you whisper, shifting closer on the bed.
He doesn't believe it. Not when he can still feel itâthe heat, the blood, the weight of it all sitting heavy in his chest like it never left.
"You're okay," you murmur again, glancing from his face down to his hands still clutching the covers. You reach out, but stop halfway, hesitating. "Can I touch you?"
"Please," he manages, his voice cracking. He can barely breathe.
You move slowly, carefully easing the fabric out of his grip and replacing it with your hand. Your other hand comes up to his face, swiping at the tears that he hadn't even realised had fallen.
"Breathe with me," you say. You bring your intertwined hands up to your chest, resting them gently on your sternum, so he can feel the slow and steady rise of it.
He tries matching you, but it feels impossible.
You keep murmuring assurances, gentle words that he doesn't believe, but he keeps trying. His breaths come uneven at first, catching, stutteringâbut you keep at it.
He knows itâs a panic attack. Rationally, he does. But his body takes its own time to realise it. Eventually, the edges dull. The noise fades. His lungs stop fighting him.
And once he's finally able to take a full, deep breath, he realises, it isn't a dream. Your hand is warmâreal.
"Hey," you whisper, giving him a small smile.
"Hi," he says back.
You don't say more. You donât ask anything. You donât push. You just look at him, something soft in your expression, and thenâ
you pull your hand away.
The loss is immediate. He swallows, disappointment filling his aching chest. Of course. He should've known you wouldnât stay. You just came to make sure he was okay. Thatâs what good people do. People like you.
He shouldâve known better. Shouldâve known not to expect more. Men like him donât get to have things like this. Not with everything he carries. Not with everything heâs failed to carry. Not withâ
The mattress dips beside him. You donât say anything as you slip under the covers beside him. Your face tucks into the space between his shoulder and chest, your arm draping over his stomach.
He doesnât move at first, then his arm comes up. Careful. Hesitant. It wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer into him. His nose dips into your hair, and he takes another deep breath. Finally breathing you in. His eyes close again, his grip tightening just slightly around you, afraid youâll disappear if he loosens it.
And for the first time in three nights, he sleeps properly.
Jack wakes slowly. His shoulders loosened, breathing calm, and his head not aching for once. He breathes in quietly, searching for your soft breath in the room. It's quiet.
Too quiet.
Heart slowly sinking, he keeps his eyes closed as he reaches across the mattress, searching for your body. Not wanting to see just yet. Not wanting to confirm it.
His fingers only brush against cold sheets.
Jack sighs, cold realisation hitting him. He keeps his eyes closed for another second before he reluctantly opens them to face the truth.
You've left. Of course you have.
And judging by the coldness, it must have been sooner rather than later. Probably right after he fell asleep.
With another harsh exhale, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Building up the nerve to go act like it doesn't mean anything, that his heart isn't fracturing, trying to keep up this pretence.
Then the door creaks open, your foot nudging it as your elbow releases the handle. In your hands, you hold a tray with plates and mugs clinking as you step inside.
"Nooo," you pout when you see he's awake. "I was supposed to wake you up with breakfast in bed." You lift the tray, staring at it dejectedly. "I even made you coffee," you add.
Jack blinks at you, trying to make sense of the situation. Had you slept there the whole night, after all?
"Lay back down," you demand, cutting through his thought process.
"Really?" His voice is hoarse from surprise and sleep, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Amusement flickers through the haze of disappointment.
"Yes!"
And because he can't resist you, he does as he's told, his eyes closing again. He hears the tray set down next to him, his book hitting the floorâhe bites back a comment.
"Okay, you can wake up now," you say.
Jack doesn't move.
"Ja-ack," you exaggerate, poking his arm. He doesn't budge. "Come on," you push at his arm, your voice growing closer as your face nears his.
"I'm sleeping," he murmurs, his mouth curling despite his attempt to control his grin.
"Funny," you deadpan. " Come on, wake up. Wake up. Wake up." You poke, push and prod with each word. "Wake uâ" he cuts you off this time, his hands wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into the bed. In a smooth roll, he pins you lightly beneath him, leaning on one arm to avoid crushing you, the other draped across your frame to hold you in place.
Your mouth stays open, but no words leave this time.
"I thought you were taught bedside manners in med school," he says. "Looks like I was expecting too much."
He can see your eyes widening, how your breathing turns shaky. He has to stop himself from leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. He drags in a breath and forces himself to keep still.
He doesn't have the chance to act, even if he wanted to, because your head turns, soft lips brushing his ear seconds later.
"What? Something more likeâ" your voice turns breathy, sweet, and downright sultry. "Good morning, Jack. Your sweet, sweet wife made you breakfast."
He knows you're teasing him, but that is actually what he wants. What he wishes for every day.
But he can't show you that, so he rolls back, shrugging. "Something like that, yeah."
You grin, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "I'll remember that. Now," you gesture to the tray, "eat before it gets cold."
"Yes, ma'am." Jack reaches over, giving you one of the mugs and taking the other himself. He takes a small sip of the dark liquid.
You've been watching him carefully, your brows knitting as he swallows. "It's not good, is it?"
He tries his best to hide the instinctive grimace that comes from drinking watery coffee, murmuring, "No, it's⌠It's good."
The lie flops immediately. Especially when you take a sip yourself. "It's horrible." You pout again, something Jack really wishes you would stop doing. It keeps drawing his attention to your lips.
"It's the effort that counts," he says.
"I don't want your pity," you say.
"Heyâthe offer to teach you still stands."
"Hmm, nah," you say, shaking your head, a slight smile on your lips. "I'll just let that be your thing."
Jack tilts his head, thinking. "Did you make it bad on purpose?"
"What?" He can see you considering how to answer, knowing that he'd placed a trapâthat either answer is bad.
You settle on, "Shut up and eat," instead.
Jack grins, watching you over the rim of his mug.
You'd seen the worst of him, and still you'd come back. He wants to believe that means something.
The shift is progressing much better than the last few ones, despite the cases being nearly the same. The difference is in youâyawning less, not fighting so hard to stay awake.
Just one night of sleeping with Jack again apparently makes up for days of fractured sleep. The bed in the guest room isn't as niceâit's what you tried to convince yourself at firstâbut deep inside, you know it's really about not sleeping with Jack. Itâs unsettling how quickly your body has gotten used to itâhow much worse everything feels without it.
Tonight you're still tired, but significantly less so.
"Here." A cup lands on the desk next to you as Lily leans against the counter. "I finally give inâcome to the 'dark side' or whatever you call itâ" she grins, "and then you're too tired to even notice."
"No, ughâI'm the worst," you groan. "I'm so happy you're here. You're one of the few nurses I've managed to convince."
"Donât you mean the only one?" Lily tilts her head, red ponytail slipping over her shoulder as her eyes narrow playfully. Thereâs a grin tugging at her lips, the kind that says she already knows the answer.
"Give it time. My charm is a slow burn."
"Mm-hmm. Or a complete myth," she says, nudging your shoulder lightly.
Lilyâs been here as long as you haveâlong enough that you canât quite remember any shifts without her. Sheâs the kind of person who somehow looks put together even after twelve-hour shifts, her scrubs never wrinkled, her smile never fully fading. When everything feels dark, sheâs the one who brightens it.
And somehowâmiraculouslyâsheâs also figured out how to make the break room coffee taste like something other than regret.
"Seriously though," she adds, softer now, studying your face. "You look exhausted. Like⌠more than usual exhausted."
"Iâve just slept like shit the last few days," you admit, shrugging one shoulder.
"Uh-huh," someone mutters in passing. You donât even have to look to know itâs Parker, but you do anyway. Sheâs halfway past the nursesâ station, tablet in hand, already moving like sheâs got somewhere better to be.
"Whatâs that supposed to mean?" you call after her, because you absolutely cannot let it goâeven though experience tells you thatâs a mistake.
Parker stops, glancing at you, unimpressed. "You've slept 'shitty'," she repeats flatly.
"Yes?"
She hums, glancing between you and Lily, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. "Thatâs just funny."
You sigh, regretting this conversation even more. "Why?"
"So has Abbot."
"So what?"
Parkerâs mouth curves, just barely. "Itâs just funny that two newlyweds both show up to work tired." Thereâs just enough pause after it for the implication to settle.
"Oh myâ" Lilyâs eyes go wide, and she physically leans closer to you, her voice dropping into a whisper that is not quiet at all. "Are you trying?"
"What? No!" you choke, nearly spilling your coffee as you whip toward Parker. "Stop making up rumours!"
But Parkerâs already turned back to Lily, completely ignoring your protest. "Iâve got twenty on it happening this year," she says, like sheâs placing a perfectly reasonable bet. "You in?"
"Oh, Iâm absolutely in," Lily replies instantly, all delight and zero hesitation. "Thirty on it happening in three monthsâand them pretending it didnât until itâs too obvious to hide."
"Guys," you groan, dragging both hands down your face this time. "Guys, pleaseâ"
Theyâre already walking away, laughing like this is the best thing thatâs happened all shift.
You stare after them, equal parts horrified and exhausted. "âŚI hate both of you," you mutter, even though theyâre long gone.
But you know the night shift's noticed. The way you lean in more, flirt a little easierâjust trying to take Oliviaâs advice, even if youâre doing it far more subtly than she'd like you to.
Still, you didnât think that, combined with a few bad nights of sleep, would be enough to start a bet.
At around four in the morning, there's a lull in patients, the waiting room empty for once. Unlike others, who are taking the time to catch some Z's, youâre using it to catch up on your charts.
Youâre mid-sentence when a body drops heavily into the chair beside you. "Ugh."
"Hmm?" You barely glance over, fingers still moving across the keyboard, though slower now.
"Iâm gonna have to file a harassment claim by the end of the night if this keeps going," Shen says, dragging a hand down his face.
That gets your attention. "A patient?"
"No." He shakes his head immediately, expression souring. "Worse."
You already have a feeling. Your eyes flick instinctively down the hallâand just in time to see Smith slip through the doors of one of the rooms. "Don't tell me it'sâ"
He grimaces, nodding. "Uh-huh."
You lean back with a quiet exhale, rubbing your temple. "Damn. I told her to drop that."
"Who?" a new voice cuts in. Jack's shadow falls across the counter a second before he leans over it, his eyes moving between you and Shen.
"Smith," Shen mutters. "She hasnât crossed a line yet, but sheâs right on the edge."
Jackâs expression tightens slightly, his easy demeanour sharpening into something more focused. "Has she done it to anyone else?"
"Not that I know of," Shen says, shaking his head. "Just me."
Jack nods once, adding almost like an afterthought, "So you and me."
Your spine straightens instantly. Shenâs head snaps toward Jack, eyes wide, then flicks to you like heâs suddenly very aware heâs in the blast radius of something.
You turn fully in your chair, staring up at Jack. "She hit on you?"
Jack blinks, like he hadnât quite anticipated the reaction. "Yes."
"When?"
"When you wereâ" he gestures vaguely toward your midsection, searching for the least awkward phrasing, "âŚI turned her down."
Your brows knit tighter. "Why didnât you tell me?" It comes out sharper than you mean it to.
"Uh oh," Shen mutters under his breath, already pushing himself upright. "I have a patient in South 19âI gotta go."
Neither of you stops him. He disappears fast.
Jack exhales quietly and moves around the counter, stepping into your space instead of staying on the other side. He leans back against the edge beside you, closer now, his voice softer.
"Hey," he says. "Iâm sorry. I didnât really think about it at the time. I was more worried about you that day, and then it just⌠slipped my mind."
You worry your bottom lip, gaze dropping briefly to the desk as you turn that over.
"Still," he adds quickly, watching your face, "I shouldâve told you. Iâm sorry." He pauses, then asks, "Are you mad?"
You look up at him thenâtaking in the tension in his shoulders, the way heâs trying not to make a big deal out of it but clearly cares about the answer.
After a second, you shake your head. "No. Not at you."
Some of the tightness leaves him immediately, subtle but still noticeable.
"Iâm mad at her," you continue, turning back toward your screen, though youâre not really reading it anymore.
Jack shifts beside you, thinking. "Iâm going to write her up."
You glance at him again, surprised. "You are?"
"Thatâs two attendings now," he says evenly. "And thereâs also the shit she pulled with you." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Hopefully itâs a reality check."
"And if itâs not?" you ask.
A hint of something dry creeps back into his expression. "Then Iâll have her moved back to days."
You raise a brow.
"Make her Robbyâs problem," he finishes.
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, cutting through the lingering irritation. "Wow. Harsh."
"Heâll survive," Jack says lightly, completely unapologetic.
You study him for a moment, something softer settling in your chest now. "âŚThanks," you say.
He shrugs, like itâs nothing, pushing off the counter slightly. "Itâs my job as your attending to take care of you."
He says it lightly. It doesnât feel light. Doesn't quite match the way heâs looking at you.
"Hey," you say, catching Parker just as sheâs finishing up, the early signs of shift change rippling through the department. "Wanna go out soon?"
Her head snaps up so fast itâs almost comical. "Uh, yes?" she says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "Iâve been waiting for you to ask."
A small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. "Good."
You mean it more than she realises. You need itâsomething loud, something distracting, something that isnât this constant low simmer in your chest. Every time you catch a glimpse of Smith moving through the department, laughing too easily, standing a little too close to people, it tightens again.
Itâs not about Jack. Not really. You trust him. Itâs the audacity of it that gets under your skin. The fact that she knew. That she looked at him, at the ring, at youâand still decided to try anyway. Fake marriage or not, it irks you.
"Can I come too?" Lily calls as she passes behind you, halfway to the supply room, but clearly listening in.
"Of course," you say easily.
"Yay!" she grins, then, without missing a beat, she turns slightly. "Hey⌠you coming?" You follow her line of sightâand your stomach sinks.
Smith.
Sheâs just stepped up to the board, pausing mid-motion as she blinks at Lily, clearly caught off guard. "Uh⌠me?" she asks, pointing lightly to herself.
"Yeah!" Lily grins, completely oblivious to the undercurrent running through the rest of you. "Come hang out with us."
Thereâs a split second where Smith hesitates. "Uh⌠sure," she says finally.
"Great," you reply, the word coming out smoother than it feels. You glance at Parker, and the look you share says enough.
Great. Just great.
"Uhâletâs invite day shift too," you add quickly, already stepping back, reaching for a pen you donât need. "Make it a whole thing."
Bigger group. More noise. Less chance of being forced to interact.
"Yeah, yeah, good idea," Parker murmurs, catching on instantly.
As you start to move away, Parker falls into step beside you just long enough to mutter under her breath, "Iâll tell Lily whatâs going on."
You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. "Thanks," you murmur back.
"Hi!" Lily beams the second she steps through the door, her voice already carrying that bright, slightly-too-loud energy of someone ready for a night out.
Warm light spills from the living room into the hallway, soft music humming in the background. The place already feels lived-in for the night: shoes kicked off near the entry, jackets draped over chairs, laughter drifting in from deeper inside.
"Come in, come in," you say, stepping back to let her through, one hand gesturing her inside while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Jackâs just leaving."
Right on cue, he appears from the hallway, shrugging into his jacket, keys already in hand. He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does at workâsleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. He nods at her.
"Hey," Lily says, her eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate interest.
"Call me if thereâs anything," Jack says to you, like he hasnât already said it twice. He'd offered the house for you guys to get ready together, something the other girls had squealed atâmore than just a little excited to see "your" place. It's just a few of you pregaming, the rest meeting you later. "And take an Uber to the bar."
"Itâs a ten-minute walk," you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms. "Iâm not wasting my money on that."
Jack exhales, slow and long, like he saw that coming. "Hand me your phone."
You donât even hesitate, though your eyes narrow as you pass it over. "What are you doing?"
"Saving you from yourself," he mutters, already unlocking it, password memorised. His thumbs move quickly, tapping through screens easily.
You lean slightly, trying to peek. "Jackâ"
"Relax," he says, not even looking up. "Iâm not reading your messages."
"Wow, thank you for that bare minimum reassurance."
He huffs a quiet laugh, then hands the phone back. "My cardâs on there. Take an Uber."
You glance at the screen, then back at him, sighing. "âŚAlright."
He studies you for a second, like heâs deciding whether to argue further, then seems to accept the win. His hand comes up, settling briefly at your waist as he pulls you a step closer. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Iâll see you later, honey."
The door clicks shut behind him, and there is exactly one second of silence. Thenâ
A high-pitched squeal cuts through the hallway. "Oh my god, you two are disgusting," Lily breathes, clutching her chest.
You roll your eyes, but youâre already laughing, shaking your head as you take Lily by the arm and guide her further inside. "You're just jealous."
"Am not," Lily says immediately, though her grin says otherwise. Her eyes are already darting around, taking everything in. "Alsoâwow."
She steps fully into the living room, turning slowly like sheâs trying to catalogue the entire place at once. "Okay," Lily says, wandering a few steps farther in. "This is so nice."
"Right?" Trinity chimes in from near the hallway, already halfway through opening a door before you even notice. "Iâm just gonnaâ"
"Trinâ" you start.
Too late. She peeks inside anyway. "Bathroom. Boring," she announces, closing it and immediately moving to the next.
"You guys are unbelievable," you mutter, though thereâs no real heat behind it.
"Wait, is this your room?" Trinity asks.
"No," you say quickly. "Trinityâ"
"Iâm just looking!" she insists, disappearing down the hall anyway.
Lily drifts toward a bookshelf, tilting her head as she scans the spines. Mel perches carefully on the very edge of the couch, like sheâs still not entirely sure sheâs allowed to take up space thereâbut sheâs trying. Thereâs a small smile on her face as she watches the rest of you bicker and move around each other, something soft and a little uncertain, like sheâs easing into the rhythm of it. You're not sure how Trinity managed to convince her to come out with youâbut you're so happy she did. You like Mel.
From the kitchen, ice clinks against glass. "Come get your drinks," Parker calls.
You make your way over, leaning against the counter as she hands you a glass. Behind you, Trinityâs voice echoes from down the hall, "Oh my god, your closet is so organised, itâs actually stressful."
"Donât touch anything!" you call back.
"Iâm not touchingâIâm just looking!"
"Same thing!"
Lily appears beside you again, still grinning. "No, really, you guys are so cute," she says, nudging your arm. "Iâve seen you two at shift change, but never like that."
"Like what?" you ask, taking a sip.
"Domestic," she says immediately. "Itâs weird. In a good way. But alsoâ" she scrunches her nose, "âbarf."
"Theyâre barf material," Trinity yells from the hallway, doubling down. Mel grins over the rim of her glass.
You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, the earlier tension finally loosening its grip.
"Ohâwait," Lily suddenly says, her whole expression shifting as something clicks. She turns to you, eyes wide. "Iâm so sorry about inviting Smith, I didnât knowâ"
"Itâs fine," you cut in easily, waving a hand like itâs nothing. And you mean it. She couldn't have known. "Seriously. Donât worry about it."
Parker snorts, not even looking up as she pours another drink. "Yeah, weâll just make sure she sees exactly who sheâs dealing with tonight."
"Ooh yes. Here's to dressing slutty," Trinity adds, sliding up to the table and grabbing a drink.
Lily raises her glass, grinning. "And to making Abbot incapable of coherent thought."
You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch anyway as glasses clink together around you.
Oliviaâs words echo in your mind: Flirt more. Try harder. See what happens. You have⌠kind of. But nothing bold. Nothing risky.
Tonight? Tonight youâre going to push it. And if it blows upâthereâs alcohol, witnesses, plausible deniability.
The house descends into chaos, music playing just loud enough to keep the energy up without drowning conversation. Empty glasses and half-finished drinks cluttered the coffee table.
Trinity has taken over the couch like she owns it, legs tucked under her, talking fast and loud about something that had happened earlier as she draws a sharp cat eye. Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, halfway through curling her hair, pausing every few seconds to laugh. Parker hovers near the kitchen, topping up everyoneâs drinks whether they ask or not. Mel lingers just at the edge of everything, but sheâs smiling more now, shoulders less tense. Every now and then, someone pulls her into the conversation, and her laughter blends softly with the rest.
"Can I do your makeup?" you ask once you're finished with your own.
She blinks, caught off guard. "Whoâwho, me?"
You nod, already shifting closer. "We can do something simple⌠or we can go all out. Your choice."
"Um⌠well," she glances back at Trinity. "Could we do that?"
"A cat eye?" you light up. "Yes. Absolutely."
You're sitting in front of her now, steadying her chin, carefully dragging eyeliner across her lid.
Behind you, Trinity leans back into the couch cushions, watching. "Iâm doing her hair next," she declares.
You finish Melâs eyeliner, leaning back to assess your work. "Okay. Now donât touch it."
Mel turns toward the mirror, and her expression shifts. "Oh⌠wow."
"Okay," Trinity cuts in, pointing at you as she grabs the curling iron. "Your turn. Go change. We need to see the look."
You grab your drink off the table, taking a quick sip before heading toward the bedroom.
"I'll come with you," Parker says. "Make sure you don't choose something boring."
The bedroom is quieter, the living room muffled behind the door. Parker perches on the bed, watching as you pull options from the closet. "No." You hold up another. "No." Another. "Absolutely not. What is that?"
"Youâre so picky," you mutter.
"Sit," she orders, pointing at the spot she just left.
You roll your eyesâbut sit. Parker is already on her feet, rifling through your closet, pushing hangers aside. She pauses, then slowly pulls a dress out.
Black. Fitted in all the right places, but still soft. Short. "This one," she says, turning to youâand the look she gives you makes it very clear this is not a discussion. "Abbot will have a heart attack."
You raise a browâbut youâre already reaching for it. You donât bother turning away as you change. Parker doesnât even blink, just leans back on her hands, completely unfazed. Your first year of residency together killed any sense of modesty between you.
"Girl, if you weren't married, I'd tap that," Parker says with a smirk. "If Abbot ever fucks things up, you'll always have me."
You laugh, loud and unfiltered. "I'll keep that in mind." You grab your drink again, finishing whatâs left in one go, the warmth settling low in your chest.
"Alright," you say, turning toward the door, a spark of something sharper and bolder settling in as the fabric shifts against your body. "Letâs do shots before we leave."
Parker grins, already pushing off the bed. "Now youâre talking."
You spill out of the Uber in a tangle of laughter, Lily gripping your arm as she nearly misses the curb entirely. The air hits cool against your skin, grounding but not nearly enough to dull the soft buzz humming through you. Even Mel looks a little looser around the edges now.
Inside, the bar is already alive. Trinity pushes ahead, dragging Parker with her toward the bar. Lily stays close to you, fingers hooked loosely in your arm so you donât get separated, while Mel lingers just behind, taking it all in.
Your eyes are searching the crowd, but it doesn't take long to find him. Jack's at the bar with other night shift people, leaning back against the counter. He looks relaxed, posture loosened by alcohol, but his eyes keep flicking toward the door.
Even half-hidden behind the others, he sees you. His mouth curves immediately in response. The group converges, greetings overlapping, orders being shouted toward the bartenderâbut it all blurs a little as you step closer to him.
"Hi," you say. You donât overthink itâyou just lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. His reaction is immediate, his hand finding your waist, steady and warm. "Oops," you murmur, swiping your thumb lightly over his cheek. "Lipstick."
Jack doesn't seem to mind. He's watching you. You can see his eyes move, taking you in properly. From your face, down the line of your neck, over the dress⌠lingering just a second too long at the hem.
The reaction hits you instantlyâa warm, electric rush settling low. You grin, leaning back to give him more space to look. "Do you like it?"
He hums, head tilting. "Can't really see it, sweetheart."
Your smile sharpens. "Oh?" you murmur, sliding your fingers into his. You lift his hand, spinning beneath it. The dress shifts against your thighs. "How about now?"
His grip tightens slightly when you come back to him. His gaze burns dark. "You lookâŚ" he starts, then pauses, swallowing once. "You look gorgeous."
Thereâs something in the way he says itâsomething quieter and more real than you'd imagined. For a second, you just hold his gaze, letting that settle between you, then your smile softens, something genuine slipping through the teasing. "Thank you."
You close the space again without thinking, your body angling naturally into his. His hand adjusts at your waist, pulling you in just a little closer.
Before you can say anything else, the music shifts. Trinity lights up instantly. "Oh, this is my song," she announces, already grabbing Lily.
"Waitânoâ" Lily protests, laughing as sheâs dragged away anyway.
Parker doesnât even hesitate. "Weâre going," she says, pointing at you and Mel like thereâs no alternative.
Mel hesitates, clearly unsure. "I donâtâ"
"You do now," Parker calls, already moving. Mel looks at you like sheâs not entirely convinced, but she turns anyway.
You glance back at Jack, one brow lifting slightly. "Wanna come dance?"
"I don't dance, sweetheart," he answers.
You hum, leaning in just a little closer, your fingers brushing lightly along the front of his shirt. "Thatâs a shame," you murmur. Your gaze flicks up to his. "I think youâd be good at it."
His hand tightens at your waist. "Yeah?" he says, his voice lower now.
"Mm," you hum, lips curving slightly, a little more confident now, alcohol heightening the feeling that it might not be just you feeling this way. You mightâve said moreâleaned in just a little further, pushed it one step further past safeâ
âbut Parkerâs hand closes around your arm, pulling you with her before you can. And just like that, youâre gone into the crowdâthough you can still feel the imprint of his hand where it was, and the weight of his gaze lingering long after.
The dance floor is packed, bodies moving close, lights flashing in uneven bursts. Trinity is fully in her elementâhands in the air, singing along to every word, whether she knows them or not. Parkerâs matching her energy, spinning Lily into her until theyâre both laughing too hard to keep rhythm.
Mel hovers at first, then slowly loosens, shoulders relaxing, a small smile turning into something more real as she lets herself move. You fall into it easily enoughâthe music, the drinks, the way the night feels like itâs building toward something. Every now and then, you catch glimpses of the bar, half-looking for him without meaning to.
Time blurs a little after thatâsongs bleeding into each other, drinks appearing and disappearing, the group shifting and reforming as people wander and come back.
Eventually, the heat of the dance floor gets to be too much, so you slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. "Water, please," you say, sliding onto one of the high chairs. The bartender nods, and a second later, youâve got a cold glass in your hand. You take a long sip, closing your eyes for just a second.
God, thatâs better.
Youâre just starting to settle, letting the room sway lightly around you, when a voice cuts in beside you. "Heyâ"
You donât turn right away. A man leans against the bar next to you anyway, shaggy-haired, smirking. "I saw you out there," he says, nodding toward the dance floor. "You looked good."
"Thanks," you answer, your voice cool, eyes forward, sipping again. Letting him know youâre not interested.
He doesnât take the hint. "Iâm Trent," he goes on, shifting closer like that alone will make this work. "Youâve got some moves, but I think we could make some great moves togetherâif you know what I mean."
You let out a soft, unimpressed breath. "Iâm married," you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light.
He hesitates for only a heartbeat before smirking like he thinks he can charm it away. "He doesnât have to know."
Your expression shifts, irritation flickering sharper now. You finally turn your head fully, meeting his gaze.
He mistakes it instantly for interest and leans in just a little more.
"I'm not interested," you say flatly.
"Come on," he presses, his voice dropping like thatâs supposed to help. "Your husband canât please you like Iâ"
"You sure about that?" Jackâs voice cuts through like a blade. You feel him before you see himâsolid at your back, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest. The shift is immediate.
Trent straightens, the confidence cracking just slightly as he looks past you. Gone is the easy, relaxed lean from earlier. Now heâs all sharp lines and tensionâshoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on Trent.
"Fuck off," Jack says, voice quiet but edged. "And leave my wife alone."
Trent looks like he might argue for half a secondâego flaringâbut then he really looks at Jack. At the way heâs standing. The way his gaze doesnât waver. The kind of anger that doesnât need volume to be threatening. It drains out of him just as fast. "Yeahâyeah, man, whatever," he mutters, backing off, hands half-raised like he wants no part of it anymore. He disappears into the crowd.
Jack doesnât move until heâs gone. "Asshole," he murmurs, then he turns to you. His hands land on your hips, spinning your chair so youâre facing him fully. "You okay?" he asks. His voice is still lowâbut different now. Still tight, but threaded with something protective.
You look up at him. At the tension still lingering in his jaw. The way his eyes flick over you like heâs making sure youâre actually fine. Your breath stutters just slightly as heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you canât fully control. You feel it everywhereâwarm, electric, pooling low, your pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.
Youâre hyper-aware of him: the brush of his hands on your hips, the nearness of his chest, the tension still coiled in his body, ready to snap at a momentâs notice. Your eyes betray youâyou know it. They darken, deepen, and when your gaze meets his, you see it reflected back.
"Mm," you hum softly.
Jack watches you for a second longer, like he's clocking the shift in you, before he exhales lightly. "Come join us at the pool table."
He doesnât pause for your answer. His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with a possessiveness that makes your stomach flutter. He keeps you close as he guides you through the crowd, and the heat in your chest only grows.
The pool area is quieter. Enough space to breathe, enough light to actually see what youâre doing. Shenâs already there, lining up a shot with calm precision, like the chaos of the bar doesnât touch him at all.
"You play?" he asks without looking up.
"Define play," you reply, grabbing a cue from the rack. Truthfully, you donât care about the gameânot with Jack this close.
You lean over the table, more focused on the way your dress shifts against your thighs than the shot.
You hit. The cue ball goes entirely the wrong direction. "Damn," you say, pretending to be disappointed.
"Sweetheart." Jackâs voice comes from behind you, closer than before, threaded with amusement. "What was that?"
You glance over your shoulder, lips already pulling into a small pout. "I donât know how to do it."
His eyes flick to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Shen sinks his shot cleanly in the background.
You step forward again when itâs your turn, deliberately setting up another questionable shot. Thereâs a small pause, thenâ
"Here," Jack says, a little quieter now. "Let me help you." He steps in behind you before you can move. Close enough that you feel the heat of him before anything elseâhis presence slotting in naturally. His hand slides over yours on the cue, the other settling at your waist.
"Not like that," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "Youâre fighting it."
You inhale a little sharper than you mean to.
"Loosen this," he adds, thumb pressing lightly against your fingers. His mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you feel the shape of the words more than hear them. "Yeah," he says softly. "Like that."
For a second, the rest of the room fadesâthe noise, the game, Shen waiting patiently at the edge of it.
"Take it," he murmurs. You do. The ball sinks cleanly this time.
He steps back again. You straighten, turning toward him. Heâs already looking at you. Thereâs something hotter there now. Something that matches exactly whatâs been burning under your skin all night.
It hits you all at once, sharp and unmistakable. Oh.
This isnât one-sided. This isnât you imagining things or pushing boundaries just to see what happens.
Heâs⌠there with you. Meeting it. Responding. Wanting it.
You don't win the game, but it doesn't really matter. You barely register the score. Because every time you step up to the table after that, you can feel his eyes on youâand every time he steps in again, a little closer, a little bolderâit has nothing to do with pool anymore.
It actually feels possible nowâand that changes everything.
Shenâs convinced Bridget to play him after absolutely destroying you. You linger off to the side with Lily and Jack, half-listening as they laugh about something, half-watching the game. You're mostly focused on how his thumb keeps stroking softly against your hip bone.
"Iâm gonna go pee," you murmur into Jack's ear, your lips brushing just enough to feel the warmth of his skin before you slip away. He lets you go, but his hand lingers for half a second at your waist.
"I'll be at the bar," he responds, smiling at you with half-lidded eyes.
The second youâre in the bathroom, door locked behind you, you exhale hardâthen immediately press a hand to your mouth, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out anyway.
"Okayâokay," you whisper to yourself, pacing once in the tiny stall. Your head is lightâspinning, but not in a bad way. The alcohol sitting just right in your system, softening your edges, quieting the part of you that usually overthinks everything. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, but the grin keeps pulling back. "Jesus," you breathe, shaking your head.
Youâre just about to step out when you hear it. A voice, sweet and slightly high-pitched, carrying just loud enough for you to catch the words over the music. "Has Abbot done this before? Been with other residents? Do you think I still have a chance?"
Your body stills instantly. Smith. You'd completely forgotten that she was here. The other girl answers, uncertain, but it barely registers over the rush in your ears.
"I just donât really see how they fit," Smith continues, giggling softly. "I mean, Iâve never seen them kiss or be really affectionate with each other."
Something in you snaps. A sharp, sudden possessiveness that cuts clean through the haze of alcohol and lands hard in your chest.
By the time the door swings shut behind them, youâre already walking. You donât even fully think it through. You just move.
You find him easily, leaning against the bar, talking to Jesse and Donnie. Stepping close, your hand finds his arm, fingers curling into him. "Hey," you murmur.
He glances at you, turning his attention fully to you as he senses the shift in your energy.
You don't give him time to ask. You just lean in. This time it isnât a quick, calculated peck. Itâs not something you can pass off or laugh away.
Itâs immediateâsharp and demanding. Your lips press to his with a purpose you canât deny. Your other hand comes up to his shoulder, to his neck, pulling him closer, claiming him.
His reaction is just as instinctive. He cups your waist, tilts you slightly, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He exhales softly against your mouth before his tongue skims your lower lip. The world around you drops away until thereâs only this. Only the two of you, lost in the heat and closeness thatâs been simmering all night. The alcohol doesnât dull itâit amplifies it. Makes you bolder, less restrained, and less willing to pull back.
As you break apart just slightly, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, barely audible over the pulse of the bar, "Sorry," you breathe. "Needed to⌠shut something down."
Jack doesnât answer right away. His hand is still firm at your waist, thumb resting just where the fabric meets your skin. Not pulling away. Not loosening.
You expect a smirk. A joke. Something that minimises the heat. Instead, when you finally lift your eyes to hisâ heâs looking at you. Focused. Pupils blown.
His gaze drops to your mouth, like heâs replaying it, then back to your eyes.
"Yeah?" he says quietly, but he doesnât move back. He doesnât create distance like it was just a moment, just another cover-up. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, like he's keeping you right where you are. Thereâs the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when you don't answer.
"Right," he murmurs, softer this time. But the way he says itâthe look he gives youâdoesnât suggest he buys it. Not entirely. He looks at you like he's considering doing it again.
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Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, embarrassment (bleeding through), robby and olivia being menace's, drinking
word count: 7.1k
a/n: a slightly longer chapter for you <33 this might be one of my favourite chapters! i hope you enjoy it just as much! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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You wake up before the alarm goes off.
For a moment, you lie there, blinking up at the dark ceiling, trying to figure out why your body dragged you out of sleep. Then you feel it as you shiftâthat awful, unmistakable sticky warmth beneath you. The sensation only gets worse as you shift again, growing cold now where air hits it.
Fuck.
You push yourself upright slowly, trying not to move too much, but the damage is already done. You don't even have to look to know what you'll see.
You glance over at Jack, who is, thankfully, still asleep beside you. He has one arm tucked under his pillow, the other nestled on your hip. It slowly falls to the bed as you get up. He makes a sound at the loss of your warmth, but his breathing stays slow and even.
You slowly stand, mind racing as you stare at the bed. Maybe it's not that badâbut the second you lift the blanket, the dark stain laughs you right in the face. It's not huge, but it's still very noticeable.
It's fucking embarrassing. Your throat tightens. "God, I'm so stupid," you mutter under your breath, voice shaky. "I should've set an alarm⌠Should'veâFuck!" You should've known better. Should've never fallen asleep on his chest yesterday, only to be awoken gently, so you could brush your teeth. And in that soft space, with eyes blearily blinking, you'd forgotten that the second day always hit you with a vengeance.
And here's the evidence of your stupidity.
Panic buzzes through your body as you start pulling at the sheets. You need to get them off before Jack wakes up. You pull at the corner in an anxious haze, not once stopping to consider how you'll succeed with him still sleeping on them.
You just know you need to throw them in the wash before he sees how disgusting you are.
The mattress shifts, and Jack inhales sharply. His eyes blink open, and before you can even react, he's pushing himself up. He takes a glance at your panic-stricken face and immediately jumps into action, hand reaching for his prosthetic. He grabs it with practised ease, movements quick even while half-awake.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice still tinged rough with sleep. He stands up, crossing the space between you.
You step back, hands still tugging at the sheets. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," you blurt immediately, tugging harder. "I should've known betterâ" The fitted corner flies free.
"Heyâhey, slow down," Jack says, reaching out to try and grab the bedding from your hands. You jerk away instinctively, avoiding his gaze. The sheets slide across the mattress, and for a split second, the stain is completely visible. There's no question whether Jack saw. You know he did.
"I'll clean it," you rush out, voice cracking in humiliation. "Or buy new sheets. I know it's disgustingâI'll just get you new ones." You keep pulling at it like if you move fast enough, the moment will disappear, and you can forget it ever happened.
Jack doesn't say anything, he just⌠stops. He watches you for a second, brows knitting together. He approaches you slowly, trying to make sure you won't move away again.
"I don't care about the sheets, sweetheart," he says gently. "I care about you crying over it."
Jack steps closer, his hands catch the edge of the sheet, trying to ease it out of your hands. You grip it tighter, and he lets it fall again. His hands reach for your wrists instead, fingers wrapping around them softly.
"Hey," he murmurs, head tilting towards yours.
You finally stop and look up at him. Your face is crumpled, eyes glassy, embarrassment written all over you.
Jack locks his gaze with yours. "Sweetheart," he says quietly, thumbs brushing lightly over your wrists. "I'm not mad. I couldn't care less about it, in fact. You're not disgusting. This shit happens."
You mull over his words, lip caught in between your teeth. "I'm sorry," you whisper anyway. "I'll get the stain out, I swear!"
Jack exhales softly. "I'll take care of it."
You immediately shake your head. "Noâ"
"You," he interrupts, nodding towards the bathroom, "are going to take a long, hot shower." He moves his hands from your wrists, carefully extracting the sheets from your grip. "We'll throw your clothes in another load after."
Your hands keep hovering in the air. "But what about the stain?" you protest, though more weakly now than you did at first.
Jack pauses and looks back at you like this might be the most ridiculous concern in the world. "Did you forget I'm an ER doctor?" He lifts the bundle of sheets lightly. "I know how to get blood out of fabric."
Your shoulders finally sag. He's not mad. He doesn't think you're disgusting.
Had you been thinking rationally, you might have told yourself this. That Jack isn't like the men you'd known before.
Jack nods toward the bathroom again, his voice softening. "Go on," he says. "I've got this."
The shower helps, the hot water loosening the tight knot that's been sitting in your chest since you woke up. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror and curling around your shoulders while you stand under the spray longer than you probably need to.
When you step out, wrapped in a towel, you can hear Jack moving around quietly. Cabinets opening, dishes clinking against the counter, and the low hum of the coffee machine. Your chest tightens again, embarrassment creeping back in as you get dressed.
By the time you make your way into the kitchen, hair still damp and sweater sleeves pulled halfway over your hands, Jack's already sitting at the table with a cup. He looks up immediately at the sound of your footsteps.
There's a plate in front of your usual chair and a steaming mug beside it. He nudges the plate a little closer as you sit.
"Eat," he says simply, no hint of teasing in his voice about earlier. "It's full of iron." His gaze flicks to your face like he wants to say something else, then he thinks better of it.
Your fingers curl around the warm mug automatically. "Thank you," you mutter, staring down at the plate. You still don't understand why he's being so nice to you when you'd just ruined his morning.
The shame is still there, pulsing hot and stubborn under your skin. "I'mâ"
Jack points at you immediately with the fork heâs holding. "Donât say it."
You blink, brows furrowing.
He continues, "You have nothing to be sorry about."
Your mouth opens, anyway. "Iâ"
"Ah," he chides softly, eyebrows lifting in warning.
You make a small, frustrated hmph in the back of your throat, but shut your mouth. He watches for another second like he's making sure you'll behave, then takes a slurp of his coffee.
The silence that follows isn't awkward like you thought it would beâit's comfortable, the slight crinkle of the newspaper as he turns a page, the clink of a fork against a plate, and the soft slurp of coffee. It's normal.
You're halfway through the plate of food, shame almost dwindled to nothing, when there's a knock at the door.
Jack glances up, like he's been expecting it. "I'll get it."
You hear the door open, muffled voices in the hallway, then the rustle of cardboard. When he comes back into the kitchen, he's carrying two packages, one larger than the other.
"What's that?"
Jack sets them down on the table with a small thump. "Well," he says casually, gesturing toward them, "why don't you open them and see for yourself?"
You eye the boxes suspiciously before reaching for the smaller one first. You stick your knife in, slicing the tape open. Inside is a soft grey heating pad, neatly folded in plastic.
You blink at it, warmth swelling in your chest. "Jack⌠You shouldn't have."
Jack just shrugs like it was nothing.
You donât even think about it before you stand up and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffens for a second, like the contact surprises him, then his arms come up around you automatically, tightening just a little more than necessary. You press your face into his shoulder, murmuring softly, "Thank you."
The hug lingers longer than it probably needs to, but you're not particularly eager to be the first one to pull away. Jack doesn't seem to mind, his chin resting on the top of your head, as his arms squeeze you tightly. Eventually, you loosen your arms and step back, clearing your throat a little; his hands fall away a bit slower.
"Okay," you say, glancing at the second package, trying to appear calm. "Whatâs in the other one?"
Jack picks it up, turning it over in his hands. "No idea. That oneâs not from me." He sets it down and picks up his mug again.
You rip the tape open again. Inside are several metal pieces and a small bag of bolts. It takes you about three seconds to realise what they are.
Your face lights up. "It's the bed legs!" You pull one of the metal pieces out and hold it up triumphantly. "Finally."
Jackâs fingers stiffen around the mug, his smile fading. He leans his hip against the table instead, crossing his arms loosely. His eyes flick from the metal leg in your hand and then back to you.
"That eager to get away from me already?" he asks lightly. He lifts his coffee and takes a sip like the comment means nothing, gaze settling somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face.
You blink at him, confused, "What, no? That's notâ" then realisation hits you, and you grimace. "Oh, shit. I forgot to tell you."
Jack raises an eyebrow.
"Um," you start, words spilling out a little too quickly, "so⌠Oliviaâs coming to town, and I told her she could stay here, but then I realised we donât actually have a guest bedâ" You lift the metal leg slightly, as if it explains everything. "âwhich we do now. Or⌠we will. Once this is a bed and not just⌠parts of a bed."
You glance up at him, hopeful and a little nervous, searching his face. "So, this is good because now she has somewhere to sleep... Right?" You pause. "I mean, if itâs weird, I can tell her to get a hotel. That's totally fine. I justâ I already told her she could stay here, so..."
Jack blinks once, then twice, his shoulders relaxing as he processes your spiel. His mouth lifts slightly at the corner. "No, it's fine. She can stay here," he says.
You relax instantly. "Good!" you grin. "Hey," you add, quieter, bumping your shoulder lightly into his arm. "Iâm not trying to escape you⌠Well, maybe besides your snoring."
Jack snorts softly. "I still don't snore. You're such a liar." He leans forward, grabbing your mugs to make more coffee, hip bumping gently into yours as he moves past.
You pull the rest of the pieces out of the box, grinning even wider. "Youâll help me build it, right?"
The days leading up to Olivia's arrival made Jack increasingly nervous. So nervous that Robby caught on and had been teasing him ever since.
Jack doesn't really care. She's your best friend, the most important person in your life, and he has exactly one shot to get on her good side. To show her he's serious about thisâthat he understands the damage this secret could do to your life if it ever comes out. That he's in this until the bitter end.
He also can't quite kill the small, stubborn hope that she might convince you to start looking at him the way he already looks at you.
Olivia arrives on a Tuesday afternoon after a full day at the conference. She settles in easily, kicking her shoes off, claiming the guest room like she's lived there for months, and is now curled up on the couch beside you like the two of you never spent a day apart.
Introductions had gone smoothly, though he could tell you were nervous for some reason, even if he should be the one sweating over it, not you. But Olivia seemed to like him, and your shoulders had dropped again, especially when she had grinned appreciatively at him when he offered to make dinner as you caught up.
Olivia's conference runs for the next two days, and because you haven't been able to swap shifts with anyone, dinner is the only time the three of you have that overlaps. To your (and Jack's) relief, she's staying until the weekend, in which your days will line up.
Jack knows how much this visit means to you, and he'd checked the schedule to try and figure out something for you, thinking he might be able to move a shift or two aroundâuntil two residents called in sick, and there was no one left to spare.
Now, he stands in the kitchen, stirring a pan and trying not to be obvious about staring at you. Youâre both laughing at something on your phoneâshoulders bumping, heads leaning together, your voices bright and overlapping in that effortless way people only have with old friends.
Olivia is a lot like you. Same easy smile. Same animated way of talking with her hands. Same carefree energy that fills a room without trying. As much as he believes you to be trouble, he can tell she is, too. If not as much, then just in a way that encourages you.
But where youâre open like a book, Olivia feels⌠sharper.
Jack prides himself on reading people. Itâs part of the job. Years in the ER teach you to catch the smallest cuesâtension in a jaw, the shift of someoneâs breathing, the flicker of pain someoneâs trying to hide.
With you, itâs second nature. With Olivia? Heâs getting nothing. Or worse, he's getting the uncomfortable sense that sheâs the one reading him.
He feels it now as he cooks. Standing at the stove, stirring the pasta sauce, he glances toward the couch again, out of habitâjust to check on you. The sound of your laughter pulls a smile onto his face before he even realises it.
But Olivia⌠Olivia isn't laughing. She's watching him, sharp eyes over the corner of her phone. The kind of look people give when theyâve already figured something out. The moment he notices, she smiles like nothing's happened and turns back to you.
Dinner passes quicklyâjust casual small talk and getting to know each other. It goes better than he'd hoped for.
As the clock ticks closer to seven, he begins to clear the table. You leave to change, something he'd done earlier, and now he's left alone with Olivia. She grabs the plates and starts rinsing them, ignoring his gesture for her to leave them to him.
"Itâs a noble thing youâre doing," she says casually, but Jack feels her gaze on him. "For her," she adds.
He shrugs as he gathers the glasses.
Olivia tilts her head. "No, really," she continues. "Not everyone would agree to something like this."
"Something like what?" He tries to buy himself time, to keep his face from revealing more than it already has.
Olivia gestures lightly as she places a plate into the dishwasher. "This whole arrangement. Pretending to be married. Opening up your house. Letting someone move in just because." Her voice stays light, but Jack knows what she's fishing for. "Most people wouldâve run the other direction."
"It was the right thing to do," he says simply, because it's the truth.
Olivia studies him for a moment longer than comfortable, then one eyebrow lifts slightly. "Thatâs it?"
"Thatâs it."
She hums softly, like sheâs filing the answer away for later, then she washes her hands. "You look at her a lot, you know."
Jack freezes for half a second before recovering. "Do I?"
"Mm." She dries her hands with a dish towel. "You did it like⌠five times while cooking."
Jack huffs quietly, leaning against the counter. "Habit. Making sure she doesnât get into trouble. Or something worse."
Olivia grins, her smile is warm nowâmore playful than investigative. "Iâve known her since middle school. It canât get worse than when she once microwaved ramen without water."
Jackâs eyebrows lift, the corner of his mouth curling. "That explains a lot."
Olivia laughs softly. "Right?" She sets the towel down, studying him again, but this time it feels less like scrutiny and more like curiosity. "Youâre good for her," she says after a moment.
Jack blinks at that. He hadn't expected that.
Olivia shrugs lightly. "She trusts you."
Jack shifts slightly, glancing toward the hallway where you disappeared down minutes ago. "I hope so."
"Oh, she does," Olivia says easily. "Otherwise she wouldnât be here." She taps the counter behind her thoughtfully. "Still though⌠fake marriage. That's a big commitment."
Jack sighs quietly. "It's just temporary." He hates being reminded of it.
"Sure." Oliviaâs mouth curves slightly.
Footsteps echo down the hallway. Olivia hears it too, straightening. As she passes Jack, she pauses just long enough to pat his shoulder. Leaning down slightly, she murmurs under her breath, "I know what youâre hiding."
Jack stiffens.
She straightens again, smiling brightly. "But donât worry," she adds lightly. "Iâm fun, not cruel. I'll keep it to myself." She glances into his eyes, shrugging. "âŚFor now."
Your voice calls out from the hallway as you appear in the doorway again in scrubs. "Did I miss anything fun?" You glance from Olivia to Jack, trying to ascertain the atmosphere.
Olivia turns toward you immediately, grin widening. "Just telling your husband he passed my friend inspection." She hooks an arm around your shoulders as you walk into the room. You roll your eyes immediately, finding Jack's eyes and sending him a small smile.
His eyes flick briefly to Olivia, but sheâs smiling at you like nothing happened. Like she hadnât just read his deepest secret within a few hours of meeting him.
The for now feels like a ticking bomb he isn't sure how to disable.
Jack takes your things to the locker once you arrive, leaving you at the hub to get ready for the night. You're scanning the board when a shadow falls over you.
Robby smirks as he leans against the counter. "Hey," he says.
"Hi," you reply, eyes narrowing at him. He's looking way too pleased with himself, and you can practically smell the mischief on him.
"SoâŚ" he begins. "Didn't peg you for the scandalous type." He grins at you, watching gleefully as you try to school your features into something resembling neutral.
You don't say anything, just stare at him.
"I mean, living together? Sleeping in the same bed? Careful or thisâ" he leans in, voice lowering to a whisper, "fake marriage might turn into a real one." His grin widens as he watches you struggle to keep a straight face. "Do you have enough condoms, or do you need me to pick some up?"
"Robby," you warn, cheeks flushing. Your hand swats his shoulder, trying to make him stop, but Robby just chuckles loudly.
"Hey, brother," Jack greets as he steps up beside you. He glances from you to Robby, noting his smirk and your stiff jaw and sighs, "Be nice."
"Or what?" Robby counters.
"Or I'll tell that nurse your text last week was meant for someone else," Jack says in response.
Robby freezes. "âŚLow blow."
"Effective, though."
"âŚFine. You two are no fun," Robby says, jerking his chin toward you. "I'll leave your girl alone." He steps back, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. "See you later, love birds."
"Bye, Robert," you call after him.
He flips you off without turning around.
Jack nudges your shoulder. You glance at him, and the look you share is quick but familiarâchecking in, making sure youâre good, before the night swallows you both whole.
Friday doesn't come fast enough. You've trudged through night shifts, waiting for the day that yours and Olivia's schedules finally align. And with Jack out of the houseâhe'd offered himselfâwine night is finally on.
The TV plays some movie you've seen before as you giggle away on the couch, neither of you paying much attention to it. There's a half-empty pizza box sitting on the coffee table, and in your hands are two wine glasses. One bottle is already gone, and the second one is nearly empty.
Conversation flows easily as you jump between topics, the way you can only do with someone who already knows your entire life history.
"No, wait," you say, grinning as you lean forward, wine glass dangling from your fingers. "What about that guy who opened with 'hey beautiful, you look like you have fertile hips'âthat has to be the worst one."
Olivia groans loudly, dragging her hands over her face. "Ugh. I forgot about that one..."
You collapse backwards into the couch, laughing. "Oh, or maybe that one you still went on three dates with⌠uhâwhat's his nameâMatt? Miles?"
"Martin," she supplies. "And he seemed normal!"
"You told me he brought his mother to the restaurant."
She sits up straight. "I didnât know she was going to be there! And she was nice."
You're nearly wheezing with laughter now.
"Anyway," she says after a moment, wiping under her eye. "Enough about my romantic disasters. I want updates."
"On what?" you say, leaning back.
She gestures broadly around the house, like it's obvious. "This."
You frown. "This what?"
She stares at you like you're dumb. "Jack? The man you're married to? Living here? Sleeping in the same bed? The kiss? I mean, have you kissed him again?"
You immediately shake your head. "No." You take another sip like that, somehow proves your point. "Thereâs nothing to say. Nothing's happened."
Olivia slowly lowers her wine glass. "âŚGirl."
You groan. "No, seriously," you say, shaking your head. "He doesnât see me like that."
"Girl."
"Iâm serious!"
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
She stares at you for a full five seconds before setting her wine glass down dramatically. "You are living in a completely different reality than the rest of us."
You point at yourself. "Me?"
"Yes, you!" She leans forward now. "I canât count how many times I caught him staring at you these last few days."
You blink. "What?"
"Kitchen, hallway, living roomâit doesn't matter where. There was also that time when you were taking off your sweatshirt and he justâ" she mimics someone freezing mid-motion "âcompletely forgot what he was doing."
You shake your head, rolling your eyes. "He did not."
"He absolutely did."
You laugh nervously and take another sip. "Heâs just⌠Jack."
Olivia stares, then bursts out laughing again. "He's just Jack? Wow, that defence's gonna hold up well in court."
"He is!" you repeat, "and we're not in court, so who cares?"
"Girl, you two flirt constantly."
"We do not."
"You absolutely do." She starts counting on her fingers. "The shoulder touches. The little jokes. The way you smile at each other.
Your stomach twists slightly. "Liv, youâre reading into it."
"Am I?"
"Yes!"
"You two are more married than half the couples I work with," she states.
You snort, "Please."
"Iâm serious." Olivia scoots closer across the couch, grabbing your hand. Her voice softens just slightly, "Iâm not shitting you."
You swallow, bringing the glass up for a sip.
She continues, "That man is so in love with you."
Your heart jumps painfully in your chest, and you choke on the wine. You pull your hand back slowly. "But what if he isnât?" you say quietly. The room feels a little smaller, walls closing in. "What if Iâm just⌠seeing things because I want to?"
Olivia doesnât interrupt this time.
"What if Iâm just setting myself up for heartbreak?" you add.
She studies you for a moment, then she tilts her head. "Arenât you already doing that?"
"âŚWhat?"
"Youâre already in love with him," she says.
You open your mouth. Close it again. You can't argue with that.
She shrugs gently. "So either way, youâre risking it."
The truth of it sits heavily between you. You stare down into your wine glass. She leans back again after a moment, stretching her legs across the couch. "Look," she says casually. "You donât have to confess your undying love tomorrow."
You swallow, the warmth of the wine doing nothing to calm the sudden flutter in your chest.
"Just⌠flirt more," she offers.
You make a face. "You just said I already flirt."
"Barely," she grins. "Just lean into it a little more. See what happens."
"And if it goes badly?"
She lifts her glass. "Then we open another bottle of wine, and I help you plan your dramatic move to Spain."
You laugh despite yourself.
"It canât hurt," she adds with a small shrug.
Your stomach flips. "âŚYeah," you murmur. "Maybe not."
Youâre still thinking about what Olivia said as you pretend to watch the last of the movie. Unfortunately, your brain keeps replaying the words that man is so in love with you, like itâs trying to decide whether to believe them or not. You swirl the wine in your glass, watching the deep red circle the bowl.
Olivia, meanwhile, has clearly moved on from the emotional portion of the evening. She stretches across the couch, phone in hand. Every few seconds, she snorts.
"What now?" you ask.
She turns the screen toward you. "Look at this man." You squint at the profile. Looking for someone chill who doesnât take things too seriously and will laugh at my dark humour.
You shrug. "Thatâs not that bad."
She scrolls down. "His first prompt answer is âmy most controversial opinion: women shouldnât vote.â"
You nearly choke on your wine. "Oh my god. I take it back."
"Iâm telling you," she says, tossing the phone onto her stomach. "Dating apps are the worst. You should be glad you're off the market."
You laugh, shaking your head, ignoring the latter part of her sentence. Because you're notânot truly. "Well, at least youâre getting anecdotes out of it."
Olivia sighs dramatically and reaches for her purse on the coffee table, rummaging through it for her lip balm. "Ohâwait."
You glance over. "What?"
"I forgot." She pulls a small envelope out from under the pile and waves it. "I won these in a raffle earlier." She opens the envelope and pulls out four glossy tickets. "Itâs for that game on Saturday. Baseball or whatever."
"Really?"
"Yep." She fans them out like playing cards.
You think for a second. "I think Jack was talking about watching it."
Oliviaâs face lights up immediately. "Well," she says, grinning as she taps the stack of tickets against her palm, "we have just one problem then."
You tilt your head. "What?"
She holds up four fingers. "I have four tickets."
Jackâs key clicks in the lock, and the sound of laughter hits him before he even steps inside. He pauses in the hallway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, just listening for a moment.
Once he moves, he sees you draped across the couch with Olivia, blankets tangled around your legs, empty glasses and bottles on the table. Youâre mid-giggle at something Olivia said, your head thrown back, and Jack canât help the small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips.
He clears his throat softly. You glance up, still smiling, but your gaze is lazy, soft, and somehow magnetic even in your tipsy state. He wants you to look that happy to see him every time he comes home.
"Jack," you sit up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, and Jack feels that familiar pull in his chest. He wants to step closer, to be part of this warmth, but he doesnât. He just watches.
"Looks like you girls have had a good night," he says, nodding at the table.
"The best," you reply, smiling. "Come sit," you pat the cushion next to you, and Jack obliges quicker than he should. He can see Olivia grinning out of the corner of his eye. Sinking into the couch, your thigh brushes his as you lean back against the cushion. You donât move your leg away. Neither does he.
"How was your night? 'Robby treat you well?" you ask.
"Plenty of beers and burgers. I can't complain."
"Good," you say, leaning onto his shoulder without thinking. Your cheek presses against him as you tell him about your eveningâhow you'd ended up watching some terrible horror movie. You try to tell him the plot, but you and Olivia are barely comprehensible through your giggles. Jack doesn't really care about the story; heâs too busy memorising the weight of your head on his shoulder, content with watching you being happy. It's what you deserve after these past weeks of trialsâhell, after being doomed to stay in this marriage.
Your giggles eventually die down, and Olivia yawns loudly. "Iâm going to bed," she announces, sliding off the couch and glancing at you, something incomprehensible glinting in her eyes. You seem to understand it, though, as you sit up straight again.
"Bedtime?" Jack asks, glancing over at you. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair off your shoulder before he seems to realise he did it.
You sigh, eyes closing briefly. "Yeah, I should probably go to bed, too. Can I use the bathroom first?"
Jack nods and watches as you disappear off into the hallway, listening for the bedroom door opening. The sound of running water reaches him shortly after, the faint clatter of bottles and brushes, and he leans back, trying not to overthink the way his heart is drumming. He follows you into the bedroom a moment later.
He's on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, though nothing's really exciting on it, as he waits for you. You emerge a few minutes later, wrapped in a soft, oversized t-shirt, bare legs peeking out. You saunter back toward him, but instead of getting into bed with him like usual, you head for the door again.
"I'm gonna sleep with Liv," you murmur. "Feel free to do your best Patrick impression."
"Patrick?"
"Starfish," you say like it's obvious, giggling.
Jack swallows, forcing a smile and nod. "Oh⌠yeah," he says, voice steady, though a flicker of disappointment flits across his features for a brief second. He tells himself itâs fineâheâs fine.
He always knew this part wouldnât last forever. He just wasn't expecting it to hurt like this. He stays on the bed, staring at the door as if it might open again.
Seconds later, the door does creak open again, and there you are, sheepish and hesitant this time, eyes darting toward him. "OkayâŚ" you say quietly, voice small. "âŚOlivia wonât let me in."
Jack canât help the smile that curls at the corner of his lips. Relief and amusement swirl together. He watches you step in, shrugging helplessly, and internally, he blesses Olivia for intervening.
He gets up, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed loosely, letting himself enjoy the moment. "Didn't take you long to come crawling back."
"Careful. I can still sleep on the couch," you counter, smiling at him, and you both know it's an empty threat. Especially, as you slide into bed, on your side, ducking under the covers.
"Uh-huh," Jack grins back.
Robby ends up being the lucky recipient of the fourth ticket. Heâs practically vibrating with excitement when the four of you arrive at the stadium, weaving through the thick crowd of fans in jerseys and caps.
"Man, I canât believe you actually won these," he says for what must be the fifth time, looking around like the place might vanish if he blinks too long. Olivia beams at him.
You climb the stairs toward your section, the roar of the stadium swelling louder with every step. The sun is warm, the sky perfectly clear, and the air smells like popcorn, hot dogs, and grass. Jack keeps glancing back over his shoulder as you climb, slowing just enough each time to make sure youâre still right behind him. Eventually, you press your fingers lightly against the back of his shirt so heâll stop worrying and just keep walking.
When you reach your row, Robby slides in first, squeezing past the seats with practised ease. Jack follows, pausing long enough to hold the seat backs out of your way as you slip in behind him. Olivia brings up the rear, grinning at you when Jack looks back once more to make sure you made it through.
Sheâs decked out head to toe in baseball gearâteam cap, oversized jersey, even eye black smudged under her eyes. She has absolutely no idea whatâs going on, but she's more than happy to play the part.
You, on the other hand, are wearing one of Jackâs old baseball shirts. Itâs a little big on you, the sleeves falling just past your elbows, the faded team logo soft from years of washing. Jack had dug it out that morning. "For luck," he said.
It smells faintly like his laundry detergent. It makes you feel things you really shouldn't.
Jack settles back in his seat beside you. A moment later, his arm lifts casually and rests along the back of your seat. Not quite around you. But close enough that if you leaned back even a littleâ
Olivia notices immediately. She glances from his arm to your face, then sends you a slow, knowing smile. You pointedly ignore her.
Jack leans slightly closer instead, voice lowering near your ear so he doesnât have to shout over the crowd. "Okay," he says quietly. "So basicallyâ" He gestures toward the field. "That guyâs the starting pitcher. If he does well tonight, it probably decides the series."
You nod like you understand. "Whatâs the series?"
Jack chuckles softly. "Long story." He starts explaining anyway, pointing out players, rules, and little moments happening on the field. His voice is calm and patient, the kind of tone someone uses when theyâre excited to share something they love with someone they loâ
You find yourself listening more to him than the game. Heart fluttering when he reaches over to tuck the edge of your jacket closer around you when the wind picks up.
At the end of an inning, as Jack tells you, you get up. "Iâm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.
Jack straightens beside you immediately. "Iâll come with you," he says, already pushing himself to his feet. "I could use something to drink anyway."
He leans forward, glancing past you toward Olivia and Robby. "You guys want anything?"
They donât even hesitate. "A beer, please," they say in perfect chorus.
Jack chuckles, "Of course."
You step into the crowded concourse, the noise swelling again as people stream past. Someone brushes past you, and Jackâs hand briefly finds the small of your back, guiding you out of the way.
"How much money do you think itâd cost to bat once?" you ask as you walk.
"More than itâs worth," Jack says, falling into step beside you. "You actually have to hit the ball."
You lean toward him, nudging his shoulder. "Hey! You donât know if Iâm good."
He just levels you with a look, brow raised, "I had to explain the rules. Thatâs enough to know youâll probably⌠miss."
You huff, "That proves nothing."
His hand lingers on your back for a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away.
"Okay... Just so you know," you say quietly after a moment, tugging the edge of your jacket closer around you. "I still have absolutely no idea whatâs happening in that game."
Jack grins. "I figured." A group of fans pushes past, and he shifts slightly closer again so they donât bump into you.
"You did not," you say.
He laughs, "You clapped when someone stretched."
"It was a... a good stretch," you grin back.
Olivia and Robby are quiet for a moment after you and Jack head off, the crowd singing loudly around them. Then Olivia leans forward slightly in her seat, elbows on her knees, as she tilts her head toward Robby. "Do you see what I see?"
Robby doesnât look confused, and a slow grin spreads across his face. "Two lovesick fools?"
Olivia points at him approvingly. "Good." She settles back into her seat again, crossing one leg over the other. "Iâm doing my part," she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You better be doing yours."
Robby snorts softly. "Oh, trust me, I am trying." He drags a hand through his hair. "Itâs not easy."
Olivia glances sideways at him. "Tell me about it."
"Weâre in the same boat then," Robby says. "Youâd think two supposedly intelligent adults could figure this out."
Olivia gestures dramatically toward the empty seats beside them. "Itâs so obvious."
"Love really makes you blind," he says with a small shrug.
"What makes who blind?"
Both of them jump slightly. You and Jack are suddenly standing beside the row again, squeezing past people to get back to your seat.
Oliviaâs expression resets instantly. "Oh!" She waves a hand vaguely. "Robby was just telling me a work story."
Robby nods immediately, jumping in. "Yeahâuh, just a case we had the other day."
You settle halfway down, pausing to look at him past Jack. "What kind of case?"
Robby grimaces dramatically. "Someone thought rinsing their eyes with⌠cleaning solution⌠was a good idea."
Your face contorts in horror. "Ohâyikes."
"Yeah," Robby says quickly. "Not recommended."
Jack hands the beers over to them. "Two for the peanut gallery."
"Bless you," Robby says, taking the out that Jack probably doesn't know he's given him.
Olivia takes hers with a grin. "Your service is appreciated."
Jack places a drink in your cup holder before setting his own drink down. Without really thinking about it, his arm drapes back along the seat behind you again.
Olivia watches the motion with quiet satisfaction, then she takes a slow sip of her beer and turns back toward the field. Robby grins into his cup. The game resumes, and the two of them share a very small, very smug look over your heads.
You enjoy baseball much more than you'd imagined, though you probably have Jack to thank for that. His commentary plays a huge part in your enjoyment, though you're not sure you could explain anything about the game afterâyou're more focused on the way his breath brushes against your ear, how his gravelly voice somehow turns gruffer as the game goes on, and how it all pools in a low heat in your belly.
"Kiss camâs coming up," Olivia whispers suddenly, leaning toward your other ear while Jack and Robby are deep in some very serious baseball discussion beside you.
"And why," you murmur back, not looking away from the field, "are you telling me this?"
Oliviaâs grin is audible in her voice. "Just so youâre prepared."
You snort quietly. "There are thousands of people here. Weâre not gonna get picked."
The giant screen above the stadium lights up as the music changes. The camera sweeps across the crowd as cheers ripple through the stands.
An older couple appears on the screen firstâgrey-haired and giggling as they lean in for a quick peck. The crowd applauds. Next, a younger pair who dramatically overdo it, laughing halfway through their kiss while the stadium roars. Then a pair of teenagers who look mortified as the camera lands on them. The boy kisses the girlâs cheek, and she hides her face while the crowd awws.
Youâre smiling as you watch. The camera keeps moving and suddenlyâit stops.
Your face appears on the massive screen. Right next to Jackâs. For a full second, you just stare. Your brain refuses to process what youâre seeing. The stadium erupts in cheers, egging you on.
"Oh my god," Olivia breathes beside you.
Youâre still staring up at the screen in disbelief when Olivia nudges your shoulder sharply. Instinct kicks in. You turn toward Jack. Heâs already looking at you.
For a split second, neither of you moves. The noise of the stadium fades behind the awareness of how close youâre sittingâhis knee pressed lightly against yours, the familiar warmth of his shoulder against your arm, how he's close enough that you can feel his breath when he exhales. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
What if someone from the hospital is here? What if someone sees? You have to do it.
His eyes flick briefly to the giant screen and back to you. The corner of his mouth twitches like heâs about to laugh. He gives you a quick shrug.
So you lean in, intending for the kiss to be swift and chaste. Just enough to satisfy the camera and keep your covers. But the moment you get close, Jackâs hand comes up. His fingers slide gently along your jaw, cradling the side of your face, and your plan evaporates into thin air.
The kiss lands soft, warmer than you expected, and suddenly youâre leaning into it instead of pulling away, a quiet sigh escaping you before you can stop it. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer without thinking.
Jackâs lips are warm, tasting faintly of beer, slightly chapped from the sun and the dry stadium air, but still soft. He shifts closer, the heat of his body pressing into yours, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd feels miles away. All you can feel is him.
For a full second, it feels like youâre the only two people in the stadium, then the cheers hit. Loud. Whistles, shouting, the crowd going wild around you.
You blink, remembering where you are, and pull back quickly. Your chest rises in a quick, shaky breath you hope he doesnât notice, face flushing as embarrassment creeps up your neck.
"Whooo!" Olivia leaps up, nearly tipping her cup, arms flailing in celebration. "Way to go!"
Robby is absolutely no help either. He lets out a long, piercing whistle from the other side.
"Fuck off," your voice comes out softer than you meant to, still a little breathless, shoving Olivia lightly. Jack huffs out a quiet laugh beside you.
You glance at him. Heâs already looking at you again, a little flushed, his hand still half-raised like he forgot to put it down. Neither of you says anything, but for a moment it looks like heâs about to.
He doesnât.
Instead, he lets out a slightly crooked smile, rolling his eyes at their antics. You can't help but grin back. And for the first time since Olivia said it, the thought slips into your head uninvitedâmaybe sheâs right.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, period pain (i also just got mine, so i feel for trouble), , near-nakedness
word count: 5k
a/n: here we are! thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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For the last twenty minutes, you've done nothing but scroll mindlessly on your phone, trying to shake the funk you woke up in.
But the foul mood clings to your skin no matter how deep you breathe. Your jaw remains tight, your stomach uneasy, and your mind continues to churn with all the things you should have said to Smith yesterday.
You should've told her off earlierâmade it clear that her assumption that you fucked your way into an attending position was so completely off base it was laughable. You shouldâve told her how misogynistic it wasâhow fucking insulting it was after everything youâve done on your own to get here.
If she steps out of line again, you won't hold back this time. You'll even let Jack get involved if it becomes necessary.
You shift, pressing a hand to your lower abdomen. A dull, persistent throb gnaws at you, but you tell yourself itâs just leftover tension.
Sitting on the couch only tightens your thoughts further, so you leave a note for Jack on the counter in case he wakes up, tug on a pair of shoes and head out the door, hoping some fresh air will do you good.
Youâre not usually up before Jack, and under normal circumstances, youâd stay in bed, guiltily indulging in the warmth of his arms and drifting back to sleep. Today, when you woke, however, your body felt off, and Jack, who runs hot even when asleep, had been too warm for you to stay comfortable.
At least this way, you could surprise him with breakfast for a change.
It's early by your standards, but the sun is already high in the sky, and the city is buzzing with life. You walk at a slower pace than normal, your legs aching with each stepâyou probably overdid it on the yoga yesterdayâweaving past houses, people coming home from work, and others heading back from lunch. The smell of coffee drifts from the corner cafĂŠ you've just left, and someoneâs dog barks from behind a fence as you pass.
Your shoulders remain tense despite the fresh air and the sun shining down on you.
A soft pling sounds from your phone as a message from Olivia pops up.
OLIVIA: I have exciting news!
You don't even bother typing back, hitting call immediately instead.
She picks up on the second ring. "Hey! Didnât think you were up yet," Olivia says, her voice bright and slightly muffled like she's walking somewhere.
"Couldnât sleep," you reply, shifting the phone against your ear as you round the corner. "Is this a good time?"
"Yeah, definitely. Iâm just grabbing lunch." She pauses. "But⌠you sound weird. Whatâs up?" she asks.
You huff a laugh. Of course, she noticed. She always does. Your stomach knots again, this time sharp enough to make you wince.
"Ugh," you groan. "Do you want the short version or the long version?"
You let loose, spending a good five minutes venting all your frustrationsâhow annoyed you are, how Smith kept crossing lines, and how you wish you'd handled it differently. Olivia doesnât interrupt. Just the occasional soft mm-hmm that tells you sheâs listening. Finally, you sigh, exhaling harshly.
"âŚSorry," you mutter, "I didnât mean to dump all that on you."
"Don't be. I'm sorry that happened to you," she replies sympathetically. "That really sucks. I know you said you were gonna handle it, but you should consider telling Jack if it continues."
"Yeah," you say quietly. "Anywayâenough about me. Whatâs this exciting news?"
"Oh!" Her whole tone lifts. You can almost hear her grin through the phone. "Iâm coming to Pittsburgh next week for a conference."
Your eyes widen mid-step. "Waitâwhat?" A grin breaks across your face before you can stop it. "Youâre actually coming here?"
"Yes!" she laughs.
"You have to stay with us," you blurt. "I mean it. Iâm sure Jack wonât mind."
"Maybe just check with him first," Olivia suggests, but then continues laughing, "But I definitely will, even if he says no. I'll just hide in a closet or something."
"You absolutely would," you snort.
God, itâs been too long. Ever since you moved for residency, seeing each other in person has become rareâholidays if youâre lucky, rushed weekends if schedules align. It sucks that money has also been a factor that has hindered you from seeing each other. Too much of your friendship has been reduced to late-night calls and voice notes.
The thought of her actually being here feels unreal.
"I canât wait to see you," you say, the words coming out softer than you intended.
"Same," Olivia replies, and for a moment her voice loses its joking edge. "I miss you, idiot."
You laugh quietly. "I miss you too."
"Okay, now I really have to go before my food gets cold," she says. "Text me?"
"Yeah," you say. "See you soon."
Bag in hand, you make your way back, feeling slightly less irate and a little more like yourself. Your breath has steadied, your jaw has relaxed, and your shoulders feel lighter after talking to Olivia.
Youâre almost at Jackâs house when a bright pink bouncy ball, sparkled with glimmer, rolls to a stop by your feet.
Furrowing your brows, you bend down to pick it up and look around for its owner. A few paces away, a little girl peeks shyly from behind her motherâs leg, only half of her face visible. One sneakered toe scrapes against the pavement nervously.
You smile at her and walk over, crouching down to her level. A dull pull flares across your lower back when you bend, and you shift slightly before settling.
"I think you might have dropped this," you say gently, extending your hand to show her the ball.
She studies you for a long moment before reaching out and taking it.
"Fank you."
"You're welcome." You tilt your head. "That's a pretty ball. Did you pick it out?"
She nods immediately, dark curls bouncing as she clutches the hem of her motherâs coat.
"I think we spent twenty minutes in the store," her mother laughs.
"Had to check every single one?" you guess.
"Exactly."
The girl edges a bit closer now, clutching the ball to her chest.
You smile at her. "Whatâs your name?"
"Lulu."
"Well, Lulu," you say, "that's a great name."
She beams.
"Louisa, technically, but Lulu's easier," her mother adds. "Sorryâhi. I donât think weâve met before, but I think weâre neighbours?"
She gestures toward the blue house next to Jackâs place. "We just moved in yesterday," she says. "Iâm Katherine."
You stand up, introduce yourself, and give her hand a friendly shake. Katherine glances back at the house, where a stack of unopened boxes waits. "Still trying to figure out where everything goes," she says with a sheepish laugh.
"If you ever need anything, feel free to come by," you say. "Just a heads-up, though; Jack and I work the night shift, so we're gonna be home at strange hours."
"Thanks..." she pauses for a second. "If youâre ever getting rid of furniture or anything, weâd happily take it."
"Sure," you promise.
"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." She glances over toward Jackâs house. "So you live with... Jack?"
"Yeah, he's myâ" you hesitate for a split second, contemplating how to introduce Jack. Friend? Colleague? "My husband."
"Oh, thatâs wonderful," Katherine replies easily. "It must be nice for you both to be working the night shift, then."
Before you can respond, Lulu tugs insistently on her motherâs sleeve. "Mama," she whispers loudly. "I'm hungry."
Katherine immediately looks flustered again. "Right! Food. I'm still trying to figure out where all the kitchen stuff ended up," she laughs at herself.
You glance down at Lulu. "Do you like apples?"
She nods so hard her curls bounce against her face.
"I think I might have some at home," you say casually. "Jack bought a whole bag, and thereâs no way weâll finish them all."
"Red apples?" Lulu asks seriously.
"Obviously, those are the best kind. Do you want one?"
Lulu nods again. Katherine shifts the tote bag on her shoulder, her grip loosening. "You donât have toâ"
"Itâs no trouble," you assure her. "Just give me a moment, and I'll grab some for you."
Katherine smiles, the first relaxed one since you met her. "Thank you."
You step inside, grab a couple of apples from the bowl in the kitchen, and head back out.
Lulu accepts the apple with both hands, grinning from ear to ear, and takes a big bite, juice dripping down her chin.
"Actually," Katherine says, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder as she slips the other apples inside, "would it be okay if I got your number? Just in case a package shows up at your place or something."
"Of course," you reply, pulling your phone out of your pocket to hand it over.
She types her number quickly, sending off a message, before giving it back. "Thanks. Movingâs been chaoticâitâs nice to know at least one neighbour. Weâll probably be that house for a while. Boxes everywhere, toddler meltdowns, the works. I hope weâre not too loud. Just shoot me a text if we are."
"Don't worry about it," you reassure her. "I'll see you around."
Lulu lifts the apple and gives you a small sticky wave.
The house is still quiet when you step inside again. The bag lands softly on the kitchen counter, and the note is still right where you left it.
Good. Jack must still be asleep. You're not sure how much sleep he gets, but you doubt it's enough with the way he's always up before your alarm clock rings.
You sit down at the table, breakfast and coffee in front of you. Might as well get some studying done while you eat. You glance at the bookshelf, then the couch. Nothing. Ohâright, you left the book in the bedroom the other day. Shoot. Youâll just sneak inâtwo seconds in, two seconds outâwithout waking him. You ease the door open slowly, the hinges barely making a sound.
And then you freeze.
Jack is not asleep. Heâs standing near the bed, back half-turned toward the door, one hand rubbing through his damp hair.
And he is very, very naked.
Well. Almost.
A white towel hangs low on his hips, knotted loosely enough that you can see a hint of dark hair disappearing beneath it. Droplets of water still cling to his shoulders, trailing slowly down the broad plane of his chest.
Your brain, unfortunately, stops working. You just⌠stare. Your breath hitches for a second, fast and shallow, before you clamp down and force it back to normal.
Stop. He doesnât want you looking at him like that.
You force yourself to straighten and blink, forcing your attention elsewhere, but your eyes drift back to him.
His shoulders are broader than you remembered. As he reaches for something on the dresser, his biceps flex and chest shifts with the movement. Freckles trail down the curve of his back, catching the light as he moves.
God... Are you drooling?
Jack turns and catches you staring. For half a second, surprise flashes across his face, then embarrassment, before it vanishes as a slow, amused smirk takes over.
"See anything interesting?" he says, voice rougher than usual.
Your eyes snap up to his face, cheeks immediately flushing. "Sorry? Ohâ"
Your brain scrambles wildly for something, anything, that isnât 'I was absolutely staring at your chest like a starving person looking at food'.
You gesture vaguely toward him, face folding into something more concerned. "Do you need help? I can call your nurse for you?"
Jack blinks. "My nurse?"
"Yeah," you say, nodding like the answer is obvious. "You seem a little lost. I know the nurses are busy in retirement homes, but I can go find one."
There's a pause as Jack processes your words, then his mouth slowly curls. "Retirement homes."
"Mm." You fold your arms, leaning casually against the doorframe like you werenât just caught ogling him. "Figured you might need help finding your clothes."
"Oh?"
"Donât they usually do that for you?" you continue sweetly. "Bring them in with your medication and your little plastic cup of water?"
Jack huffs out a laugh. "I'm not that old."
"Of course not," you reply lightly. "You know," you add thoughtfully, "I didnât realise men your age could stillâ"
"Still what?" Jack raises an eyebrow.
"Build muscle like that," you continue and shrug. "Iâm impressed, thatâs all."
"Impressed," he echoes dryly.
"Medically speaking." Your gaze flicks down his chest again.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."
You push off the doorframe and grab your book. "So do you need me to call someone? Maybe bring you a robe? Some slippers?"
Jack steps a little closer. "You know," he says, voice amused, "most people who walk in on other people just say sorry and leave."
"Whereâs the fun in that?" you say with a grin, backing out of the room. "Breakfast is in the kitchen. It's from that place you like around the corner."
Jack crosses his arms. Great. Now everything youâre trying not to notice is impossible to ignore.
"Oh, now youâre bribing me to forget you were checking me out?"
"Checking you out implies intent," you reply calmly. "This was more⌠accidental observation."
"Right."
You slip out the door before he can see the heat creeping up your neck. The door closes behind you with a soft click, and only then do you let out a breath. You press a hand briefly to your face, scrubbing harshly like that might erase the image.
It wonât.
Jack's been watching you all day. Nothing about you screams that he needs to, but there's something off about the way youâre acting.
You'd been fine at home. Maybe moving a little slower than normal, but nothing concerning, though you hadn't been laughing as much as you usually do at his jokes. But by mid-shift, the smiles you force donât reach your eyes. Your laughter is softer and delayed. It's not noticeable to others, but he sees it.
Youâre trying to hide itâhe can tell that much. Smiling, nodding along while Lena talks to you at the nurseâs station, like everythingâs normal. But your shoulders are hunched in on yourself, one hand absently twisting the hem of your scrub top.
You lean against the counter like youâre tired. Like you're hurting.
Jackâs brow furrows.
Youâre still sharp, still working cases like nothingâs wrong. But something about the way you keep shifting your weight, the way your hand keeps pressing briefly against your abdomen when you think no oneâs looking, the way your tone isn't as warm as it usually isâhe doesnât like it.
"Dr. Abbot?" Smith steps up beside him, bright smile in place.
Jack barely registers her, his eyes remaining fixed on you.
Bridget had filled him in earlier about the nonsense Smith had been saying. Not the exact details, but enough for Jack to know something was going on. If it were up to him, the woman would already have a write-up sitting on HRâs desk. Not because of the fake husband thing, but because heâs the attending in this ER and doesnât tolerate bullshit in his department.
No one needs to know it bothers him even more because it's about you.
But youâd told him to leave it alone, said you had it handled. So he has, even if he doesnât like it. He will take care of it if it continues, though. No matter what you say.
But right now heâs more focused on the way youâre rubbing the back of your neck and trying not to lean too hard on the counter. Are you getting sick again?
Smith keeps talking, unaware of his split attention. "I just wanted to sayâyou were amazing in there earlier." She tilts her head toward the trauma bay. "That thoracotomy? So badass."
Jack gives a distracted hum, barely glancing her way.
Across the room, you shift again, wincing slightly but putting on a smile when Lena glances your way.
"Maybe," Smith continues, stepping a little closer so her shoulder brushes his, "after hours, maybe I could⌠get some one-on-one tips?"
Jackâs jaw tightens. He turns toward her, sharp, stepping back. "If you need extra practice, I can get you a spot in the skills lab or schedule time in the simulation center."
Her smile falters. "Oh⌠that's not what I meantâ"
"I'm already here too muchâAfter hours are reserved for spending time with my wife," he says, voice light but firm.
Smith takes a step back, visibly deflated. "Oh⌠right. Of course. I just thoughtâ"
"Let me know if you need me to schedule it for you," Jack interrupts, turning back to look at you again.
Her confident smile wavers, lips pressing thin. She takes a half-step back, shoulders tense. "Sure."
Jack doesnât even notice the embarrassment colouring her face. Heâs too busy watching you push yourself upright, forcing another smile at something Lena says.
Yeah. Somethingâs definitely wrong.
You lean against the wall outside South 4, shoulders hunched just slightly, wishing someone else were free for this presentation.
As the day had dragged on, the tightness in your shoulders, the dull throb in your lower back, and the nagging twist in your stomach all clicked together. Of course, your period picked today to make everything extra annoying.
And now, you're stuck listening to Smith because you were the only one available.
She stands beside you, tablet in hand, and her chin lifted. So far, she's been cordial, nice even, but you're not naive enough to think that one conversation will change her opinion of you.
"Harperâ68, presenting with abdominal pain and nausea."
You glance at the chart. "History?"
"She had a gallstone removed five years ago," Smith replies. "Otherwise healthy. Vitals stable." She pauses, then adds, "Pain started last night, constant, radiating to the back. No fever."
You nod, jaw tight. "Good. Whatâs your differential?"
Smith taps her tablet. "Iâm thinking recurrence in the common bile duct, biliary colic from a residual stone, or peptic ulcer. Pancreatitis is possible, but labs and imaging should clarify."
She meets your eyes with an almost sweet smile, but thereâs something rehearsed about it. You can tell sheâs tryingâtoo hardâto make this pleasant after yesterday.
You suppress a sigh, pressing your fingers lightly against the chart as you keep your voice neutral. "What would you do first?"
She lists labs, imaging, and supportive care.
You nod curtly, masking the irritation crawling under your skin, and open the door, dragging the curtain away. You force a smile. "Hello Harper. I hear you've been having some stomach pain. Letâs take a look and see if we can sort this out."
Bridget rolls the ultrasound machine into position. You glance at the screen, noting a shadow. "What do you see, Smith?" you ask.
"A gallstone," she says, pointing. "Sheâll need a laparoscopic cholecystectomy or possibly ERCP, depending on surgical consult"
"Correct," you say, voice slightly clipped. Turning to Harper, you make an effort to soften it, "You have a gallstone and will need surgery to take care of it. Weâll keep you comfortable with fluids and pain medication while we get the team ready."
You log the plan in the chart, then check on Harper again. "Let us know if your pain worsens."
You nod once at Smith before you leave. "Come get me if anything changes. Good job." The words scratch your throat on their way out, but you're a professional. You have to be. Have to show Smith that her words don't bother you.
Smith beams, nodding again. "Absolutely. Will do. Thank you so much!"
"Uh-huh," you mutter under your breath as you leave. "Suck up."
Your footsteps echo softly as you head back to the hub, fingers pressing lightly into your lower back. You glance up at the board, scanning your next case, trying to shake off the tension from Smith.
Jack steps up beside you quietly, talking to Lena. His hand nudges yours away and takes its place, warm against your lower back. You glance at him, surprised, but he doesn't look at you, doesn't mention anything about it, just keeps talking.
You stiffen for a heartbeat, then lean into the touch without thinking, letting your shoulders drop slightly. His hand lingers just long enough to steady you before he steps back, and you straighten with a quiet exhale, readying yourself for the next patient.
It's a quarter to midnight when you finally get to take a small break. Parker's already in the break room, scrolling through her phone as she sips her coffee. You stomp inside and flop into the chair opposite her, folding your arms on the table and resting your forehead on them.
"Rough night?" Parker lifts an eyebrow at you, glancing up from her phone.
"Ugh, the worst," you groan. "Had a patient question everything I did, and I just got my periodâ" You lift your head to look at her. "âwhich does explain why I've been in such a shitty mood all dayâbut it also couldn't have come at a worse time."
Parker grimaces, nodding knowingly. She knows all too well what itâs like to soldier through a shift with cramps. "I've got Ibuprofen in my locker, if you need some. Chocolate, too." She nudges her granola bar toward you. "You look like you could use this more than me."
"Thanks." You lean back, letting out a long exhale.
She's quiet for a second, just watching you. "So⌠What's going on with you and that Smith girl?"
You let out a soft hum, making a face at her. "Bridget tell you?"
"Yeah," she says, shifting forward to look you directly in the eyes. "I'll kick her ass if you need me to."
You snort. "I'm sure you will. Thanks." You exhale again and roll your eyes. "She's being so fake nice to me today as if that will make me forget everything she said yesterday."
Parker chuckles, leaning back in her chair. "Iâd tell her exactly what I think if she dared try that with me."
You grin, relieved to vent with someone who gets it. "Honestly, I almost wish you were there when she tried it with me earlier. Iâm pretty sure I muttered something under my breath that wouldâve gotten me written up."
She laughs, shaking her head. "You? Written up? Impossible." Then her expression softens. "But seriously⌠you donât have to deal with it alone. Youâve got me in your corner."
You smile back. "Thanks, Parker. I really mean it."
Bridget pops her head in the door, interrupting your conversation. "Ellis, Jackson's dad is here."
Parker chugs the rest of her coffee. "See you out there, soldier. I've gotta go tell a parent his son crashed his car and broke his coccyx."
"Good luck!"
You sigh deeply after Parker leaves, shoulders still stiff, and you know they'll only get worse as the night goes on. You can't stop tensing them as you try to hide your cramps. You sink into the chair, fingers absently twisting the hem of your scrub top.
The door clicks open again, and this time it's Jack who steps inside. His eyes find you, and he exhales softly, closing the door behind him. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just tired."
He nods, keeping his distance and scanning your appearance, then, slowly, he crosses the short gap and rests his hands lightly on your shoulders.
"You're tense," he mutters. His fingers are light, like he's expecting you to shrug him off. You donât. Instead, you lean into his touch. His fingers press gently at the base of your neck, kneading softly.
Your hands drop to your lap, fingers loosening around the fabric of your scrubs. Jack stays there for a moment, not saying another word, just easing some of the tension.
When he finally moves away, he does it slowly as if heâs making sure youâre stable enough before he steps back.
You blink a few times, shoulders slackening slightly.
He gives a small nod, eyes lingering on you. "Eat your granola," he says before he turns and heads out again.
Jackâs done after you, slowed down by hand-off, so by the time heâs at the locker, grabbing his bag, youâre already waiting at the hub. He sees you leaning against the counter, one hand briefly pressed into your abdomen, before you straighten when you see him.
There it is again. That stiffness heâs been noticing all night.
Heâs been trying not to hover, trying to respect the fact that you clearly didnât want to talk about whatever was going on. Every time he asked if you were okay, youâd brushed it off with that easy smile. Just tired, Jack.
He didnât believe you, but he let it go. For now.
You meet him by the exit, feet dragging behind you. "Ready?"
"Yeah," he says, studying you. "You sure youâreâ"
"Abbot!" Ellisâs voice cuts over both of you. She slips past you on the way out.
Jack pauses. "What?"
Ellis jerks her chin toward you. "You'd better treat her nice today."
Jack blinks. "I treat her nicely every day."
You groan softly beside him. "Parkerâ"
But Ellis just talks louder. "Iâm serious," she says. "Take her home, tuck her into bed, and stop somewhere on the way for chocolate."
Jack frowns. "âŚChocolate?"
Ellis wiggles her eyebrows. "Some cuddling. Heat helps. I've even heard that fuâ"
Your hand flies to your face. "Parker," you cut in, mortified.
Ellis just laughs, winking at you as she heads out.
Jack watches her go, then glances back at you, pieces clicking together. The hunched shoulders. The way you kept shifting your weight. The hand on your stomach. The stubborn refusal to explain.
His head slowly turns toward you, gaze softening. "âŚYouâre on your period?"
You stare at the floor as if you might actually dissolve into it. "I hate her," you mumble.
Jack exhales a quiet laugh, the tension thatâs been sitting in his chest all night finally loosening. Jesus. He thought you were getting sick again. Thought something was really wrong. Instead, you'd just spent twelve hours in the ER while dealing with cramps.
He drags a hand down his face, then opens the door and steps into the cold morning air. "Why didnât you just say that?"
You glare at him tiredly. "Because Iâm not twelve, Jack. I didnât think I needed to file a medical report about it."
"Yeah, well," he says dryly, sliding his phone out of his pocket, "when you spend the whole night looking like youâre about to collapse, Iâm going to assume something worse than normal biology."
You shuffle out beside him.
He taps his notes app. "Parker said chocolate."
You shake your head. "You don't have toâ"
"Anything else?"
"Jack."
"Sweetheart."
You glance over at him, and a tiny exhale escapes.
He stares back, completely serious. "You worked a full shift like that. You deserve something sweet."
"...Ice cream." The corner of your mouth twitches upward despite yourself. He grins when you bump him lightly with your shoulder.
Jack dropped you off, muttering that heâd be back before you knew it, and to take a long, hot shower in his absence.
You obey, slipping into your softest pyjamas after and collapsing onto the couch. Your body folds in on itself instinctivelyâstill sore, still cramping with no heating pad in sight. You'd given up on finding it after spending a few minutes rifling through your things.
The door clicks open again, and Jack steps inside, bags in hand. "Got your favorites," he says, once he steps into the kitchen. "And pads, and tampons. Not sure what you like, so I got a bit of everything." He drops the bags on the counter and fiddles with something in the kitchen.
You blink at him, a flutter of tears pressing at your waterline as gratitude tightens your throat. "You shouldnât have," you murmur. You can't remember the last time someone did something this nice for you.
"Nonsense," he says, then sets a bowl on the table. "Eat it before it melts. I'm gonna go shower."
You don't move from your place, just stare up at him with wet eyes.
"Youâre supposed to eat the ice cream, sweetheart," he mutters softly, then he smirks, "not stare at me again."
You huff a breath into your shoulder, half-grinning despite the cramps and exhaustion. He leaves once you pick up the spoon, letting the cold sweetness hit your tongue.
Jack returns a few minutes later, hair damp, settling at the other end of the couch.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, voice softer now.
"Mm," you murmur, eyes half-closed, folding into yourself a little more. "JustâŚcramps."
Jackâs gaze softens. "Do you want me to get your heating pad?"
You shake your head, frowning. "I canât find it. Mustâve left it at my old place."
He hesitates, chewing on his lower lip. "I canâŚuse my hand? It's not the same, but it might help a little?"
Normally, you would have hesitated, but youâre too tired, too sore, too worn down. You don't think twice before you slump against his chest, cheek pressing into the damp cotton of his t-shirt, warmth seeping into your skin.
Jack shifts slightly, making sure youâre comfortable. His arm winds over you, palm settling on your abdomen. "Better?"
You hum, dissatisfied, not really able to feel the heat through your shirt. You shift for a second, then lift your shirt and put his hand directly on your skin. "Better."
Jackâs fingers tense for half a second in surprise before relaxing again. His hand covers more of you than you expected, warm and broad against your stomach. After a moment, his thumb shifts, tracing a slow arc over your skin.
You exhale slowly against his chest. For the first time all day, the ache starts to ease.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, aggravating comments
word count: 6.7k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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Jack wakes up alone, and for a brief, fractured second, his heart nearly stops.
Panic claws up his spine, sharp and irrational. Thereâs a dizzying thought that heâs lost time somehowâthat weeks or months have slipped past him unnoticed, that heâs woken up in a version of his life where you arenât here anymore. The fear is so vivid it almost feels real.
Then his vision clears.
Your hoodie hangs over the armchair, one sleeve brushing the floor. The sheets beside him are still rumpled from where you slept. Your perfume still sits on the dresser, and when he inhales, your scent lingers on the pillow, cutting through the panic like a tether.
Youâre still here.
Relief washes through him so hard it leaves him breathless. His chest aches with the quiet, humiliating knowledge of how easily his world tilts when you arenât within reach. He canât remember the last time he slept longer than you. He usually wakes early just to watch you, curled up, hair a mess, and with lashes fanned against your cheek. He likes those quiet minutes where he can pretend youâre already his in all the ways that matter. That youâve chosen him. That youâre staying.
He hates that heâs missed it today.
With a small, frustrated huff at himself, he pushes himself upright. His body protests as he reaches for his crutches, but he brushes off the discomfort. The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds of movement from the living room. He makes his way out, expecting to find you scrolling through your phone or buried in a textbook.
He stops short instead.
Youâre in the middle of the room on a yoga mat, sunlight spilling across your back. Youâre bent into a stretchâhips lifted, hands pressing into the mat, leggings hugging your every curve.
Itâs innocent. Itâs just exercise.
Jack doesn't think he's ever gotten aroused so quickly before. The reaction is immediate. Inconvenient. Undeniable. For a second, he stands there frozen, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, blood rushing down. The room feels too warm. Too bright. He becomes acutely aware of the space between you and how easily he could close it.
âOh, hey,â you say, twisting slightly to glance at him.
The movement only makes it worse. He looks away immediately, heat flooding his face as he hobbles toward the kitchen with more urgency than dignity. He feels seventeen againâawkward, hopelessly smitten, painfully obviousâtrying to hide his lower half behind the counter.
âHey,â he manages, attempting to sound casual but probably missing the mark entirely. âDid you sleep well?â
âYeah,â you exhale, the sound dragging as you change position. His cock twitches in his shorts, and he grips the counter harder than necessary. âYou?â
âMm.â He focuses on the coffee machine as if it requires his full concentration, desperate for distraction. The sputter and drip are absurdly loud in the quiet room. âWant some?â
âYes, please.â
He risks a glance from the corner of his eye and instantly regrets it when you shift again. His hand slips down to adjust himself. He feels perverted.
âAny plans today?â he asks, because if he doesnât talk, he might just stare.
âJust some studying before work.â
âOkay. Let me know if you need help.â He sets two mugs on the counter, fingers steady even if the rest of him isnât. âWe could cook dinner together later? If you're up for it? We can make enough so you can bring it with you.â
The offer is casual. He tries to make it sound that way. But underneath it is something else. Please choose to spend time with me.
You light up at his suggestion, the smile hitting him harder than anything else. It always does. âSure.â
He sits down just as you stand up, tugging his shirt down to cover his lap. He hopes you canât see how easily you affect himânot just physically, but entirely. He doesnât want you to know how much space you occupy in his thoughts or how often he lies awake dreaming about a future heâs too afraid to mention. Not after you've made it clear where you stand with each other.
You step into the kitchen, close enough that your arm brushes his shoulder. You pause. âYouâre being weird,â you say lightly.
His pulse spikes. âAm not.â
You tilt your head slightly, studying him for half a beat too long. His stomach flips under the scrutinyâterrified youâll see everything, desperate that you will.
âUh-huh,â you hum, but thereâs a small smile there. You take the seat next to him. "What are you thinking of making?"
He looks down at his coffee just to steady himself before he begins speaking. "I was thinkingâ"
After youâve showered and spent some time studying, you find yourself in the kitchen again with Jack. You've pulled his hoodie back on, the one that's just somehow become yours without any discussion. Jack hasn't asked for it back, and you can't bring yourself to ask him, in case he actually does.
The late afternoon light filters in softer now, warmerâa sign that spring is here to stay. Thereâs music playing quietly from his phone on the counter, something low and familiar, blending with the steady hum of the fridge and the faint simmer of water heating on the stove.
âThink you can handle cutting the onion?â he asks, leaning casually against the counter as if he isnât absolutely baiting you.
You pause mid-reach for the onions, slowly turning to meet his gaze. âExcuse me?â
He shrugs, playing innocent. âJust checking.â
Your eyes narrow. âWhat makes you doubt my onion-cutting skills?â
âMaybe the fact that you cry a river every single time?â Jack grins as he bumps your shoulder and squeezes past to grab the pasta from the cupboard.
âI do not,â you retort, but a smile is already creeping onto your face as you take your place at the counter. With dramatic determination, you pick up the onions. âI have a refined tear-duct system. Itâs highly resilient.â
âDo too,â he counters easily, setting the pasta down beside the stove. âLast time you were blinking so hard I thought you were sending Morse code.â
You scoff, peeling an onion with exaggerated vigour. âItâs not like youâre immune either. I heard you sniffling the other day.â
Jack freezes mid-step. âThatâs not true.â
âIt is,â you insist, glancing back at him. âI heard it from the bedroom.â
âI had a cold.â
âYou did not.â
âI did.â
âYouâre a terrible liar.â
He moves closer, reaching for the garlic this time. His arm brushes against yours as he does, and he halts when he sees your cutting technique. His fingers barely touch your wrist as he takes the knife from your hand. âLike this,â he murmurs, adjusting your grip. His hand covers yours, warm and steady. âYouâre holding it like youâre about to duel someone.â
Your breath catches for a moment before you recover. âMaybe I am. Maybe the onion has insulted me.â
âIt probably did. Onions can be quite the instigators. But you also donât have the best track record here, Trouble.â
You let out a laugh, but neither of you pulls away right away. His hand remains over yours, guiding the first slice through the onion. He could let go. He doesnât.
âSee?â he says quietly. âNo tears yet.â
âThatâs because Iâm strong.â
âThatâs because Iâm supervising.â
âYou canât stop tears with fancy cutting techniques.â You nudge him with your hip; he shoves back, laughing, and the knife wobbles dangerously.
âCareful,â he warns, though heâs grinning. âIâm attached to those fingers.â
âOh?â you arch a brow. âWhyâs that?â
âTheyâre handy. For stirring, chopping, and pointing dramatically when youâre wrong.â
âIâm never wrong.â
âYou thought coriander and parsley were the same thing.â
âThey look the same!â you mutter.
âThey absolutely do not.â
You elbow him lightly, and he pretends to stumble back, placing a hand on your waist to steady himself. Neither of you comments on it. The small kitchen makes it easy to blame it on the closeness and pretend the warmth of his palm is accidental.
Clearing your throat, you say, âSo, about the cryingâŚâ
He groans softly. âWeâre not going back there.â
âOh, but we are. I distinctly heard sniffling.â
âYou imagined it,â he nudges your shoulder again.
âI did not. It was very dramatic.â Rolling your eyes, you lean your shoulder into his. âIâve got a new nickname for you.â
âOh no.â
âSniffles.â
He pulls back just enough to stare at you, affronted. âAbsolutely not.â
âYes! Sniffles!
âYou are not calling me that.â
âI think itâs cute.â
He smirks, leaning in to catch your eye. âYou think Iâm cute?â
You nearly drop the knife. âThatâs not what I said!â
âSure sounded like it.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet,â he repeats softly, thumb brushing against your side before he finally steps away, âyouâre still here.â This time, thereâs no grin behind it.
The air feels warmer than it did a minute ago. You go back to chopping, this time actually blinking a little harder.
âAre you crying?â he asks immediately, far too pleased with himself.
âNo,â you snap.
âSure.â
âJust shut up and boil the pasta, Sniffles.â
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he turns to the stove, but heâs smiling the whole time, and when he reaches for the pasta, his arm brushes yours again like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
When the pasta is done, you eat it straight from bowls balanced on your knees while some terrible reality show hums in the background.
You change into your scrubs, and Jack disappears into the bathroom, grumbling something about not wanting to smell like garlic. A moment later, the pipes creak, and the shower starts running.
There's still an hour until you have to be at work, so you begin transferring the leftover pasta into Tupperware containers, sealing the lids one by one. Hopefully, you have time to eat something later, but that entirely depends on the type of night it is.
Suddenly, three sharp knocks break through the sound of the shower and your packing.
You pause, frowning at the door. âWho could that be?â you mutter, wiping your hands on a dish towel. Maybe the bed legs have finally arrived. You swing the door open.
It's not a deliveryman.
It's Robby.
He stands there like he owns the place, a six-pack dangling from his fingers, stepping in before youâve processed his face.
âHeyââ you begin.
He barges right in.
âSure,â you mutter, pressing yourself against the wall to avoid getting knocked over, âcome right in, why donât you?â
Robby makes it a few steps down the hallway before his brain catches up to his eyes. He screeches to a halt so suddenly that he almost drops the beer. Slowly, he turns around.
He looks you up and down like youâre a ghost. âWhat are you doing here?â
You blink. âI could ask the same of you.â
âIâm here to watch the game,â he says, brows knitting together. âWhat are you doing here?â
Your head tilts to the side. âAre you fucking with me?â
âNo?â He genuinely looks confused. âWhy would I beââ His eyes narrow slightly.
You cross your arms. âJack didnât tell you?â you ask.
Robbyâs confusion deepens, and it becomes clear that Jack did not tell him anything.
From the bathroom, Jackâs voice carries out, âTell who what?â
He steps into the living room mid-sentence, towel in hand, and freezes when he sees the imposing silhouette blocking the light. âRobby?â
âJack,â Robby replies in an unnervingly calm tone. Thereâs a whole conversation happening in the silence that ensues. Robbyâs eyebrows shoot up, Jackâs shoulders tense, and Robby glances at you, then back at Jack. His gaze shifts toward the wall where your coats hang and returns to Jack once more.
Jack glares at him with a look that clearly says do not start. Robbyâs grin only widens.
You take one look at the silent exchange and decide you want no part of it. âIâm just gonna grab my food and leave you guys to watch the game,â you say, lifting your brows at Jack in a pointed look, brushing past them to get to the kitchen.
His expression shifts immediately, brows twitching with apology. A silent " I'm sorry, I forgot. It wasn't like him to forget things, but the plans had been made at shift change, a brief mutter by Robby that Jack had simply nodded at, desperate to go home to see you. Now, he's cursing his past self.
âNo, I can still drive you,â Jack says quickly, already stepping toward you.
Robby makes a small, exaggerated cough behind him. âDrive you?â
Jack doesnât even glance back. âShut up.â
You slip a container into your bag before heading back to the hallway. âItâs fine. I can walk.â
âNo,â Jack insists, his tone firmer this time. He follows you, lowering his voice. âI donât want you walking alone.â
From the living room, Robby calls out as he notices your trinkets scattered around. âDid you get new things, man?â
Jack closes his eyes for a moment.
âDid you?â Robby continues, now leaning against the doorway, watching you two like itâs more entertaining than the pregame show. âOr is this just another ploy to fool HR?â
You zip your backpack slowly, looking over at Jack with a grin. You don't know why he hasn't told Robby, but it's not something you mind. It's been nice having this for yourself, and now you know you can look forward to more teasing. âJack can explain his secrets.â
Robby lets out a low whistle. âSecrets, huh. Wow.â
Jack finally turns around. âYou done?â
âOh, Iâm just getting started,â Robby replies with a grin. "Didnât know I was interrupting something.â
Jackâs ears redden. He motions for Robby to return to the living room, a quick shooing motion that Robby actually abides by. Â
You try very hard not to smile. âItâs really fine,â you say gently, turning to Jack. âI donât mind walking. Itâs nice out.â
He still looks unconvinced, his jaw tightening as his eyes flick to the door, calculating the distance, the time, the risk.
âThe game can wait,â he says quietly.
âHonestly,â you add softly, stepping closer so Robby canât hear as clearly. âGo have fun. Iâll be fine."
His brows crinkle with worry anyway.
Without thinking, you reach out to smooth the wrinkle between them with your thumb. âYou can still come pick me up in the morning,â you say, trying to ease the last of Jackâs hesitation. âBright and early.â
He studies your face for a second longer than necessary. "Text me when youâre there,â he says, acquiescing.
âOf course.â
Thereâs a moment where neither of you moves. It feels strange suddenlyâleaving without the usual routine. Without him grabbing his keys automatically. Without him picking up your bag as well as his. Without leaving together.
You hesitate, uncertain of the rules now. A hug seems too obvious, and a kiss on the cheek feels too intimate.
So you settle for reaching out and squeezing his arm gently. âIâll see you later.â
His hand instinctively comes up, fingertips brushing against yours before you pull away. âYeah,â he replies quietly. âLater.â
The door clicks shut behind you. Jack stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the door as if it might open again.
Thereâs exactly half a second of silence. Thenâ
âDude.â
Jack lets out a slow breath.
âYouâre living together?â Robby presses, his voice climbing an octave. âAnd you didnât say anything?â
âWe donâtââ
âYou so do.â
âItâs temporary," Jack says, sinking onto the couch. His shoulders are tense, and his eyes are glued to the TV, though his mind is clearly elsewhere. His hands clench into fists on his knees, thumbs tapping an impatient rhythm.
âUh-huh.â Robby studies his friend closely, noting how Jackâs gaze is still locked on the hallway. âTemporary.â
Jack drags a hand down his face and pulls out his phone, already waiting for your text.
Robby claps him on the shoulder. âYouâre done for, man.â
Jack rolls his eyes. âShut up. Just watch the game.â
âOh, I am watching,â Robby replies, leaning back with an arm slung over the couch, his eyes twinkling with amusement. âTotally focused. Very much so.â
Jack groans and covers his face with his hand. âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
âMe? No way,â Robby says, shifting on the couch to get more comfortable. He props his chin in his hand, eyes flicking between Jack and the TV screen. "She likes you, too, you know."
Jackâs jaw tightens. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. You donât like him; he knows it. Youâre just friends, you made that very clear the other night.
Jack shoots him a look that could melt steel. "Seriously, shut up. Just. Watch. The. Game.â There's a soft pling from his phone, and Robby can't help but grin wider when Jack's body relaxes blatantly.
An hour passes without any more comments. Robby is stretched out on the couch, a beer in his hand, and leaning back with that infuriating smirk that always makes Jack feel like heâs under a microscope. âSo⌠howâs she finding it? Living in your spare room?â
Caught off guard, Jack blinks. âUh⌠wellâŚâ He scratches the back of his neck as he searches for a neutral response. âSheâs⌠settled in fine.â
Robby raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. âMhm. Okay."
Jack shifts on the couch, aware that Robby isnât just letting it go. âI mean, the spare roomâs decent. Lots of space.â
Robby hums thoughtfully, tilting his head, repeating Jack's words. âLots of space, huh?â He leans forward slightly, peering toward Jack. âSo sheâs⌠uh, sleeping there?â
Jack stares back, âDid you suddenly lose your hearing?â
Robby doesn't respond, just raises both eyebrows, silently prompting him to stop lying.
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. Sighs. He knows when the fight is lost. âActually⌠she⌠doesnât sleep there.â
Robby blinks, then smirks. âAh. Didnât think so.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Robby sets his beer on the coffee table and leans back, clearly enjoying the moment. âI mean⌠I went to the bathroom earlier, you know, just taking a piss, and the spare room was wide openâand thereâs⌠nothing. No bed. Just boxes. Pretty minimal.â
Jack feels his face heat.
"So where exactly does she sleep? Don't tell me you made her sleep on the couch.â
Jack groans and leans deeper into the couch cushions. âNo, of course not. She sleeps... in my bed⌠obviously.â Jack doesnât say that most nights you're curled up on his chest. Robby doesn't need more ammo.
Robby whistles low. âThat explains a lot.â He props an elbow on the back of the couch, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes glimmering with mischief. âSharing a bed⌠living together⌠and you still don't believe she likes you, huh?â
Jack huffs, running a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassment, but Robbyâs gaze is too sharp. âShut up. Just⌠shut up. Watch the game.â
Robby chuckles, shaking his head. âWhatever you say, man."
Ignoring him, Jack stares at the TV, knowing heâs lost this round. Robbyâs smirk stays firmly planted on his face. Jack glances at his phone again, just to reread your 'Iâm here :)' text.
You arrive early, Robby's fault really, so you settle behind the counter in the hub after putting your food in the break room fridge. Dropping into the chair, you spin around once before stretching your legs out.
âLook who decided to grace us with her presence,â Dana calls without looking up from her work.
âMissing me already?â you shoot back with a smile.
âLike a rash,â she replies dryly, finally peering over her glasses at you. âHey, sweets,â she says, her tone softening. Dana's one of the people you've missed the most since moving to the night shift. She'd been your rock through most of your residency, making sure you'd been okay and also occasionally telling you off for being too rash and hotheaded.
âHey, howâs your day been?â you ask. This small moment together is worth being here early.
âSame circus, different clowns," she replies. âTwo codes, but we got them back.â
You sit up a little straighter. âBoth?â
âYep,â she confirms. âThe second one was chaos. You wouldâve loved it.â
You grin. âI do love a good disaster.â
âI know you do, which is why I canât wrap my head around why you moved to the night shift.â She spins around to face you fully now. âEver think about coming back to days? We all miss you.â
You offer her an apologetic smile, but she rolls her eyes in response. âDonât you dare give me that look,â she warns.
âWhat look?â
âThat look.â
You busy your hands before your face gives you away. "I don't have a look."
âYou do,â she corrects. âDoesn't matter how much I ask anyway, not as long as Jack's holding down nights. Where he is, you'll be.â
The corner of your mouth betrays you before you can stop it, a smile you can't suppress at the mention of him.
âI didnât move for him,â you say, a little too quickly. âNights suit me.â They do. The pace. The autonomy. The way it forces you to trust your instincts. But youâd be lying if you said it didnât matter that heâs there.
Dana hums knowingly, glasses sliding down her nose. âMhm. How are things between you two?â
You shift in your chair, suddenly aware of how intently sheâs observing you. Dana has always had an uncanny ability to see right through you, and you canât let anything slip now.
âWeâre good,â you reply. âBusy. My exam is right around the corner, so Iâm feeling a bit overwhelmed. But Jack is... great at keeping me grounded.â He's been a great support when you find yourself spiralling at home, always there to bring you right back to reality, and assure you that you can do it.
She nods, satisfied. âYou two balance each other well."
âYou mean I now have someone to stop me from picking fights with cardiology?â
âExactly.â She nods, turning back to her computer, prepping for the shift change, but thereâs a lingering warmth in her demeanour. Her approval means more than youâd like to admit.
âTrouble,â a well-known voice sings. You donât even need to look to know who it is. Princess steps into your line of sight, bumping her hip against your shoulder.
âHowâs it going?â she asks.
âGood. Just missing my favourite nurse,â you pout dramatically. âWanna join me on the night shift?â
She snorts. âNot in a million years. I love sunlight and my sanity too much.â
âCoward.â
âPlease, Iâve worked with you for years. I've earned the right to protect my peace.â
âAnd what about me?â Perlah chimes in from your other side, feigning offence, as she leans over the counter. âI see how it is.â
âMy favourite nurses,â you amend quickly, holding up both hands. âA very elite club, just so you know.â
Perlah grins. âThatâs better.â
âCome join the dark side,â you add, grin widening.
âHard pass,â Perlah replies.
They laugh, easy and familiar, the sound filling the hub the way it always used to when you were all on days together. Then their expressions shift. Itâs subtle at first. Princessâs smile drops a fraction. Perlahâs eyes narrow.
You follow their gaze to two fresh-faced med students, just scrubbed and clearly very eager.
âThe new med students are joining the night shift today,â Perlah says carefully.
âAnd?â you prompt, sensing the tone.
âYoung and Smith,â Princess supplies, nodding toward the man. âYoungâs fineânervous, polite, and actually listens to feedback.â
âAnd Smith?â you ask, eyes flitting over to the woman.
They exchange a look.
âGunner,â Perlah states flatly. "Trying her best to get a residency spot here."
Ah. You exhale slowly. âHow bad is she?â
Princess tilts her head. âOn day one, she corrected an attending.â
âThat's confident," you say, raising your eyebrows.
Perlah continues, âKeeps name-dropping research. Asked how quickly she could get into procedures.â
Princess crosses her arms. âDidnât introduce herself to half of us nurses or trust our judgments.â
You hum thoughtfully. âOkay, then we educate. Sheâll learn real quick that nurses keep this place standing.â
Dana looks over at you, clearly having heard everything. âAlright. Go collect your children. Teach them some manners.â
You wonder, just for a moment, whether Jack is having fun with Robbyâwhether heâs already halfway through a beer, whether heâd laugh at that. Then you push yourself up from the chair, brush off imaginary lint, and shake the thoughts away.
âDonât forget to miss me while Iâm gone.â
Rounds pass without incident. Young stays close to Shen, soaking up everything like a sponge. He asks insightful questions, takes a moment before responding, and double-checks dosages. You like him immediately.
In contrast, Smith has a habit of answering questions that arenât directed at her. She finishes Shenâs sentences and casually references studies that nobody in the room asked about. Itâs not overly troublingâyet. Just a bit abrasive around the edges.
You end up with her for minor cases while Shen pulls Young into a trauma.
Lucky you.
âHello, Mrs. Jones,â you greet warmly as you step into the room, Smith at your shoulder. âIâm your doctor tonight, one of the residents on duty."
Sheâs perched on the bed, a towel wrapped around her hand, blood seeping through in uneven patches.
âThis is Smith, one of our medical students,â you add, nodding for her to introduce herself.
Smith steps forward with confidence. âHi, Mrs. Jones. Iâll be helping take care of you today.â
Mrs Jones' smile is easy, despite the pain. âNice to meet you, dears.â
You log onto the computer while Smith starts to gently unwrap the towel.
âThat looks like a pretty deep cut,â she observes as she examines it. âHow did this happen?â
âOh, I was cooking dinner for my husband and the knife slipped,â Mrs. Jones laughs lightly. âTwenty years, and I still canât chop onions properly!â
âTwenty years?â you echo from behind the computer, glancing over with a grin. âThatâs quite an achievement!â
âIt feels like five,â she beams back.
Smith carefully irrigates the wound. âThatâs wonderful. Not many marriages last that long anymore.â
Mrs. Jones nods, adding, âThatâs because people give up too easily,â with a playful shrug. She then notices your hand as you turn toward the bed.
âOh!â Her eyes light up. âAre you married?â
You glance down at the simple rubber band. âYeah. Iâm a newlywed.â The word still feels strange in your mouth.
âOh, how lovely,â she sighs, looking warmly at you. âYou have that glow. What does he do?â
âHeâs a doctor, too.â
Smithâs tone shifts slightly. âAn attending, right? Dr. Abbot?â She doesnât ask it like a question, but more like a confirmation.
âYes,â you reply evenly.
âHow sweet. You must understand each other so well. My husband and I met at workâI was his secretary,â Mrs. Jones reminisces fondly. âHeâs a CEO and is about to retire, so I wanted to prepare his favourite dinner.â
Smith pauses for a moment during the irrigation. âA CEO? Thatâs impressive.â
âHe works very hard,â she replies with pride.
Smith continues lightly, âWell, it must be nice having a husband who can take care of you.â
The comment lingers awkwardly in the air.
Mrs. Jones gives a polite smile but frowns just a bit. âOh, Iâve always taken care of myself, too.â
âOf course,â Smith quickly corrects herself. âI just meanâitâs reassuring, you know? Having someone higher up on your side.â Her eyes dart briefly to you, to your badge, then to your ring.
You keep your expression steady, but your jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, âWe take care of each other in different ways,â you say lightly, smiling at Mrs Jones. "Alright, letâs get some lidocaine in there before we close this up. I'll do the first stitch. Smith, you can do the rest."
âWe could probably get away with three sutures,â Smith says, glancing down.
âWe close based on tension and alignment, not convenience.â
"Oh, sure," she says, looking at you briefly. "Of course."
You push through the heavy exam room door and let it swing shut behind you, the muffled hum of monitors and distant pages filling the hallway. Youâre already halfway to the hub when Smith falls into step beside you.
âSo,â she says lightly, almost too casually, âis Dr. Shen single?â
You blink, unsure if you heard her correctly. The fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows under her eyes, but her expression is perfectly serious.
âIâm sorryâwhat?â
âDr. Shen,â she repeats. âOr⌠any of the attendings, really.â
You stop in your tracks. The corridor smells faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Bridget squeezes past you with a vitals cart. You stare at Smith.
âWhy?â you ask slowly.
She shrugs, adjusting her stethoscope. âI was just thinking about doing what you did.â Her eyes flick briefly to your ring.
âWhat I did?â You repeat, glancing up at the board. The names blur together.
âYeah.â She lowers her voice, as if sheâs sharing a clever study tip. âHaving a relationship with an attending here could seriously boost my chances of landing a residency. Medicineâs political,â she adds. âMight as well play it properly.â
For a moment, you simply stare at her. âExcuse me?â
âI mean, it worked out pretty well for you, didnât it?â She gives you a small, knowing nod.
A hollow rush of disbelief floods your ears. You can't help the incredulous snort that escapes you. âThatâsââ
She doesnât seem to register your reaction. âItâs strategic,â she continues, unfazed. âPrograms like people, they already trust. If youâre close with someone influentialââ
âStrategic?â you repeat, your voice sharpening. âYou think Iââ You break off, disbelief tangling with irritation. The idea is so absurd you almost laugh again, but the heat creeping up your neck keeps it from being funny. âYou think Iâm here because Iâm sleeping with an attending?â
Smith shrugs her shoulders noncommittally. âIâm just saying, it doesnât hurt. So, is Shen single?"
âThatâs not how you get a residency.â
Her gaze sharpens. âRight. Different rules for different people. I get it.â
For a heartbeat, you consider unloading on herâtelling her exactly how hard you worked, how many nights you slept in the call room, how many weekends you missed, how insulting it is to reduce everything to gossip and shortcuts. Jack's never once used his position to shield you. If it hadn't been for that stupid glitch, the two of you would never even have been connected.
But before you can gather your thoughts, Lenaâs voice calls out across the department. âTrauma incoming! ETA two minutes!â
Shen's voice calls out next, finding your eyes. "You're with me. Smith, too."
The energy shifts instantly. Chairs scrape. Smith is already turning toward the trauma bay, expression sharpening into focus.
You swallow whatever you were about to say. There will be time to address her ridiculous assumption later.
Right now, sheâll see exactly why youâre here.
Time ticks by, and each comment from Smith comes off as harmless and politeâa mere observation or a passing remark. Yet, when piled together, they create an unmistakable pattern, a constant undercurrent. Every look, every phrase circles back to the same insinuation: that you havenât earned your place here on your own, that your impending attending job offer isnât due to your skill but rather because Jack interfered.
You suppress a sigh, clenching your jaw just a bit, determined not to let her get under your skin. The night stretches on, and patience is part of the job, both with patients and with colleagues like her.
Now, you sit beside the bed of your current patient, preparing to administer a shot of lidocaine to his arm. Bridget stands off to the side, watching silently. He'd fallen off his bike and gotten a nasty case of road rash. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet. He flinches slightly at the needle, and you gently steady his arm. âJust a small pinch,â you tell him reassuringly. âAlmost done."
He nods, visibly relaxing under your calm, steady presence. âYouâre⌠very skilled,â he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. âI feel like Iâm in good hands.â
You look up and return his smile warmly. âThank you. Weâll make sure youâre comfortable and clean your wound so you can get out of here.â
Nearby, Smith stands casually, one hand resting on the bed rail. She turns to the patient, all charm and politeness, a perfectly timed smile on her face. âYou can trust her,â she says smoothly, âSheâs⌠soon to be an attending.â
To the patient, her words seem like praise, a note of admiration. He beams at you. âThatâs incredible! Congratulations.â
You donât need to face Smith to catch the subtext. Her eyes dip to your ring, her smile tightens, her chin lifts a fraction, every gesture precise. It isnât pride; itâs judgment edged with resentment, a quiet suggestion that you havenât earned your placeâand that youâre standing in the way of hers.
Bridget notices, too, a small glance your way, confirming youâre not imagining it. Itâs not the first remark she's heard since you asked her to stay close, just to be sure Smith wasnât crossing a line. Now, you're more than certain.
You keep your expression neutral and your voice steady as you stand up.  âThank you. Smith, the floor is all yours.â
As she passes you to reach the patient, you catch a soft murmur under her breath, just audible enough to register in your mind. âMust be nice having connections.â
âSmith,â you say evenly, voice calm but firm. That's it. âA word, please.â You gesture toward the door. Bridget stays behind, sending you an encouraging nod.
For a split second, she looks surprised, but she follows you outside. âSure,â she replies carefully as you close the door behind you, stepping a few paces away.
You step closer, lowering your voice. âIâve kept my focus on the patients, letting your comments slide. That ends now. I wonât tolerate disrespect toward me or my work.â
Her smirk falters, replaced by a polite but defensive posture. âI⌠I wasnât being disrespectful. I was just making observations.â
âObservations?â you echo, maintaining a calm yet pointed tone. âObservations about my marriage to Jack? My incoming attending offer? How I got my spot here?â
She opens her mouth, but hesitates.
âLet me be very clear,â you continue. âJack and I only recently got together. Iâd already earned my reputation long before that, and my attending offer is the result of my work alone.â
For a moment, her eyes flick to the floor, and then back up. âI⌠I see.â
âGood,â you say. âBecause if thereâs even a hint of you or anyone else implying otherwise, I wonât stand for it. Iâve earned my spot here. Itâs my skills, my work, my hoursâthatâs what got me this far, not who Iâm married to.â
She opens her mouth again, but then closes it, realising thereâs nothing more to say. The smirk is gone, replaced by a stiff nod. âUnderstood.â She enters the room again.
You release the tension in your shoulders, trying to shake it off, but as you sink into your chair, the thoughts start creeping in.
Did anyone else think the same way?
You glance at the computer, screen still blank, badge still clipped to your shirt. Even with years of experience, Smithâs words prick at the edges of your confidence. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, forcing the doubt back down. You've earned your place here. You did that. Not Jack.
Shen, who had been standing quietly off to the side while you confronted Smith, leans casually against the desk next to your computer.
âYouâre doing great,â he says simply. âEvery patient you've worked with tonight? Your assessments were thorough, and your procedures were spot on. Youâve handled everything exactly as you should.â
You try to nod, but the knot in your stomach refuses to loosen. âI⌠I know,â you murmur. âItâs just... all those little comments she made, the things she muttered under her breath. Even after I⌠after I stood up to her, I can't help but wonder ifââ
Shen shifts slightly, tilting his head, showing heâs listening without interrupting. âBridget mentioned that she was crossing the line,â he admits. âI didnât step in because I trusted you to manage it on your own. And you did. You calmly and professionally made it clear that her behaviour wasnât acceptable.â
You glance up at him.
âYouâve earned your place here. Donât let Smith, or anyone else, shake that. I also recommended you for the attending position because Iâve seen your work. Iâve got your back.â Shen smirks. âAnd if she tries again, Iâll⌠letâs just say, Iâve got a few creative ways to make interns regret their life choices.â
You take a slow, deep breath, letting his words wash away the doubts that have been creeping in all night. Itâs a quiet reassurance, yet enough to remind you: you are skilled. You belong here. Jackâs name doesnât define your worth.
Shen leans back a bit, easing the tension in his posture. âBesides, if Smith thought she could push you around tonight, she clearly misjudged you." He grins at you. "Still, it's probably good that Abbot wasnât around. That wouldnât have ended well.â
You canât help the small, tight smile that finally surfaces. âYeah,â you murmur. âDefinitely not.â
Shen gives you a small nod before he walks off. You rub your hands together, shake out your shoulders, and finally let yourself breathe. Then you scan your badge and open your chart.
You step out into the cool morning air, the hospital quiet behind you. Jackâs car idles out front. He leans casually against the hood, a thermocup in his hand, steam rising in thin curls.
âHey,â he says as you approach, his voice easy. You press yourself into his open arms, aware that it's just in case people are watching, but you need the comfort. His arms close over your body, holding you close for a moment longer than you usually let yourself linger.
You give him a small smile when you move back, grab the cup, and slide into the passenger seat. Your shoulders are looser than they were an hour ago, your breathing even, but Jack doesnât miss the subtle tensionâthe faint set of your jaw, the way your fingers wrap around your bag just a little too tightly.
âSomeone said something,â he says quietly, almost more to himself than to you, leaning on the door.
You shake your head lightly. âJust an intern pushing boundaries,â you murmur, shrugging, voice calm. âBut I got it covered.â
He studies you, frowning. âHm,â he says, not pressing, just letting the pause linger. âYou sure?"
You glance at the thermocup, the warmth seeping into your hands, and nod at him. âIâm fine. Really. Nothing you need to worry about.â
Jackâs gaze lingers a moment longer, sharp and intuitive, then he climbs into the driverâs seat. âAlright,â he says slowly, still worried, but deferring. âJust⌠if it pops back up, I want to know. Okay?â He wordlessly switches the music to something softer.
You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. âYou survive the evening with Robby?â
Jack laughs quietly as he starts the car. âBarely,â he admits, glancing at you. âThat guyâs like a walking commentary on my life⌠and apparently yours too.â
You chuckle, feeling the last of the nightâs tension slip away. âDid he actually watch the game, or just annoy you?â
âHalf of him watched,â Jack replies, eyes on the road, âthe other half kept commenting on every play and asking questions about⌠well⌠everything.â He shakes his head again, a fond grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He really liked your blanket."
"Of course, he did," you laugh. "It's unique."
"That's one way to put it," Jack smirks, looking over at you briefly.
You let out a small sigh, letting the warmth of the car, the quiet streets, and Jackâs presence settle over you. All the worry Smith had stirred earlier slips away. Shen had eased most of it, but being here with Jack, close and safe, eases it like nothing else could.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, jack's leg makes an appearance
word count: 4.9k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Living with Jack is infinitely easier than you ever imagined it would be. You knew he would make a good roommateâheâs thoughtful and respectfulâbut you still braced yourself for the usual bumps in the road. You anticipated those awkward silences in the kitchen and the "you ate the last of my cereal" arguments you used to have with Talia. The discomfort of you not being quite sure where to place yourself in his home when itâs just a temporary move.
Instead, you get mornings where you both come home from the night shift, take one look at each other, and just know who needs the shower first. He had a rough night? You wave him through. Youâve had a bad shift? Heâs already stepping back, surrendering the shower with a sleepy smile. No debates. Just a quiet understanding and adjustment.
There are days when he starts chopping vegetables without asking, sensing that you're too exhausted to cook. On other days, youâll warm the pan and season the sauce just the way he likes it. You take care of the dishes when he cooks; he dries them without needing a reminder.
No negotiations. No discussions. Just... this effortless, almost eerie rhythm.
Jack has always been better at taking action than providing explanations. You know this from work. When the ER is drowning, he doesnât give long pep talks; he orders pizza, extra garlic knots included.
You just had no idea this quality would carry over into your home life. You casually mention that youâre almost out of that ridiculously expensive conditionerâthe one you only splurge on when youâre feeling indulgentâand three days later itâs in the shower caddy. Same brand, same scent. He doesnât say anything about it. You donât either. You just stand there under the water, fingers wrapped around the bottle, heart beating messily.
Itâs the specific brand of oat milk you love, even though he still sticks to his regular kind, appearing in the fridge. Your favourite chocolate, the one with sea salt, tucked into the pantry. The phone charger you keep meaning to replace, with its frayed wire, mysteriously disappearing, and a new one coiled neatly sitting on the counter.
He never hands these things to you outright. Never frames them as gifts. They simply integrate into your life as if theyâve always been there. And heâs careful about it. Thatâs the part that gets you. He doesnât act like you owe him anything. If you thank him, he just shrugs it off, saying, âI was at the store anyway.â
You have to assume that this is just what Jack doesâthings he would do for others, too. This is simply life when thereâs no burden of medical debt on your shoulders. You'd probably be the same way if you could.
You can't read into it because he never lingers when he brushes past you in the hallway. He never lets his hand rest too long at your waist when he helps steady you in the ER. He avoids doing anything that could be misconstrued. Heâd act this way for anyone he shared a home with. It doesnât mean anything.
It canât. If he had feelings for you, real feelings, he wouldnât be this careful.
So you do what you can. You tidy up and ensure the house is liveable. You tackle the laundry, folding his shirts just the way he likes. You refill his coffee supply before it runs low. You have food ready for him when he comes home drained from a shift after you've had a day off.
Itâs so easy living with Jack that it's hard. Each time you find yourselves moving around each other like this, as if itâs been the routine for years, your chest tightens. This wasnât meant to feel so natural. It wasn't meant to feel like home.
The bed situation doesnât help. Delays keep piling upâshipping errors and warehouse issues. One email after another that sounds vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough. When it finally arrives, youâre almost giddy (and sad, but you don't linger on that). This is it. This is your way of establishing a boundaryâa much-needed one if youâre gonna survive this.
Youâre halfway through putting it together, the Allen key clenched between your teeth, hair sticking to your forehead, when you realise two of the legs are missing. You stare blankly at the assembly instructions. You count the parts again, emptying the box like the legs might magically appear from underneath a flap of cardboard.
Nothing. It feels almost cosmic, as if the universe itself wants to keep you in his bed.
Jack finds you sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by wooden slats and frustration. He pauses in the doorway, takes in the chaosâthe half-built frame, and the screwdriver clutched too tightly in your hand. He takes off his running shoes without a word.
âWhatâs wrong?â he asks gently.
âIt's missing two legs,â you reply flatly, holding up the useless bracket as if it could explain the whole situation. Your hands tremble more than they should over something so trivial. âI can't believe this keeps happening.â
He takes a look, counts the pieces. âWe can call them for replacements.â
âWhich are gonna be here in three to five business weeks,â you mutter, scrubbing your eyes hard. "Why does this keep happening to me?" Your laugh sounds thin, barely masking your irritation.
He sits down beside you among the remnants of your thwarted project, bumping his shoulder against yours. âI donât mind sharing,â he says softly, trying to lighten the mood. âIâve gotten used to you stealing the duvet, anyway.â His tone is light.
You roll your eyes. âThatâs not the point.â
He smiles. âItâs kind of the point.â
And maybe for him, itâs sweet. Maybe for him, itâs easy in a comforting way. He's just being kind, trying to prevent you from having an obvious breakdown over a fucking bed.
For you, though, itâs a crisis. Three more weeks in his bed feels like playing with fire. Most mornings, you wake up wrapped in his armsânot just close by, not just sharing a mattress, but firmly in his hold. Like, sometime in the night, your body decides for you, like it gravitates towards him. Your back tucked against his chest, his arm heavy and warm around your waist, and his breath slow against the back of your neck. Sometimes your fingers are tangled in his shirt. Sometimes his nose is buried in your hair.
You donât remember crossing the distance. You just wake up there. And the worst part? You sleep better like that. You hate that you sleep better like that.
You need a bed of your own. You need a place where you donât wake up already intertwined. Where your heart doesnât trip over itself before youâre even fully conscious. Where domesticity doesnât sneak up on you in the shape of shared blankets and cuddles.
Because thisâthis quiet, effortless merging of livesâis more intimate than anything loud or dramatic. Itâs folding his laundry without thinking and knowing which shirts he wants air-dried. Itâs him automatically setting aside the corner piece of lasagna because he knows you like the crispy edge. Itâs your shampoo tucked away in his shower caddy, your favourite tea stashed in his pantry, and a spare toothbrush that no longer feels temporary. It's getting to watch him with bed hair sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee, after working out with sweat dripping down his neck, and curled up on the couch pretending not to watch your show.
Itâs terrifying how easy it is. How natural. How dangerously close to permanent it feels. And the worst part is you canât tell if he feels it too or if heâs just being kind, just honouring the terms of something that was never supposed to matter this much.
The house smells faintly of coffee and your microwaved lunch from earlier. Youâre hunched over your textbook at the table, highlighter in hand, surrounded by a chaotic spread of notebooks. Your eyes blink more slowly as you attempt to take in what youâre reading.
But youâre distracted because across from you, Jack is seated, deeply engrossed in a crossword puzzle. His pencil taps rhythmically against the paper, brows knitted in concentration. For a moment, you canât help but admire himâthe way his neck curves, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each word he writes.
You clear your throat and glance back at your notes, pretending youâre entirely focused. You need to stop daydreaming and get your shit together.
Suddenly, you hear the scrape of a chair as he gets up and heads into the kitchen. A few moments later, the rich scent of brewing coffee wafts over to you.
âThought you might need a refill,â he says, sliding a steaming mug across the table, just the way you like it.
âThanks,â you reply softly, your hands brushing against his as you reach for the mug.
He sits back down, pencil ready again. You watch him take a careful sip, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth as he looks at you. You try to refocus, but the warmth of his hand brushing yours on the mug lingers longer than it should.
âNeed help?â he asks softly, leaning just a little closer across the table, and you jump slightly, though only your pen moves. You swear you can feel his leg moving closer, feel the heat through your pants, but you donât dare look down.
âNo, Iâve got it,â you reply, and he just watches you for a moment, then nods, turning back to his paper.
The house is quiet, filled only with the sounds of your scribbling, the tap of his pencil, and the occasional sip of coffee. For a moment, you forget about the exam and all the stress. Itâs just the two of you in this space.
You glance up at him after not hearing his pen for a while. Heâs focused on the crossword, his jaw tight with concentration. But his pencil hovers over a word heâs been stuck on for ages.
âYearning,â you whisper quietly, taking a sip of your coffee to mask the flutter in your chest. Is that another sign from the universe?
In the little pause before he writes it in, he glances at you, just briefly, sending you a quick smile. You take another sip of coffee. He taps the pencil against the table.
You do your best to refocus on your notes.
It's another typical night at PTMC. Same scrubs. Same scuffed shoes. Same stale coffee.
Jack stands in front of the board, stethoscope draped around his neck, scanning through the list of patients. As usual, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nausea. Chest pain. Two psych holds.
Just as heâs about to step over to a computer, he feels itâthe prickling sense that someone is watching him. He pauses, scanning the hub with his eyes.
Ellis is hovering just off to his left, pretending to review labs on the computer. He can see her biting the inside of her cheek, her shoulders twitching as if sheâs holding back a comment. Further down the hub, Shen leans against the counter, taking a deliberately casual sip of his coffee. Lena, however, isnât hiding her interest at all. Sheâs openly watching him with raised eyebrows, a slow grin spreading across her face.
Jack exhales sharply through his nose. âWhatever it is,â he mutters, turning toward the computer, âIâm not interested.â
âOof,â Lena replies, clearly amused. âSomeoneâs feeling feisty tonight.â
Ellis mumbles under her breath, "Happens every time his missus isn't here." He can hear Shen snicker in response.
Normally, Jack doesn't mind them goofing off. Because normally you're right beside him, laughing along. But tonight's different, all thanks to Ellis. Because you're not here. She'd sent you a text asking to switch shifts, which means that instead of enjoying a day off together tomorrow, you're at home now, and Jackâs left to deal with his team on his own.
You were on the couch when he left, all snuggled up under that silly kitten-patterned blanket you brought over. One knee bent, with a socked foot peeking out. The TV was glowing with that show you insist is good, though heâd caught your eyes closing multiple times during it.
That could have been your evening together tomorrow, and thatâs whatâs really bugging him. Your days off had finally lined up after weeks of barely getting to see each other during shifts. And yes, he might still have those few uninterrupted hours before work but they just aren't cutting it anymore. Plus, there's the fact that you're studying for an exam he knows you'll ace, which eats up more of your time together.
And Jack knows he is being greedy, but he can also already hear the ticking clockâyou're moving out again soon, and he's not taking advantage of you being there enough.
Itâs getting a little scary how quickly heâs adjusted to you living with him. It feels so natural to walk into the house and expect to see your shoes by the door, to hear your laughter coming from the kitchen, or to catch a hint of your shampoo drifting from the bathroom.
Weeks have passed. Weeks where the blessed Amazon gods have seen fit to delay your bed delivery at every possible turn. Shipping error. Weather delay. Warehouse backlog. And now, apparently, the exact replacement legs you need are out of stock. He had nodded sympathetically when you showed him the email, but inside, heâd felt something dangerously close to relief.
Heâs taking what he can get. Because every night youâre still in his bed is another night he gets to wake up with you tucked against him like you moved there on purpose. Another morning where he pretends he doesnât notice that you always end up with your back to his chest or that your hand finds the fabric of his shirt in your sleep.
He never moves first, but he doesnât move away either.
Heâs trying to figure out how heâs supposed to convince you to drop the whole separate-bed idea without sounding like a lunatic, without breaking whatever fragile rules youâve both built around this fake marriage.
Because thatâs what it is. Paperwork. A solution. A practical arrangement that somehow turned into shared groceries, inside jokes and your conditioner in his shower.
Because if you wanted him, really wanted him, you wouldnât be trying so hard to get your own bed.
You werenât supposed to feel like home. And he definitely wasnât supposed to be standing in the middle of the Pitt, pretending heâs annoyed his coworkers are goofing off, when deep down heâs just frustrated about not being able to spend his day off with you tomorrow.
Itâs only when he swipes his badge at the counter and a name flashes across the screen thatâs definitely not his that the laughter finally bursts free behind him.
He closes his eyes for half a second, opens them again and sees the exact same thing as he did before. Your name glows back at him in bright hospital-blue letters.
âHey, Trouble,â Ellis calls out. âLooking good tonight.â
Shen leans over the counter, pointing his cup at Jackâs head. âYeah! Did you change your hairstyle or something?â
âVery funny,â Jack replies dryly, pinning his badge back onto his shirt. Well, your badge.
He doesnât even need to think twice about how this happened. This morning, you had come in, worn out, and carelessly dropped your badge on the counter by the door. He had tossed his on top of yours, not thinking much of it. Later, heâd stayed longer than intended, lingering by the TV before eventually joining you when you shifted your legs to make space for him without looking away from the screen.
"Thought you didn't like this," you'd mumbled, a playful grin tugging at your lips.
âI donât,â he shot back automatically. And honestly, he isn't quite sure he knows what the show's about, but he likes watching it with you. Likes seeing how you reactâhow you smile, laugh, and frown at scenes.
He left later than heâd meant to because your feet were brushing against his thigh, because you were so warm and cosy, curled up on the couch, and it felt stupidly easy to stay. And he hadn't thought about grabbing the right badge in his rush to leave, just swiped one before he hurried out the door.
And now heâs standing in the Pitt holding your badge instead of his.
âWell,â Lena says, folding her arms and flashing a knowing grin. âLooks like you need to call the missus. You wonât make it through the shift without your badge.â
A chorus of exaggerated âoooohsâ erupts behind him. Jack tries to drown them out and pulls out his phone. He takes two steps toward the break room, ready to call you, and hopefully not ruin your evening, but Lena interrupts with news of an incoming trauma. All he manages to do is shoot off a few quick messages.
Jack: Can you bring me my badge? Accidentally took yours. Sorry!
Jack: Take an Uber. I'll pay.
He felt his phone buzz moments later, just as he has his hands deep in a guy's chest trying to clip an artery. Bridget offers to check for him, but he declines; he doesn't want her accidentally seeing something that could be misinterpreted. So he can't look, no matter how much he wants to. He really hopes youâre not mad.
He sees the moment you arrive, having shifted responsibility of the case over to Ellis by then. He sees the way your eyes scan the ER automatically for him before you even step fully into the Pitt. He turns his back before your gaze can land on him. He needs to stay focused.
The moment he's free, he removes his gown and gloves quickly, heading straight for where you're chatting with Lena.
He takes you in as he walks over. The tilt of your head as you laugh, the hoodie that slouches down your figure. His hoodie. He really needs to stop getting so worked up seeing you in that.
"Hey," you greet him, leaning into his side with a casualness that floors him before he remembers that you're acting. His arm comes up automatically before his brain catches up, settling around your waist, his thumb brushing against you unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," he says. He presses a kiss to the crown of your headâsofter than he intends. Slower. He hopes you don't think he's overdoing it. You donât show it if you do.
"Don't worry about it. It's good for me to get out of the house on days off, or I might just end up glued to the couch," you say with a bright laugh.
Reaching into your bag, you pull out his badge first. Before he can take it, you step closer, close enough for him to feel your warmth even through his scrubs. Your fingers lightly brush against his chest as you unclip your badge from where it rests on him. Jack's breath catches for a moment before he can steady himself.
You donât look up at him at first. Your focus is on the plastic, on the small metal clasp. But he sees the way your lashes lower, the faint press of your lips together like youâre concentrating too hard for something so simple. Then you clip his badge back onto him, your knuckles grazing his sternum softly.
âHere you go,â you murmur softly now, smoothing the fabric of his scrub top afterwardsâan unnecessary, lingering pat over the place where his heart is trying very hard not to give him away.
Jack swallows hard. Finally, you meet his gaze, and there's a warmth in your expression, almost shy, that feels out of place against the easy grin you're trying to put on for the crowd.
ââŚand something to get you through the shift,â you add quickly, like you need to break whatever that moment just was. You step back half an inch and reach behind you for the bag he hadnât noticed. "Lena mentioned you were stuck in trauma, so I took the chance to make something quick for you."
Make. The word strikes him harder than it should. You hand over the bag, and as he opens it, he finds a Tupperware container inside, still faintly warm to the touch.
Fried rice. You made this for him. His heart stumbles, then starts pounding harder, heat blooming slow and steady in his chest.
âThought you might be starving,â you say lightly. âI know you didnât bring anything to eat.â You give him a pointed look, and heâs aware of the hypocrisyâhow heâd be after you if you did the same. He just didn't know you'd noticed when it came to him.
His fingers tighten slightly around the container. âYou⌠made this?â he asks, and it comes out quieter than he means it to.
You shrug, a little bashful now. âItâs just fried rice. Nothing special.â
Nothing special. He thinks about you standing in the kitchen, hair tied back, probably in his hoodie, chopping vegetables, waiting for the pan to heat up, and taking the time to do something so small yet so thoughtful for him.
He wants to say something, thank you, you didnât have to, something that acknowledges just how much this means to him. But the words stick, stubborn and inadequate. Instead, he just moves closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if to anchor himself.
âYou didnât have to,â he finally manages to say, his voice low and rough around the edges.
You shrug, brushing a lock of hair from your face, your smile softening. âI wanted to.â
That one sentence, simple, unassuming, strikes him harder than anything else. His throat tightens. He canât remember the last time someone had done something so quietly, so deliberately for him. His usual defencesâhis control, even the careful lines he draws (or tries to draw) around his feelings for youâstart to crumble under the weight of your kindness.
He steps closer without thinking, crowding into your space. Close enough that he can see the faint crease between your brows when youâre trying not to smile too hard. Close enough that if he tilted his head an inch, he could kiss you.
He doesnât, even if he desperately wants to. Â
âI⌠I really appreciate it,â he says, though it sounds thinner than he intends. He wants to do something more, say something more to show you just how much this means to him.
But then he remembers where you are, and that you people are watching, as Lena cuts in.
"Wow. Where do I find a wife like that?" she grins. "You're one lucky man."
âI know,â he replies instantly, his gaze locked on you. Itâs the most genuine thing heâs said all day. You canât help but smile back at him, amused by the situation rather than feeling awkward like you used to.
"Where's our stuff, mama?" Ellis interjects, pulling your attention away from him.
âHusband privileges,â you tease, your eyes flickering back to Jack for just a moment. "Gotta live with me to earn this," you grin.
"Hey, Abbot," Ellis spins around, eyes wide. "Looking for a roommate?"
"No," he says flatly, but he can't help the twitch that tugs at his mouth when you lean back into his side, laughing loudly.
The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and Jack lets out a breath before the door even swings open. His right leg is aching. Itâs a dull, deep pain that starts at the end of the bone and spreads up into his thighâphantom nerves misfiring, scar tissue pulling tight after a long shift. All he wants is to sit down.
What he doesnât expect is the lamp still being on. Youâre curled up on the couch, your hands lost in the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. You blink slowly when you hear him come in.
âYouâre still up?â he asks, voice softening.
You rub at your eyes, words coming out mumbled. âWas waiting f'you. You want something to eat?â
His heart does something it shouldnât when it hears that. Like that means something, it absolutely does not.
âNah, Iâm not hungry.â He pauses for a second. âIâm gonna go shower.â He tries to downplay his movementsâshifting his weight carefully, avoiding the subtle hitch in his gait as he makes his way to the bathroom. He hates it when you see it on the bad days. He hates that you can tell the difference between a manageable ache and the kind that crawls up his spine and sits there all night. Hates that flicker of worry in your face. This is not something that will ever make you want him.
The shower helps a little. Warm water loosens the tight pull of the muscle. He washes it carefully, using mild soap and gentle hands, and rinses thoroughly, before patting it completely dry afterwards.
By the time he steps out, shorts hanging low on his hips, youâve moved to the bed. He hobbles his way into bed, trying to hide just how much it hurts.
Your gaze sharpens instantly, taking in everything he tries to conceal. âAre you okay?â
âYeah,â he grunts, easing himself down onto the mattress. âLegâs just acting up today.â
He keeps his voice level, trying not to let you see how much itâs bothering him.
âAnything I can do?â you ask, genuinely concerned.
He instinctively shakes his head. âNo, sweetheart,â he replies, reaching for the lotion on the nightstand. It's unscented and thick. Rolling up the leg of his shorts, he reveals the strong thigh that narrows to a rounded end below his knee.
You sit up straight. âLet me.â
Before he can resist, you gently take the bottle from his hand. Thereâs no pity in your face. No flinching. Just focus. You warm the lotion between your palms first.
âTell me if Iâm doing it wrong,â you say, serious in a way that makes his chest tighten. He almost says heâs fine, almost insists, but youâre already there, already warm, already undoing him.
Your hands settle against his skin, and he inhales sharply. The lotion feels cool at first, but as your palms begin to spread it slowly and deliberately, warmth follows. You instinctively avoid the scar seam, circling it instead of pressing directly on it. Your thumbs work their way upward along the muscle, applying firm, careful pressure.
âIs the pressure okay?â you murmur.
âYeah,â he replies, his voice rough.
You massage from the end upwards, promoting circulation, the way his physical therapist taught him. With gentle compression, you stroke slowly toward the knee, pressing into the tight muscles, easing the knots that have developed from compensating all day.
Jack lets his head fall back against the headboard. He didnât realise how much it hurt until it started to feel better.
You shift closer without thinking, one leg tucking under you as you focus. Your brow furrows slightly when you reach a sensitive spot. âHere?â you ask quietly.
âLittle to the left,â he breathes.
You adjust immediately. The intimacy of it nearly undoes him. Youâve seen this before, of course, it's hard not to when you're living together, but you've never done it for him. Still, your hands move with intention, almost as if youâve memorised every spot that brings him relief.
After a minute, you shift to a gentle tapping along the edge, desensitisation, something the physical therapist suggested to soothe the overactive nerve endings.
âYou read up on that,â he realises quietly.
You shrug, keeping your gaze down. âThought if itâs gonna hurt you, I might as well know how to help.â
Thatâs when his throat tightens. You didnât have to learn this. His hand moves without thinking, settling over your wrist, not to stop youâjust to feel you there.
âHey,â he says quietly.
You look up, and in this moment, thereâs no performance, no audience, no sterile hospital corridorâjust the gentle glow of the lamp and the calming rhythm of your hands against his skin.
âYou really donât have to take care of me like this,â he adds.
Your expression softens. âI know," you say, and then look down, shrugging. "âŚIt's what friends do, right?" Your mouth opens like youâre about to say something else. Just long enough that he almost thinksâbut then you nod.
He forces a smile that doesnât quite reach his eyes and nods in return. âRight,â he says. âFriends.â
You continue the massage, as if the shift in the air never happened. He remains still, aware that in a few minutes youâll wipe your hands on the towel waiting on his side of the bed. He knows youâll turn off the lamp before he can reach it. He knows youâll curl up on your side of the mattress first. And somewhere around ten a.m., as always, youâll drift toward him.
Not on purpose. Never on purpose.
But you will. And when he wakes, he'll pretend he doesn't like it.
He'll pretend what heâs feeling is just what a friend feels. Heâll pretend like his every move doesnât carry more weight than you'd ever know, if that's what you want. He'll take friends any day.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining.
word count: 4.7k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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The first thing you notice when you wake is warmth.
Not the thin, half-hearted warmth you chase after in your apartment, but real, steady heat that envelops you completely. Thereâs no icy draft sneaking in under the door, no biting chill nipping at your nose or fingers. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if the landlord has finally fixed the windows or if, perhaps, spring has decided to bless you with an early taste of summer.
Then you breathe in. The air smells differentâclean, familiar, and warm in a way that has nothing to do with the thermostat.
It smells like Jack.
The realisation settles slowly, gently, as you hover in that delicate space between dreaming and waking. You're not in your apartment, you're in Jack's house, which has solid walls, proper insulationâthe kind of place that doesn't rattle when the wind picks up. Jack is the type to notice small problems before they become big ones; he wouldnât stand for something as simple as a leaky window.
Your body shifts before your brain can catch up, and you burrow closer to the heat without thinking, letting out a quiet, contented sigh as you press into the warmth. Jack's chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, slow and even, and one of his arms is slung around you, a heavy and secure weight. His hand rests at your side, fingers relaxed, thumb hooked loosely under the fabric of your t-shirt.
His scent surrounds youâsoap and something distinctly himâwarm, soft and grounding. His nose brushes your hair when he exhales, a faint tickle that makes your shoulders loosen further.
You know you should move. You'd agreed to share the bed, yes, but not like this. Not tangled together, not tucked into his chest like you belong there. This was supposed to be purely practical, a temporary solution, until your new bed arrives.
But the bed is warm. He's warm. And for once, you donât have to brace against the cold.
Just a minute, you tell yourselfâjust one more.
You stay still, eyes closed, memorising the weight of his arm, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his body seems to curve around yours even in sleep. It feels indulgent. Dangerous. Comforting in a way you don't let yourself have very often.
Eventually, reality taps you on the shoulder. You shift reluctantly, careful at first, but the moment you try to pull away, his arm tightens. A quiet sound leaves him, a half hum, half sigh, and his grip around your waist draws you back just a little closer. Your breath catches. In that moment, youâre frozen, acutely aware of just how close he is, how you could count the freckles on his face, and how with just a slight movement, you could press your lips to hisâ
"Jack," you murmur, pushing lightly against his forearm. "Hey."
He grumbles something unintelligible, face tilting down until his nose reburies itself in your hair. His arm tightens again, and you feel an unexpected rush of warmth in your chest that has no right to be there, given the mindless nature of his actions. It doesnât mean anything. He doesn't mean anything by it.
After a few careful, coaxing movements, he finally loosens his hold. His arm slips away, and you take the opportunity to roll toward the edge of the bed. The moment you're free, he turns instinctively, stealing your pillow and hugging it to his chest instead, a soft snore escaping him as if nothing happened.
You sit there for a moment, your feet on the floor and your heart racing just a touch faster than usual.
Behind you, Jack sleeps on, blissfully unaware of the damage he's done in his sleep. You glance back onceâat the rumpled sheets, at the shape of him, at the warmth you've just abandonedâand then you stand, already missing it as you pad out of the room.
When Jack wakes, it's with a feeling so unfamiliar it takes him a moment to recognise it.
Contentment. Pure, uncut, with no sharp edges at all. His eyes stay closed longer than necessary, not because he's tiredâGod, noâbut because he isn't. His body feels heavy in the good way, like gravity's finally decided to be kind. The knot that usually lives between his shoulders is gone, and his jaw doesnât ache from clenching through half-remembered nightmares. No headache. No frantic inventory of injuries. No spike of adrenaline convinces him heâs late for something terrible.
He breathes in. The room smells faintly like detergent and something warmer beneath itâyour shampoo lingering on the pillowcase he's hugging tightly. He dips his nose down to the fabric without thought and breathes in deeply, realising distantly that he slept through the night.
The whole night.
Jack finally opens his eyes. Morning light slants through the curtains in soft gold stripes, catching dust in the air and turning it almost peaceful. He blinks a few times, recalibrating. He drags a hand down his face, half-expecting the feeling to evaporate the second he acknowledges it. It doesnât.
âWell,â he mutters to the ceiling, voice rough with disuse, âthatâs new.â
Eventually, he swings his legs out of bed, finds his crutches and follows the smell thatâs been growing more insistent by the second. The floor is cool under his foot as he pads down the hall, and when he reaches the kitchen, the sight stops him short.
Youâre there. He knew you would be, but he didnât expect it to feel this way. Â
Youâre standing by the stove in a t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, barefoot, your hair still slightly tousled from sleep. You're humming something under your breath, a melody he can't quite hear from the doorway. You look like you belong in this space, as if youâve always lived here.
The pan on the stove hisses softly as you stir somethingâeggs, by the look of it. Toast sits on a plate beside the stove, already buttered. Two mugs wait on the counter. Two.
Jackâs chest tightens, not unpleasantly, but enough to make him pause.
You glance over your shoulder, catching him frozen in the doorway. âMorning,â you say casually, as if itâs the most natural thing in the world to find you making breakfast for the two of you in his kitchen. "Perfect timing. I just need to finish the coffee," you grin at him with a mischievous tilt of your head.
He moves toward the counter, slower than heâd like, still trying to make sense of what he's seeing, and not let it consume him. As he nears you, youâre already adjusting your stance to give him room without making a thing of it.
âPerfect timing, huh,â he says, arching a brow as he reaches for the mugs, just as you do the same. Thereâs a slight pause when his hand brushes yours, accidental but not quite. The contact lingers longer than necessary, and he pretends not to feel the warmth crawl up his arm.
âMmm,â you hum, moving to plate the food with exaggerated focus, not admitting to the fact that you still don't know how to use his coffee machine. Thereâs a playful spark in your eyes when you glance up at himâteasing, and familiar. He was afraid that you moving in would make things weird between you, but now he knows it hasn't. You're still the same. Still teasing him, still laughing with him, only you're now also living in his home.
You sit next to each other at the kitchen island, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from your leg. He tries not to think about how readily his body begins to catalogue sensations like that.
âYouâre up early,â he says, mostly because silence feels louder than it should.
âYou snore," you say immediately with a teasing tug of your lips.
He scoffs as he takes another bite of food. âI do not snore.â
âYou absolutely do.â You donât even look sorry, just sip your coffee like youâve haven't said something offensive.
He studies you over the rim of his mug, holding your gaze a second longer than necessary. âWell,â he says lightly, âyou talk in your sleep.â
âI know,â you mumble, coffee cup hiding half your face as you take a sip. âOlivia once filmed me singingâwell, attempting to singâthe entire chorus of Believe by Cher.â
He laughs, real and warm, before he can stop himself. âI look forward to hearing that.â
You glance at him, a grin already forming. âThatâll cost you. Ten bucks a night.â
âTen?â He scoffs, shaking his head, pretending to be outraged. âI donât think I can afford that.â He tilts his head, pretending to think. âDiscount for friends and family?â
âFor my husband,â you say sweetly, eyes glinting at him, âIâd consider knocking a dollar or two off.â
Something tightens in his chest at the word husband. Not unpleasant. Just⌠complicated. Complicated in that he likes hearing it way too much, even if he knows you're just using it in jest.
âThatâs awfully kind,â he deadpans, nudging your shoulder with his own. âReally generous of you.â
You laugh, bright and unguarded, and it fills the kitchen.
He takes another sip of coffee, watches the sunlight catch in your hair, and thinks to himself that maybe this is what a good morning is supposed to feel like.
And that he needs to savour them all before you leave again.
After breakfast, the house settles into a quieter rhythm. Jack disappears into the bedroom to change, the soft thud of drawers opening and closing carrying down the hall. You linger at the table a moment longer, absentmindedly tracing the rim of your mug while the last of your coffee cools. It feels strange to be done with a meal and not immediately rush out the door to work or back to your apartment.
Jack emerges a few minutes later in running gear, hairline still damp from a quick splash of water on his face. He pauses when he sees you gathering the plates. âIâll get those later,â he says.
âIâm capable,â you reply dryly. âDespite what your tone suggests.â
A corner of his mouth lifts. âDidnât say you werenât. Just saying you don't have to."
You glance around the spaceâyour mug in the sink, your books on the shelf, that picture of you and Parker on the windowsill. "Well, I live here now, too. And if you're not gonna let me pay rent, then this is the least I can do." Youâd tried to insist on paying rent, but Jack was uncompromising, not willing to change his mind at all, so this was the least you could do.
Jack doesnât argue, just stares at you for a second and then nods. He grabs his keys and adjusts his watch. âIâm going for a run. Donâtââ He gestures vaguely at the house. ââburn it down.â
âNo promises,â you say. âIf it goes up in flames, Iâll blame faulty insulation.â
He snorts, then hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Instead, he says, âBack in a bit.â
The door closes behind him, and the quiet deepens. You set yourself up at the dining table with your laptop and a stack of notes, spreading them out with careful precision. Studying feels familiar. Safe. Something you can control. Still, thereâs an odd sense of displacement, like youâre borrowing someone elseâs life along with their furniture. The chair is more comfortable than the one at your apartment. The light is better. Everything here works the way itâs supposed to.
Every so often, you catch yourself listening for him. The soft thud of footsteps outside eventually returns, followed by the jingle of keys and the door opening again. You look up as Jack comes in, flushed from the run, grocery bags looped over his forearms. You have to tear your eyes away from him, trying not to stare at the sweat beading on his hairline, the flex of his arms as he carries the bags to the kitchen.
âYou went running and grocery shopping?â you ask, eyebrows raised. âYou always this efficient?â You barely even have the energy to go running, let alone that and shopping at the same time.
âMultitasking,â he says with a shrug. âItâs a skill.â
He sets the bags on the counter. You watch him unpack, this time gawking more freely as his back is turned towards you, feeling like youâve stumbled into a version of life that runs suspiciously smoothly.
âYou studying?â he asks, glancing at your notes.
Your eyes snap back down. âUnfortunately.â
He hums, washing his hands. âBoards coming up.â
You grimace. âDonât remind me.â
He starts assembling lunch with the kind of effectiveness that comes from long shifts and limited patience. You try to refocus on your notes, but his presence pulls at your attentionâclose enough to feel, distant enough to pretend itâs nothing. But you can see his arms flexing in the corner of your eye as he cuts tomatoes, smell the scent of his sweat, which you should find disgusting, but don't, and it's all very distracting.
He glances over suddenly. âOkay. Hypotension, tachycardia, abdominal pain post-MVC. First step.â
You donât even look up, trying not to let him see how flustered you are. âPrimary survey.â
âGood. Elderly patient, on warfarin, ground-level fall, altered mental status.â
âCT head. Immediately.â
He arches a brow, faintly impressed. âYouâre not even pretending to struggle.â
You shrug as you turn to the next page. You can hear him rummage around in the kitchen, and seconds later, he slides a plate with a sandwich in front of you casually, like this is normal. Like making you lunch is just another task on his list.
âAnion gap metabolic acidosis,â he continues. âMost common causes.â
You finally look up, smiling despite yourself. âYouâre quizzing me over lunch now?â
âGotta make sure you know your things. You're gonna be working with me after, I'd prefer not to have to watch your every move," he says with a completely flat voice, but you can see the teasing flicker in his eye.
You humph at him, eyes narrowing, and rattle off the answer anyway.
Jack watches you with something quiet and unreadable in his expressionâpride, maybe (you hope), carefully masked behind his usual dryness. âGood,â he says simply. The word lands more heavily than it should.
You eat together, knees not quite touching, conversation skirting everything that matters. Medicine, work, and your new bed arriving later this evening. Itâs easy, the way you move around each otherâpassing plates, sharing space, orbiting without colliding.
From the outside, it would look convincing. A couple in sync, living together, comfortable in the quiet.
Only you know how much effort it takes not to reach for him.
By late afternoon, the rhythm of the house has settled around you like a soft, steady hum, and you're slowly starting to feel more at ease being in his house.
Jack is in the other room, preparing for his night shift. You sit in the living room, books and notes abandoned for the moment, half-watching an episode of Stranger Things on the TV, while drafting an email to HR. The sun has started its slow dip, painting the room in pale amber, and the living room smells faintly of your shampoo from the shower you took earlier. Youâre scrolling through the photos Olivia sent you, selecting which ones to attach. They look amazing and incredibly realâso real that it has your heart pounding even now. The cut of the kiss and Olivia's freakout over it both fluster you and make heat pool in your lower stomach.
You attach the photos, the emails, the text messages, just about to send it when thereâs a ping from your phone.
1 new message from Parker. 50 photos attached.
PARKER: Hey, we heard you were sad you didnât have any photos from the beginning of your relationship, so here you go. Photos from all of us at the Pitt :D
Fifty photos.
The first is in the hubâyou half-turned toward Jack, shoulders nearly touching. The next is a hallway shot, where youâre walking side by side, arms brushing, your head tilted toward him mid-sentence. Jack is looking at you, not at the floor, not ahead, not distracted. At you. Fully. Like nothing else exists.
You keep scrolling.
A bench outside, knees angled inward, his shoulder dipped toward yours. Another in the breakroom doorway, you laughing at something he said, his mouth curved into a smile that looks⌠soft. Fond.
Your chest tightens. It isnât just proximity. Itâs the way he looks at you in every single one. Like heâs memorising you. Like heâs already chosen you.
You shake your head, thumb hovering as if you can physically swipe the thought away.
No. Thatâs not what that is. It's just Jack being Jack.
You scroll faster, heart thudding harder with each photo. Monthsâ worth of moments you hadnât known were being documented. Stolen glances. Lingering smiles.
You feel exposed. Caught in something you didnât consent to, and realising that the crush you thought you'd hidden so well had been in plain view for everyone else. You just hope that doesn't include Jack.
âJack,â you call, voice sharper than you intend as you reach the end of the thread, a shot of embarrassment rushing through your body.
âYeah?â he calls back, cracking the bedroom door open.
âDo you know anything about these photos Iâve just received?â
Thereâs a pause, then footsteps. Jack emerges from the bedroom, already changed into scrubs, a long-sleeved shirt under it.
âOh. Yeah,â he says. âI asked Robby if he could find any photos of us for HR, and I'm guessing he managed to.â
âWell,â you say, lifting your phone, âI just got a message from Parker, who apparently crowdsourced the entire Pitt for photos of us. Did you tell Robby what to tell the others, or did he make that up himself?â
Jack shakes his head. âI told him to make up a cover story. What did he say?"
"That I was sad we didn't have any photos of us from the beginning," you say with a slight huff.
"Could've been worse," he shrugs. "He couldâve told the truth."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Still, why weren't you the sad one?"
Jack huffs a breath, shrugging slightly, as he moves through the living room to grab his jacket. âHow many did you get?â
You glance down at the screen again. âFifty.â
âShit,â he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. âHow do they even have that many of us without us noticing?â
You hum thoughtfully, locking your phone and setting it face down on the couch. âGuess we work with stalkers.â
Jack snorts despite himself. âApparently.â
The embarrassment is still thereâwarm and buzzing under your skinâbut you step neatly around it, choosing humour instead. It's easier to joke. Easier to pretend itâs all a harmless coincidence instead of evidence. Just photos taken at the right times to suggest a connection which isn't there.
"Guess we didn't have to do that photoshoot session," you say absentmindedly as you attach some of the best photos from Parker to the email, too.
"Yeah," he says after a pause. You can feel his gaze on you. "Well... I'm heading out,â he announces.
âYeah,â you say, from your seat on the couch, sending him a smile. âIâve got this covered.â
He pauses at the door, leaning casually against the frame. âMake yourself at home,â he says. âTV, books, snacksâwhatever you need. Eat something real for dinner. Donât go dying on me before I get back."
You smile faintly, shaking your head. âIâll do my best.â
He offers you a brief, crooked smile, and then heâs gone. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the house quiet again.
You linger in the sudden emptiness, feeling both adrift and strangely at home. Thereâs a strange tension in moving around the space, as if every corner is unfamiliar yet already starting to feel like it belongs to you. You spend the next hour unpacking the rest of your things, which you'd put off the entire dayâbooks, clothes, little touches Jack insisted on you pulling out despite knowing youâd be leaving in a few months. You arrange your things on the shelves, shift a stack of his books to make more room for yours, and carefully place small magnets on the fridgeâfunny ones you collected over the years, a few that spell out inside jokes you know heâll groan at.
Even as you settle in, thereâs the faint, weird ache of temporality. This isnât your home. You wonât be here long. But Jack insisted, and you obliged, letting yourself create a small orbit inside his space. His kitchen counters are still his, but now there are a few little signs of you: your mug, your favourite tea tin, the cookbook with a recipe you've planned to try for months now but didn't have the energy to deal with when Talia was around.
Youâre determined to reclaim some of your rhythm, to get ready for night shift again, so you stay up long past dinner, keeping the laptop open, reading, making notes, until you relent and turn on Stranger Things again. The quiet of the evening amplifies the small domestic sounds: the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the wall clock, and the low voices coming from the TV. When your stomach grumbles, you pull together a simple mealâhalf for you, half plated for him. You leave it carefully in the fridge with a note saying: Eat me :)
The bed you've been waiting for all day keeps getting delayed, until they finally send an email that it won't come today. So the couch becomes your bed for the night, having already taken advantage of Jack's kindness one too many times. You're sure he wants his bed back.
You curl up under a soft throw, blanket pulled up to your chin, and for a while, you just stare at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around you. You fall asleep easily.
The ER never really slows down at three in the morningâit just shifts gears, a different sort of patients arriving.
Jack sits at the hub, a chart half-finished on the screen in front of him. He's reread the same line three times and still hasn't processed it. It's straightforwardâvitals stable, labs pendingâand yet he canât seem to get it. He should be focused; instead, his brain is being profoundly unhelpful.
Pale pink. Satin. Lace.
It's all he can think about, and itâs distracting and completely inappropriate. It occupies crucial space in his head while he's trying to manage traumas and examinations.
"Jack," Lena leans on the counter across from him, her eyebrows raised. "You good? You've been staring at that screen for five minutes now."
"I'm fine," he replies automatically, glancing up at her.
âYouâre not fine," Ellis chimes in as she spins around in her chair further back to look at them. "Youâve been off your game since you walked in.â
Of course, Ellis had to be here, too, putting her two cents in. He exhales through his nose. âLong night.â
Lena tilts her head, weighing his words, knowing it hasn't been that bad a night. "Missing the wife?"
Jack stiffens just enough to be noticeable.
"Aha," Lena says, sharing a look with Ellis. "Did you have your first fight?
Ellis grins, picking up the subtext. âBut you are thinking about her.â
He gives them a flat look. âIâm working.â
âMmm,â Lena hums. âThatâs not a denial.â
She exchanges another look with Ellisâwordless and conspiratorial.
Ellis leans closer. âIs this one of those married-people things? You spend too much time together and then suddenly one of you isnât around, and your brain short-circuits?â
Jack turns back to the screen, determined to escape the conversation before they figure out what's really going on inside his mind. âCan we please focus?â
Lena laughs softly. âAdorable.â
He ignores them. Tries to, anyway.
But the distraction lingersânot just the stupid flash of pink satin, but everything that came with it. You moving through his space. Your books on his shelf. Your clothes in his closet. The way youâd looked at ease in his home in a way that unsettled him more than chaos ever could.
When his shift finally ends, and the sky outside starts to brighten, Jack grabs his bag and heads for the door, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Though for once, he doesnât dread the quiet waiting for him on the other side.
Not when he knows you're waiting for him at home.
Jackâs keys jingle against the counter as he lets himself in, the soft thud of the door closing behind him echoing in the quiet house. He moves quietly, trying to soften his steps as best he can. He knows you wouldnât be able build the bed yourself, so he had been certain you would still be up when he came home, the living room swimming in boxes and half-finished pieces, but the house is way too quiet for that. As he steps into the living room, he doesn't find any boxes, just you on the couch. Curled up, eyes closed, and a blanket pulled up to your chin.
He exhalesâa long, low sighâand the tension in his shoulders softens when he sees you. Of course. The bed hadnât arrived, and you didnât complain. Just chose to sleep here because you'd told him the night before you would only sleep in his bed for one night. Silly girl, he thinks fondly. Always worried about the wrong things, as if heâd ever mind you sleeping in his bed.
Without a word, he kneels beside you, carefully untucking the blanket before scooping you up in his arms. Your eyes flutter open, surprised, but half-asleep and trusting, you make no move to protest. He carries you down the hall, muscles steady despite the soreness in his leg, and lays you gently on the mattress of the bed that now feels impossibly large without you already in it.
âGo back to sleep,â he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his voice soft and uncharacteristically tender as tiredness lowers his defences.
You nod, mumbling a sleepy, âThanks.â
He slips into the bathroom for a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away the exhaustion of the night. The scent of soap and heat clings to him, and he emerges minutes later feeling just a little lighter and more like himself, though the fatigue still lingers in his limbs.
In the kitchen, he moves with intentâfind something quick to eat so he can go to sleep. His eyes drift to the fridge, and he pauses. Magnetsâcolourful, mismatched, some ridiculous little sayings you love placed on the steel. He feels something warm unfurl in his chest, a pang of affection he doesnât quite let himself name.
When he opens the fridge, he notices the plate of food, carefully wrapped, with a note in your handwriting. The gesture, small as it is, hits him with an almost embarrassing intensity. He sets the plate on the counter and enjoys both the meal and the thought behind it, savouring its simplicity and the intimacy it carries.
Finally, he drags himself to the bedroom, the soft squeak of his crutches against the hardwood temporarily breaking the silence. He stops at the door, hesitating. Youâre asleep, curled neatly under the covers, your breathing steady and slow. He watches you, the weight of longing pressing against his chest. He wants to hold you, wants to let himself be with you in a way thatâs more than accidental moments and quiet touches.
He slides in beside you, careful not to disturb your sleep, and for a moment, he just lies there, breathing, letting the warmth of the mattress settle him. Then, ever so gently, you shift, instinctively curling up against him, pressing into his side like you belong there, face nestled in the crook of his shoulder.
Jack freezes for a heartbeat, letting the reality settle inâthe soft press of your body, the warmth radiating into him, the quiet puffs of your breath against his neck. And then he lets himself relax, letting you hold him as much as he holds you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders fully, rests his cheek lightly against your hair, and inhales the sweet scent of you.
He relishes it, every second, every small shift of your body against his, and finally, he allows himself to sink fully into sleep, your weight and warmth grounding him in a way heâs longed for for a long time.
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Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining.
word count: 5.2k
a/n: thank you all so much for still tuning in and interacting with every part. I'm trying my best to respond to you all but if i've missed you, i just want you to know that i'm very appreciative of your support and loooove reading all your responses (i see all you say in the tags, too) <333. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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God, you hate packing.
You hate the way it turns your life inside out and makes every forgotten thing resurface like an accusation. You hate how time seems to compress around itâhow somehow youâve been at this for hours and still have only two boxes properly packed, three more sitting open and half-full like theyâve given up before you have.
You didnât think you owned this much. You know you didnât shop that much after moving into this room. Work, sleep, repeatâthatâs been your life. And yet your closet is betraying you. Dresses you donât remember buying. Shirts you swear youâve never worn. Jeans shoved into corners like theyâve been hiding from you on purpose.
At some point between the second and third box, youâve lost a sock. Just one. Itâs vanished. Slipped off your foot in the thrill of it all. Youâre hopping around one-footed now, the other still stubbornly socked, every step an exercise in irritation. Thereâs tape stuck to the back of your shirtâprobably from when you tried to wrestle the dispenser one-handedâand you can feel it, but you absolutely cannot be bothered to deal with it.
Organisation has officially died. Now youâre just shoving things into boxesâclothes, cords, books, random unidentifiable objectsâand trusting that Future You will deal with it.
Historically, Present You is an idiot. And Future You will most definitely attest to that.
The worst part is that you donât even own that much. Which somehow makes this more humiliating. Youâve already decided to abandon most of your kitchen stuff. Youâd rather buy new things than scrub whatever chemical horror Talia has turned your pans into. You are not risking moving a biohazard into your new place.
Well, Jack's place.
The thought sends a jitter through you that has nothing to do with caffeine. Which you've consumed lots of because you're normally asleep at this hour. And instead of getting some much-needed sleep the night before, you'd tossed and turned thinking about what happened last night. You'd watched the video once before you had to stop. It made you feel things you shouldn't, and Olivia's loud and repetitious cheering hadn't helped you quell the dreams suddenly blooming. Because that kiss wasn't anything, it didn't mean anything. Not in a way that mattered at least.
Before you can spiral further, a bell rings somewhere down the hall.
It takes your brain a beat too long to register itâstill stuck on the missing sock, the tape, the mess, the boxes, the fact that your entire life is in pieces on the floorâ
Jack. Shit.
You lurch into motion, hopping over a box, nearly wiping out on a pile of shoes you meant to pack but clearly haven't yet. By the time you make it into the hallway, breathless and already annoyed, Talia has beaten you to the door.
Of course she has.
You slow as dread pools low in your stomach, thick and heavy, as you hear her voice shift. It goes syrupy-sweet in that way she reserves for men she wants something from. A charm you've heard her use on plenty of men before, and she's mostly successful.
âHi,â she chirps, her voice warm, bright, and extremely performative. âYou must be the husband.â
Your jaw tightens involuntarily at the sound.
Jackâs voice follows a second later. âYes. Nice to meet you.â
You appear in the doorway just in time to see him step inside. He stands solidly in a way that makes something in your chest ease, despite the situation (both packing and Talia). Heâs dressed casually in dark jeans, a long-sleeved shirt pushed up at the forearms, and he looks ridiculously put together for someone who insisted on coming over just to help you pack. Because apparently, fake husbands donât let fake wives move alone.
Talia beams at him like sheâs just been handed a prize. âOh my god,â she says, dragging the words out. âItâs so nice to finally meet you. Youâve been such a mystery. I wasn't told you were this handsome.â
Jack smiles politely, but his eyebrows rise slightly at her forwardness.
Talia laughsâtoo loud, too drawn outâand steps closer to him, invading his space with an ease that sends a ripple of discomfort over your skin.
âWell,â she says, tilting her head and letting her eyes drag over him openly, âif Iâd known you looked like this, I wouldâve insisted you come over sooner.â
Your fingers curl tightly into the hem of your shirt. You remind yourself firmly that you have no right to feel anything about this. This is fakeâtemporary. You are not territorial. You are definitely not jealous.
You are so jealous. Seethingly so.
You keep your face carefully neutral as you cross the room, hook a finger into the back of Jackâs sleeve, and tug gently.
âHey,â you say, sharper than you mean to. âThank you for coming.â
Jack glances down at where youâre holding him, then back up at your face. Something unreadable flickers thereâmaybe amusementâbefore he nods. âOf course,â he says. âLead the way.â
Talia pouts, completely undeterred by your intervention. âSuch a shame. I was hoping to steal him for a tour.â
You force a smile that feels brittle. âHeâs been here before.â
Jack lets you pull him away without comment, and as you step past the threshold of your room, you shut the door behind you with more force than strictly necessary.
Your room is a disaster.
Clothes everywhere. Half-filled boxes. A snarl of hangers on the bed. The air smells faintly of cardboard, dust and panic. Youâre suddenly acutely aware of how small the space is, how close Jack is standing beside you, and how this is the last time this room will ever look like this.
He takes it in with a slow turn of his head. âYou werenât exaggerating,â he says mildly.
You drop his sleeve, embarrassed heat creeping up your neck. âI told you not to come.â
âYou told me you were fine,â he replies, already reaching for a box. âWhich is never true.â
You huff a laugh despite yourself. âI didnât want you dealing with⌠that.â
âYour roommate?â he asks lightly.
âYes,â you say immediately, then pause. ââŚNo. I mean. Maybe. Sheâs justâshe does that.â
Jack hums, folding the bottom of a box easily. âFlirts with married men?â
âYes,â you mutter, shoving a pile of sweaters into a box a little too roughly.
He looks at you then, really looks, eyebrow lifting just slightly. âWell,â he says evenly, âIâm not interested in that.â
Your mouth opens, then closes. You swallow hard, your heart stuttering in your chest.
He continues, " I donât want that kind of attention. From her. Or⌠anyone else.â
You stare at him. He stares at you. Thereâs a beat of silence youâre not ready to name. Does that mean what you think it means? Surely not? Did you imagine the slight press of his lips about to form a possible 'but you'?
âUh⌠just put whatever you want in whichever box,â you say quickly, desperately trying to deflect the sudden warmth spreading through you. âIâve given up on organisation.â
Jack smiles, softer this time. He starts packing, boxes slowly filling up. You turn away before he can see how affected you are, grabbing another armful of clothes and shoving them into a box.
There's a sharp rap against your door, and Taliaâs voice pierces through the thin wood. âJust wanted to remind you that you agreed to let me keep your bed in exchange for breaking your lease early.â
Shit. You forgot about that.
Jack answers before you can, "Got it." He looks over at you, sees the panic on your face, "We'll just order a new one for you. It's fine. Besides, this thing is creaky as hell." He gives the side of the bed a light pat, emphasising his point.
âItâs not! Itâs a good bed,â you argue, mostly for the sake of argument, knowing heâs right. The bed is, in fact, a piece of junk. But it was all you could afford when you moved here, and a strange sense of loyalty clings to your heart despite its condition.
He shoots you a look, mouth twitching as he thinks of a comeback. The effortless banter catches you off guard. You don't talk about the photos or the kiss. The awkwardness you'd anticipated isn't there. It's just easy.
After a few hours, you're done. Desk dismantled, closet emptied, walls bare of any pictures. Three years of your life relocated to boxes. This room has carried you through years of stress and crying (both the good and bad kind). It's done its best, but you also can't wait to leave it behind. Find a new place where it's just you and no horror roommate you have to worry about.
But first, you must survive a few months living with Jack. Which is definitely doable. Heâs not the worst roommate you could have imagined. He keeps a tidy and clean house, from what you've seen so far. He's respectful. He's also so fucking distracting that you worry he's gonna eat into your precious study time. Getting to see him with bed hair, cosied up on the couch, and, god forbid, after a workout is something that you have to pretend you're normal about.
You're gonna have to bite it down and keep it together, just until you're an attending.
Jack carries boxes into his house like itâs nothing. Like this is just another Saturday chore wedged between laundry and groceries.
Except it isnât. Itâs everything.
These are your boxes. Your books, your mugs, your picturesâyour life crossing the threshold of his front door. The weight of them sits differently in his chest than it does in his arms. Heâd pictured more somehow. More clutter, more chaos. Instead, thereâs restraint here. Evidence of someone who learned early how to keep their footprint small.
He doesnât like that thought.
He adjusts his grip on a box marked BOOKS, automatically shifting his stance so most of the strain lands on his good leg. Muscle memory. A habit now after years. You follow behind him with a lighter box.
He sets the box down in the living room, straightening slowly. The bookshelf against the far wall is half-empty, intentionally so. He cleared it yesterday, running a hand over the spines of his own books, deciding which could be stacked, which could be moved, which spaces could be made. He gestures at it now, deliberately casual.
âOkay,â he says. âThis is yours.â
You hover near the doorway, box still in your arms. âWe donât need to unpack my stuff,â you say quickly. âI can just keep everything in boxes in the office. Itâs fine.â
Jack frowns immediately. âAbsolutely not.â He crosses the room and takes the box from you before you can argue. âYouâre living here, too. You donât put your life in storage. I don't mindâyou probably have prettier things than I do anyway.â
He points at the shelf as if declaring the matter settled. Then, worried heâs said too much, he turns and heads back out to the car. When he comes back in with more boxes, youâve started lining your books up. He watches for half a second too longâyour hands, the unfamiliar titles, the way you hesitate before choosing where something belongs.
He taps the top of another box lightly. âCan I?â
âUhâyeah. Sure,â you say, then point a finger at him. âBut if you see anything embarrassing, Iâm denying ownership.â
A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. âIâve seen your locker,â he retorts. âThe bar is low.â
You gasp, affronted. âRude. I'll have you know that my stickers are very cool.â
He exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that sneaks out before he can stop it, and kneels to help you open boxes. Itâs strangely easy. There's a rhythm to your movements, no awkward choreography or stepping on each other's toes. He hands you things before you even think to ask for them, as if he can read your mind. You both fall into an unspoken synchronisation, anticipating each otherâs actionsâjust like in the ER. It's an instinctive dance, one born from countless hours spent in high-pressure situations.
In the kitchen, he lines your mugs up next to his without comment. There are more than he expectedâdifferent sizes, chipped rims, one with a faded joke he doesnât quite get. He opens a cabinet, pauses, then shifts his own things aside to make room. Doesnât say a word about it. Just⌠adjusts. He likes the sight of them there more than he should.
Youâre kneeling on the living room floor again when you hear the familiar soft hiss of Velcro. You look up to find him bent over, one hand resting on his knee as he adjusts the strap on his prosthetic.
âYou okay?â you ask quietly.
He glances over atyou, a flicker of surprise crossing his faceânot at your question, but at the fact that you noticed. âYeah,â he replies. âJust readjusting.â
âToo many boxes?â you tease lightly, but you canât hide the glimmer of worry in your eyes.
âPlease.â He snorts softly. âIâve done procedures after standing fourteen hours straight.â He pauses for a moment, then adds softly, âBut thanks for asking.â
He pushes back to his feet with an ease thatâs practised and confident. He reaches for the next box.
And then he freezes.
Inside are framed photos. Your photos. Not just thingsâbut moments. Proof of a life he doesn't know about. A life he wants to know about.
He lifts one carefully, like it might break if he grips it wrong. You and Parker on a hike, muddy and laughing. He studies it longer than necessary, thumb brushing the edge of the frame.
âThis should goâŚâ He clears his throat, words coming out cautiously, almost shyly. ââŚsomewhere youâll see it.â
You glance over, smiling when you see it. âYeah. Maybe... the windowsill?â
He nods and carries it there himself, setting it down just right, angling it toward the light. He steps back to check it, then pretends he wasnât checking.
He takes in the roomâthe half-unpacked boxes, your books on his shelf, your mugs in his cabinet, and stands there trying very hard not to look like this matters way too much.
âSo,â you say, brushing your palms against your legs as you stand. âThis is really happening.â
âIt is,â he confirms, his tone steady yet soft.
âYou sure youâre ready to live withâŚâ You gesture vaguely at the clutter, at everything that makes you, well, you. ââŚall this?â
He steps closer, voice lowering. âYouâre not that demanding, Trouble.â Then, because vulnerability makes him want to deflect immediately, he adds, âExcept your coffee situation. Youâre gonna have to learn how to use my machine eventually.â
You shrug, a teasing lilt to your voice. âEh. Iâve got you around for that.â
He huffs a laugh and nudges your shoulder with his. Itâs easy. Familiar. It makes him want to crowd you into the shelf and kiss you again. A thought he has thought one too many times during the day. The feeling of your soft lips pressed to his, this time for longer and harder than it was yesterday.
âThanks,â you say softly.
He looks up. âFor what?â
âFor helping me move.â The rest stays lodged in your throat but he knows what you also mean. For letting you stay. For making room. For understanding why this had to happen, even if it wasn't his career on the line. For choosing to do it anyway.
He holds your gaze. Really holds it. Thereâs something earnest there. Gratefulness. You really have to stop feeling like you owe him.
âAnytime,â he says, simply. Carefully. Hoping to convey that this isn't a burden to him.
You split up later. You drift toward the kitchen, humming softly to yourself, while Jack heads down the hall with a box tucked against his chest. It's labelled SWEATERS, scrawled in your familiar messy handwriting.
He nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and pauses for a moment, struck by the sight before him. The closet door stands ajar, revealing a vibrant array of your dresses hanging proudly where there used to be emptiness. They move when the air shifts, brushing one another like theyâre alive.
He swallows.
Heâs cleared more than half the closet for you. Didnât even think twice about it. His things are pressed closer together now, crowded, and he feels oddly satisfied about it. Like this is how itâs supposed to be.
He sets the box down and starts unloading it methodically. Sweater by sweater. Folding, hanging, spacing them carefully so the knits donât stretch. He recognises a fewâones heâs seen you shrug on during shifts, cosy and familiar, sleeves draped lazily over your hands. The sight of them brings a warmth to his chest, a bittersweet fondness blooming.
Heâs nearly done with the box when he sees it. A flash of fabric that doesnât belong with wool and cotton. He pauses to focus, his heart thudding a little harder. Itâs satin, pale pink, barely more than a whisper of fabric.
His fingers still.
He lifts it, unable to resist, the delicate material feeling impossibly light between his thumb and forefinger. Lace edges. Delicate seams. A thongâclearly, unmistakably, intimate. Something thatâs been pressed against your skin. Something you chose.
Jackâs breath hitches.
His eyes flick immediately to the bedroom door, pulse loud in his ears. Youâre still in the kitchen. He can hear youâhumming, the faint clink of ceramicâbut it feels too close now, the distance between you suddenly fraught with tension.
He lets himself look for just a second longer. The thought hits him uninvitedâyour hips, the curve of you, the knowledge that this exists at allâand it feels like a punch straight to the sternum. Heat rushes through him, sharp and dizzying, want curling tight and urgent before he can rein it in.
For half a heartbeat, the urge is almost overwhelming. To bring it closer. To breathe you in, even if the fabric is clean. To let himself have somethingâanythingâwhen heâs been so careful for so long.
But he holds back.
His jaw clenches at the thought. He exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself, forcing the moment back into the box where it belongs. Youâre trusting him. Youâre moving in. This is your space now. He refuses to be the kind of man who blurs that line, even in private.
Especially in private.
With deliberate care, he folds the fragile fabric back to its original state, tucking it into the drawer with a reverence that feels almost sacred. His fingertips linger on the edge for just a heartbeat too long before he closes it, the soft click echoing in the stillness around him.
Standing upright, he runs a hand through his hair, staring at the closet as if it might betray him with his thoughts.
From the kitchen, your humming drifts down the hall once again, blissfully unaware of the turmoil escalating within him.
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
He wants you in a way that feels too tender and raw to voice. Wants you here, in his space, in his lifeâwants and wants and wants, all carefully leashed behind patience and respect and restraint. Because you'll never be his, not even now as you're moving in with him. Not in the way he truly wants.
Because in a few months you'll leave him again.
He turns back to the sweaters, slower now. As if touching anything else that belongs to you might undo him completely.
By the time the last few boxes are shoved into the corner of the living roomâyour living room now, even if your brain still hasnât caught up to thatâyou feel utterly spent.
You sink into the couch and let your head tip back against the cushion.
âIâll deal with the rest of the boxes some other time,â you announce to the ceiling and Jack. âFuture Me can fight Past Me about it.â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh from across the room. Heâs standing near the window, arms crossed, surveying the chaos like heâs mentally triaging it. He glances at the clock on the wall, then back at youâreally looks this time. The slumped posture. The unfocused stare. The way you havenât moved in a solid minute.
âOkay,â he says gently. âThatâs enough for today.â
You crack one eye open. âYouâre agreeing with me suspiciously fast.â
âThatâs how you know itâs serious.â He nods once, decision made. âLetâs eat dinner.â
âTakeout,â you say, siding with convenience immediately. âSomething greasy. Something that comes in a bag.â
He hesitates for just a moment, and you notice itâthe subtle shift in his jaw, the quick flick of his gaze toward the kitchen, and back to you, as if weighing some internal debate. âNo. We should eat real food. After the day we had.â
âYou want us to cook?â you ask, incredulous and a little amused. How is this man never as tired as you are?
âI want youââ he corrects quietly, already turning toward the kitchen, âto stay exactly where you are.â
You blink. ââŚOh.â
He pauses, glances back at you like heâs worried heâs overstepped. âI meanâif thatâs okay. You look wiped.â
âI am wiped,â you admit. âThis couch has claimed me.â
âGood,â he says, nodding once like that settles it. âThen Iâll cook.â
You watch him move into the kitchen, opening drawers without hesitation, pulling out a pan, checking the fridge. Thereâs something almost hypnotic about itâhow natural he looks there. Comfortable. Like this space knows him. Like youâre just⌠being folded into it.
âWhat are you making?â you ask.
âFood,â he replies.
âThat is not an answer.â
âItâs a trust me," he counters, glancing over his shoulder.
You squint, a small smile tugging at your lips. âHmm.â
He lifts his brow, giving you an option. âYou can still order takeout if you want.â
You watch him for a second longer, eyes catching on how his sleeves are pushed up, seeing the way he moves with quiet efficiency, like heâs trying to take care of things without making a big deal out of it.
ââŚNo,â you say finally. âI trust you.â
Something in his shoulders eases at that.
You stay curled up on the couch, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, half-watching him and half-listening to the familiar and comforting sounds of cookingâthe rhythmic chop of a knife against the cutting board, the soft hiss of oil hitting a heated pan. It feels domestic in a way that sneaks up on you. Like this is something youâre borrowing from a life youâre sure youâre not allowed to imagine. Something you can't imagine for too long without the ache sharpening.
âYou sure you donât want help?â you call out.
âNope,â he replies without hesitation. Then, in a softer tone, he adds, âRest.â
You roll onto your side, cheek pressed into the cushion. "Youâre very bossy,â you tease, the corners of your mouth lifting in a smile.
âYou know, you say that a lot.â
âWell, it's the truth. You are very bossy,â you retort playfully.
He just grunts in response, and that makes you smile even wider.
At one point, the smell of onions hits you, and your eyes sting from across the room. âUgh,â you mutter under your breath.
Jack somehow hears it and laughs quietly from the kitchen. âYouâre not even in here.â
âTheyâre aggressive," you defend, wiping away the tears.
When dinnerâs ready, he brings a bowl over and sets it carefully on the coffee table in front of you.
âHere,â he says. âEat.â
You sit up, take one biteâand immediately freeze. âOh my God,â you moan. âJack.â
He stiffens just a little. âThat good?â
âThis is actually good,â you say, eyes wide. âLike disturbingly good.â
He exhales, a deep breath of relief escaping him, and settles down beside you with his own plate in hand. âI keep telling you I can cook.â
âI thought you meant like⌠theoretically.â
âWow,â he quips, feigning offence, but you can hear the laughter in his tone.
You eat side by side, knees almost touching, some random show playing on the TV that neither of you is paying attention to. Halfway through, Jack leans back slightly, shoulders loosening.
âThis,â he says quietly, like heâs afraid of jinxing it. âThis is nice.â
You glance at him, setting down your glass. âDinner?â
He looks at you instead of the TV. âNo. You. Here.â
The ache sharpens in your stomach. âYeah,â you say softly. âIt's nice.â
When youâre done, he takes your bowl without asking, fingers brushing yours as he does. The contact is brief, but it feels intentional. Even if it's not.
You watch him as he walks back into the kitchen, your thoughts swirling with a mix of comfort and a quiet apprehension. The ease of this moment feels almost too good to be true.
And youâre not sure whether that makes you want to lean into it⌠Or run. Because you know that no matter what, you'll end up hurt in the end.
Because this will never be more than this. It will never mean what you want it to mean.
Youâre moving through your bedtime routine in a hazy blurâapplying skincare, brushing your teeth, pulling on your softest pyjamas. The kind of routine thatâs supposed to help you wind down, except tonight your brain refuses to settle. Your hands fumble with the toothpaste, and you almost drop your toothbrush when it hits you: a fatal flaw in your plan.
The bed.
You were counting on having your own, set up in the spare room, but with Talia demanding it as compensation for breaking the lease early, you're bedless. You agreed, acquiesced by the Amazon Express solution, which you fully intended to make use of⌠and then packing and unpacking happened. Boxes, books, mugs, photosâand suddenly itâs late, and thereâs no bed.
Only the couch.
So here you are, folding the blanket out and placing your pillow on it, muttering to yourself about your stupidity, when Jackâs shadow fills the doorway to the living room.
âWhat are you doing?â he asks, concern etched across his features.
Caught off guard, you momentarily stare at the couch as if it might offer an explanation. âUh⌠improvising,â you reply. âNo bed yet. So, I'll sleep on the couch.â You attempt a small, nervous smile, but it comes out stiff. "Which is fine. Honestly."
âNo.â He crosses the room in two strides and takes the blanket from your hands. âIâll take the couch. You can have my bed.â
You freeze. ââŚNo, Jack. I canât do that.â
âWhy not?â He frowns, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. âYouâve slept there before. Is it not a good bed?â
âIâyes, itâs a good bed. Thatâs notââ
ââThen you can sleep there tonight.â He cuts in, his tone flat and final.
âNo, you helped me move today, even cooked for me, you deserve the bed,â you protest. âAnd I saw you roll out your shoulders when you had to sleep here last time. Iâm younger than you. I can take it.â You grin, trying to sound lighthearted, tugging at the blanket again.
He keeps a tight hold of it, refusing to let it go. âThis is my home. Iâm sleeping here," he insists with a firm line to his mouth.
You sigh, thinking, letting your tiredness take control of your vocal cords before your brain can put a stop to it. "Fine. Then weâll⌠uh⌠We'll share?â
His eyebrows shoot up at the proposal.
You force a laugh, nodding vigorously like you'd intended to say that. âItâs not like we havenât done that before.â Your stomach flips over the memory, the one time you were sick, and he didnât complain when you curled up next to him. That had been different. That had been him taking care of you. This time⌠this time, itâs not a necessity.
Jack takes a moment, tilting his head as he studies you. His expression softens. âYouâre serious?â
You nod quickly, your heart racing. âYes. Totally serious. And I promise I'll order a new bed tomorrow.â
Finally, he relents, letting go of the blanket and placing it on the couch. He gestures toward the bedroom. âOkay, as long as you donât hog the duvet.â
"No promises," you force a grin, following behind him with slightly shaky legs.
He pushes the door open and motions at the bed. You crawl in, smoothing down the sheets, and feel the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he joins you. Heâs close, but not too close, just enough that youâre aware of the warmth radiating from his side.
You slide under the covers, rolling slightly to the middle, as he settles down beside you, his arm resting casually across his chest. You can feel it in the corner of your awareness, the slow, easy rhythm of his breathing.
"So," you start, fiddling nervously with the edge of the duvet. "You working tomorrow?"
"Yes", Jack asks. "You?"
"No, I got another day off," you say.
"Lucky you," he murmurs. "I'll have to face the congratulations on my own then."
âTheyâre still doing that?â Your eyes widen. âI thought itâd died down by now.â
âUnfortunately not,â he says. âIâll tell them to save it until they can see youâthat you really appreciate it.â
You laugh, but it comes out slightly clipped, betraying how nervous you feel lying here beside him. âOh, thatâs considerate of you. Or manipulative. Hard to tell sometimes.â
âWhy not both?â he says dryly.
You shift slightly, and your shoulder brushes his. Heat shoots up your arm. He doesnât move. He just shifts enough, so youâre not pressed awkwardly against each other, but close enough that the heat from him is undeniable.
Your talk shifts, chatting about mundane things. Boxes that fell, mugs that almost broke. Your voices fill the quiet room, and your nerves disappear with each sentence. Thereâs a softness to it. A rhythm. You notice the way he laughs at your dry jokes, the little hum he makes when you nudge him in mock offence.
Minutes pass. You both slow down, words fading, replaced by the sound of breath and the subtle creaks of the house settling. You move a little closer without thinking, his arm brushing yours firmer now. He doesnât pull away or tilt his shoulder again. He lets it stay pressed lightly against yours.
It feels natural. Comfortable.
Eventually, your eyelids grow heavy, the exhaustion of the day washing over you. His hand slides a fraction closer, fingers brushing the back of your hand. You hesitate a second, then let your hand stay. It probably doesn't mean anything, just mindless movement in his sleep, and you can't pretend it doesn't feel nice. Youâre aware of him, but it doesnât make your chest race the way it did before. You're not panicking. Just⌠aware but content.
Somewhere between the quiet of the house, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the stillness of the bed, sleep begins to pull you under.
You realise, as your last thoughts drift off, that thisâthis closeness, this soft domesticity, this easy companionshipâis exactly the kind of danger you wouldnât mind falling into.
But also that you really shouldn't. You have to remember that.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining.
word count: 7.3k
a/n: part 6 is finally here! sorry for the wait! oh, and thank you for all your ideas! loved them and trying my best to incorporate most in future parts <3333 hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The realisation hits you mid-sentence, pen freezing against the page as your textbook blurs in front of you.
Photos. Emails. Texts.
Solid proof of an existing relationship that you somehow agreed to provide by the end of the week. Your stomach drops.
"*Oh my god," you whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. "Oh my god, oh my godâ"
You'd been so laser-focused on the logistics of moving in. Breaking your lease before time (not that your roommate minded), coordinating when to pack, pretending to be casual about having to share a bathroom with Jack. Somehow, catastrophically, this part had slipped straight through the cracks.
Now, you only have four days until they're expecting proof of a relationship spanning months, while it has barely existed for weeks at this point. Oh, and most importantly, it's also a fake relationship.
You're so fucked.
With a harsh screech, you push your chair back from the desk and snatch your phone from the bed, your fingers trembling as you unlock the screen. You frantically scroll through your photos, months passing by. Familiar images blur together in a frantic attempt to find anything that could even be loosely interpreted as evidence of you and Jack together.
The first photo stops you cold. A blurry group snapshot taken at a bar, and yes, you and Jack are both in the frame, but you're seated at opposite ends of the table, half-obscured by someone's elbow in the foreground. You could just be coworkers.
You are just coworkers.
You keep scrolling, a sense of dread creeping in.
Another photo catches your eye. You're sitting next to each other at the park, beers in hand, both locked in conversation. Jack's talking to someone off to the side, while you're laughing at a completely unrelated joke, a solid two feet separating your bodies.
"Fuck," you mutter and scroll on.
Then, the last image draws you in. Jack leaning in, his mouth inches away from your ear, clearly whispering something to you while your face is scrunched up in laughter, eyes closed. It looks intimate. It feels intimate.
But it's also just one photo.
"One," you groan. "I have one usable photo." You drop down on the edge of your bed, hinges squeaking softly. Your chest tightens.
You open your messages next. Your heart hammers as you sift through banal exchanges between you. Coffee runs. Scheduling discussions. It's only your recent texts that could infer anything, and still, it reads as platonic.
There are no hearts. No inside jokes. No late-night rambling that feels so integral to any real relationship. Nothing points to the two of you being more than colleagues.
Emails are even worse. So much worse. There's barely nothing there. Just upcoming schedules. Residency stuff. Nothing again that could suggest you'd been hiding a relationship for months.
You drop your phone onto your lap, staring blankly at the ceiling, the brightness of your screen fading into darkness.
"They're going to know," you whisper to yourself. "They're absolutely going to know. Fuck."
Panic surges, sharp and overwhelming, a cold grip wrapping around your throat. You snatch up your phone again, heart racing, and fire off a desperate message to Olivia without thinking.
YOU: SOS
Almost instantly, your phone rings. âHey,â Oliviaâs voice comes through, alert and focused. âWhatâs going on?â
You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. âIâm completely fucked. Likeâcapital F. Totally. Theyâre going to know.â
âKnow what?â she asks, her tone filled with confusion and concern. You can hear the distant chatter in the background die down as she closes her office door. âSlow down.â
âIâm going to lose my job,â you rush out. âIâm going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthlessââ
âWhoa, whoa, whoa,â she interrupts firmly. âPause. Breathe. Talk to me.â
You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everythingâhow you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that arenât really photos, the texts that scream âweâre just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.
Thereâs a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. âBabe,â she says, sounding like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âDid you forget what I do for a living?â
âWhat?â you say weakly.
âI literally work in tech,â she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. âI can fix the metadata.â
You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. âYouâwhat?â
âI can fix it for you,â she says, her voice steady and reassuring. âIâll handle the timestamps, the locationsâeverything. â
âWait,â you interrupt, your mind racing. âYou can actually do that?â
She laughs. âPlease. This is childâs play.â
Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. âYouâve just saved my life.â
âI know,â Olivia replies smugly. âNow relax. Weâve got work to do.â She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. âOkay. Hereâs the thing, though.â
Your stomach tightens again. âWhy do you sound like that?â
âBecause youâre gonna need to give me something to work with,â she says. âDifferent locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, itâs going to take forever, and we donât have forever.â
You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. âDifferent locations,â you repeat faintly. âDifferent outfits.â
âYes,â she confirms patiently. âIt canât look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious.â
âThis is insane,â you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. âThis is actually unhinged.â A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. âIâm going to have to coordinate this with Jack.â
A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Oliviaâs voice breaks through. âOh,â she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. âYou haven't discussed this yet?â
âNo,â you admit. "I only just realised now."
âWell,â she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, âI'm sure he won't mind. You're moving in with him after all."
You give her a smile that is halfway between panic and giddiness. "We're crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Have I lost my mind?"
âMaybe,â Olivia agrees. âBut youâll still be employed.â
âBarely,â you mutter. âSo what about the texts?â
"Iâll handle that,â she says. "Weâll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romanceâ"
You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. âAnd emails?â
She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. âCome on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favourâtheyâll show that you were trying to keep it discreet.â
"Okay, yeah. I see your point." You let out a shaky breath. "I cannot believe this keeps on getting worse."
"Oh, I can," Olivia replies, a mischievous edge creeping into her voice. "You thrive in chaos, remember?"
You shoot her a half-hearted glare. "We need to send the proof by Sunday. Do you think we can do that?"
"Yeah," Olivia says. "We got this!" There's a distant knock, mumbling in the background. "Hey, I really have to go, but send me those texts ASAP, and I'll start on those until you can get me the photos. Love you."
As the call ends, you find yourself staring at the blank screen for a minute. You're about to move in with your attending. Create fraudulent texts and photos to hide a lie.
This is surreal. But you're in this far now. Might as well go all the way.
You take a deep breath. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Let's do this."
Jack tries to keep his eyes on the road, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. He canât help but notice the way your fingers twist together in your lap. The way you've gone quiet in that particular, loaded way he's learned to recognise. It's the same silence when you're worried but trying not to make it a problem. It makes something tight settle behind his ribs, a feeling he can't quite pin down.
The blinker clicks. The engine hums. The radio croons softly. You don't say a word.
He makes it three more blocks before he can't stand it anymore.
âHey,â he says, his tone gentle. Heâs already preparing himself for whateverâs weighing on your mind. âYou wanna tell me whatâs going on in that head of yours?â
You startle slightly, like you didnât realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. âWe forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week,â you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
Jackâs stomach drops. He lets his mind rewindâHRâs email, the checklist, the casual way youâd both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. âOh shit,â he mutters.
âI looked through my photosâŚâ you say hesitantly.
"And?â he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.
âNothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but itâs not enough.â You wince, then rush to add, âIâve got it covered. Mostly. But it means weâll need to take a lot more photos."
Pulling to a stop at a red light, he finally turns to you fully. You look stressed, but he also sees the spark of determination in your eyesâproblem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.
âWonât they be able to tell they were taken the same day?â he asks.
Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. âWow. Arenât you up with the times, old man?â
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. âIâm not that old.â
You give him a look that says otherwise.
He huffs, shaking his head. âIâm just saying. I know metadata exists.â
You glance at him. â...So does Olivia.â
He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. âYou told her?â
You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. âShe works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work.â
âI thought we promised not to tell anyone,â he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.
You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. âLike you promised not to tell Robby?â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. âFair point.â
A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.
âSo,â he says, glancing at you again, âOlivia can actually help us?â
âShe can,â you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. âBut weâll need to give her something to work with.â
He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. âDefine âsomething.'"
âVariety,â you say. âDifferent locations. Different vibes. We canât look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon.â
He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. âThis is ridiculous.â
"Completely,â you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. But Jack notices your shoulders remain tense, hands still clenched.
He shifts in his seat, turning toward you fully now. âWhen does Olivia need them?â
âAs soon as possible,â you say. âIâve already sent her some texts.â
He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anywayâto help you moveâso he's free. âOkay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?â
âDinner?â you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.
âFor realism,â he says easily, even though it stirs in his chestâa warmth he canât afford to let grow. âPeople in relationships eat food.â
You laugh, and itâs like the tension finally cracks. Your shoulders drop. The sound is quiet but real, and Jack feels absurdly proud of himself for being the reason.
âRight,â you say, your voice lighter. âOf course they do.â
He glances at the clock on the dashboard. âWe should probably head in. Weâll start with coffee.â
âOkay,â you say, drawing in a steadying breath. âCoffee tomorrow.â
He hesitates, then smiles at youâsoft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. âHey. Weâll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just⌠documentation.â
âDocumentation,â you repeat faintly.
âExactly,â he says. âVery romantic.â
You laugh again, quieter this time.
And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinksânot for the first timeâthat if this is what fake looks like, heâs in deeper than he probably should be.
The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of empty that only exists in the early morning, before the city fully wakes up. A handful of patrons occupy the corners, their fingers wrapped tightly around steaming mugs like lifelines. Their computers switched on, ready for another workday. The soft morning light filtering through the windows is pale and gentle, illuminating the dust motes that float lazily in its glow. Everything in here smells like coffee and warm pastries.
Jack holds the door open with his shoulder, one hand braced against the frame.
âYou go find us a table,â he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. âIâll order for us.â
Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. âIâll justââ
âTea. Herbal. A dash of honey,â he cuts in, already turning toward the counter. Then he looks back at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, expression unreadable but certain. A look that says I remember. That says let me take care of this. He nods toward the tables. âGo sit.â
Your chest tightens for a reason you refuse to examine again.
Nodding, you choose a small corner table by the window, positioned perfectly to view the street outside, which still seems half-asleep. A bus hisses by. Someone walks a dog like theyâve been up forever, too. The place is cosyâsoft chairs, warm wooden surfaces, sunlight trying its best to break through the cloud cover. It's exactly the kind of place you might suggest for a date.
Not that this is a date, you remind yourself firmly. Itâs not. Itâs logistics. Damage control.
You rub at your eyes, suddenly aware of how tired you are. How thin your defences feel after twelve hours of controlled chaos and adrenaline.
Jack comes back a moment later with two cups. He moves carefully, like his body is running on muscle memory now. He sits beside you, not across from you, and the closeness is immediate. His knee brushes yours. His arm shifts against yours as he leans back.
He takes a long sip of his coffee, exhales, then hums, low, pleased, a sound that sends a pleasurable shiver through you, settling warmly in your lower stomach.
You stare at the table because looking at him while he makes that sound would be a mistake. Your brain is already unhelpful, constructing various scenarios of how you, and not a cup of coffee, could recreate it.
Forcing your hands into action, you pick up your phone. âOkay,â you say. âLetâs get this over with.â
Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. âAnd they say romance is dead.â
âHa,â you respond dryly, a small smile betraying your feigned indifference.
You start with a few safe shots of the cups. His coffee and your tea side by side, steam rising together in the early light. Then thereâs one of him alone, leaning back in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes, yet somehow still handsome in a way that feels unfair.
He catches you, one eyebrow raised. âYouâre not sending that one, are you?â
âI might,â you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely wonât delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.
Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so itâs facing both of you. You hold it up, arm trembling just slightly.
Jack picks up on your uncertainty instantly. He always does. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer, and your shoulders align, a familiar touch that sends warmth coursing through you. His arm brushes against yours, and he carries the comforting blend of coffee, antiseptic, and that subtle, indescribable scent that is just him.
You share a tentative smile.
When you look at the photo, your heart sinks. Itâs nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesnât look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration youâre stable, supported, settled.
âItâs not good enough,â you murmur.
Jack leans in to look. âToo tired?â
âToo⌠professional,â you reply, disheartened.
âDo you want me to take it for you?â The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. Sheâs already rising from her seat.
You hesitate. Then you think about the meeting. The warning. The way your future suddenly hinges on proof you don't have.
âYes,â you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. âPlease.â
She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. âYou guys work at the hospital?â
âWhat gave it away?â you say dryly. âThe dead eyes?â
She laughs. âThat and the scrubs. Okayâmove closer.â
Jack doesnât hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way youâre not prepared for. You lean into him without thinking, your head fitting under his chin like muscle memory you never practised. His thumb presses lightly against your arm, hesitating just slightly before settling.
âPerfect, very cute.â the woman says. âHold that.â
You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isnât pounding. Like the early morning light isnât making everything feel softer, more intimate, more possible.
Snap.
When you see the photo, your throat tightens. It looks real. Not posed. Not forced. Just two exhausted people clinging to each other at the end of a long night. Tiredâbut real.
You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isnât real. And you really, really hope youâre strong enough to remember that by the end of this thing.
Hours later, as sleep has eased the most stressful edges of the night, Jack finds himself parked again outside your apartment building.
He leaves the engine running, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped uselessly in his lap, fingers idly drumming as he watches the building for any sign of you.
His mind keeps replaying the coffeeshop. The way you leaned back into him like it was nothing. The casualness of it, the weight of you resting there, the way his body had gone utterly still because any movement felt like it might mean too much. He tells himself it was friendly. Just pretend. And yetâhis arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. Thatâs the part that keeps looping in his mind, the part that makes his fingers tighten on the wheel. The ease. The terrifying, quiet ease of it.
The door flies open.
You bounce out like youâve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. Youâre dragging a massive bag behind youâbigger than necessary, clearlyâand Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.
âJesus,â he mutters under his breath. âOf course you would.â
You nearly trip on the steps, catch yourself, laugh at your own near-demise, then wrestle the bag down the sidewalk. When you spot his car, your whole face lights up, and you lift a hand in an enthusiastic wave, like youâre greeting someone you havenât seen in weeks instead of⌠earlier today.
A twist of warmth unfurls in Jack's chest.
He's about to get out of the car to help you, but your dramatic gesture makes him stay. He obliges, not too willingly, but he does take some pleasure in watching through the windshield as you struggle with the bag, hitching it up onto your shoulder with melodramatic effort. You strike a brief, victorious pose when you conquer it.
Heâs absurdly fond of you for it.
You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. âOkay,â you announce, breathless. âBefore you say anythingâI know.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYouâre moving in already?â
âItâs called being prepared,â you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. âAlso, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes.â
He snorts despite himself. âYeah, I can see that.â
You shove the bag in the backseat. âCareful. Thereâs a system in there.â
âIâm terrified,â he says.
You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.
âReady?â he asks, carefully casual.
You grin. âBorn ready. Exhausted, but ready.â
You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you donât see how much that affects him.
The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.
âSo,â you say, too bright after a few minutes. âI made a list.â
Jack exhales through his nose. âI knew it.â
âOutfits. Places,â you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."
âIâm going to pretend I didnât hear that.â
âYou say that now,â you reply. âBut when HR is convinced weâre soulmates, youâll thank me.â
He hums. âBold assumption.â
âYou are welcome,â you say, nudging his arm with your elbow.
He parks outside his place and gets out, grabbing the bag before you can beat him to it. Itâs heavier than expected.
He winces. âYou pack bricks in here?â
âLayers,â you correct. âTexture. Narrative depth.â
He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
Inside, there's a soft glow of afternoon sunlight. You kick off your shoes immediately, toeing them into a corner like youâve done this a hundred times.
Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. âUhâkitchen first?â
Youâre already halfway there, smoothing your hair into something passable, while Jack leans against the counter, still trying to reconcile the fact that you're here in his kitchen, acting as if you've been here all your life. You're dressed in slouchy clothes, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder and soft pants, looking far too much like you'd just woken up at his place again.
Jack watches as you mutter something about mugs, opening the cabinet with a careful flick of your wrist. Two clink against each other as you pull them out.
âYou got coffee?â you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.
Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. âYou could just ask me to make you a cup, you know.â His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like heâs trying to sound annoyed but failing.
âYes, but whereâs the fun in that?â you shoot back, holding out the mugs.
He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. âI think itâs just because you still donât know how to use this beauty.â His hand lands on the machineâs top with a gentle pat, like itâs a living thing.
You scoff, tilting your head. âNot my fault, you own the most fancy-pancy machine in the world.â
Jack doesnât argue. He flicks switches, the machine hissing and whirring, and soon enough a rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen. He passes you a mug.
You step back, just enough for your spine to brush against his arm, your weight leaning there casually. Jack freezes, heart stuttering for a split second before settling.
âOkay,â you say, lifting your phone. âCasual. Like weâre just⌠standing here. Used to doing this.â
âYeah,â Jack murmurs, the words soft, almost lost under the hum of the coffee machine.
You snap a photo, eyes flicking to the screen. Then back at him. âMaybe one more. Butâuhâdifferent angle.â You snap it again.
Jack leans a little closer, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. Every snap of your phone makes the hair on the back of his neck lift. He doesnât move away.
You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changedâyours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like itâs some kind of photo shoot, but ultimately yielding to it.
Stopping in front of the long mirror that stretches across the wall, you take in the reflection before you: the soft lighting and the way your hair frames your face.
Jack trails behind you, moving slower now, more hesitant. He halts a step behind, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
You glance at him in the mirror, your brows furrowing slightly as you draw in a breath. âSo... we need something affectionate."
His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"
âYes,â you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.
His gaze drops again. âI canâ I mean, if you want. Only if youâre okay with it.â
âYes,â you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. âI mean, I think itâs fine. Itâs just for the photo, right?â
âRight,â he says. âJust the photo.â
Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.
You take a breath and add, quieter, âIf itâs weird, we can stop.â
âItâs not weird,â he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, âIâm just⌠trying very hard not to do something you wouldnât like.â
That makes your chest tighten. âIâll tell you,â you promise. âIf itâs too much.â
He nods once, as if steeling himself for whatâs to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. âOkay,â he murmurs, his voice steadier now. âIâm going to put my arms around you.â
You canât help but snort despite the situation. âThatâs very reassuring.â
âSorry. Bad habit,â he replies, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. âI narrate under pressure.â
His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chestânot tight, not possessive. Careful. Like heâs giving you room to pull away if you want to. His body stays angled back, creating space even as he pretends closeness.
You lean back instinctively. Jack freezes for half a second, breath catching, then forces himself to relax.
âStill okay?â he asks.
âYeah,â you say. Then, because youâre also nervous, you add lightly, âYouâre doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate.â
He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. âHigh praise.â
You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authenticâhis arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that youâre leaning into him.
Snap.
For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jackâs arms remain where they are, as if heâs waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. âOkay,â you say softly. âWe got it.â
He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like heâs afraid he lingered a second too long.
In the mirror, you both look flustered, a little breathless, and undeniably convincing.
Clearing your throat, you glance over your shoulder. âCouch next?â
You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like himâwarm, faintly coffee-scentedâand it hits Jack harder than it should. Itâs not the first time heâs seen you in his clothes, yet the sight still hits him with a wave of unexpected intensity. He hides a quiet groan behind a cough, wishing he could unsee how right it looks on you. If he wants to survive this ordeal, he needs to get used to it⌠fast.
âSit down,â you command, flopping onto the couch.
âBossy,â he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.
You laughâa little too sharp, a little too quickâand then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like heâs caught in a trap of wanting to hold you and not wanting to cross a line. Then slowly, painstakingly slowly, he lets himself relax, arm coming around you, careful not to smother, careful not to claim.
âThis okay?â he asks, voice quieter than he intends.
âYeah,â you murmur. âIs it okay for you?â
He swallows, the words coming too fast. âYeah.â Then softer, almost under his breath, âYeah.â
All he feels is the faint warmth of you, and the slightly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat beating under your head. He hopes you can't hear it.
Another snap.
The last stop is the bathroom.
Jack shuffles down the hall, reminding himself with each step: breathe, act normal, donât collapse in your own house. He changes into softer clothes, hoping the cotton fabric will ease the tension curling in his chest and help him feel grounded again.
You emerge from your room in sleepwear thatâs nearly indecentâa thin tank top that clings to your form and tiny shorts that leave little to the imagination. Jack feels his thoughts stumble over each other; he nearly trips over his own heart, a rapid beat echoing in his ears. He swears he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.
âRelax,â you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he canât disguise. âItâs just brushing teeth.â
âVery dangerous activity,â he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that itâs not the brushing he considers risky; itâs the sight of you in that revealing outfit and the intimate space between you two.
You grin, a playful spark igniting your eyes as you grab the toothbrushes, leaning forward into the mirror. To him, it seems almost oblivious, the way you immerse yourself in the task, unaware of the charged atmosphere. You angle your phone, framing the perfect shot, posing with the ease of someone who doesnât know the effect you have on him.
Snap.
Then, with an effortless leap, you hop onto the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You gesture for Jack to come closer, your inviting smile pulling him in. Suddenly, he finds himself standing between your thighs, a situation that feels both unintended and electrifying. Heâs caughtâcornered by the proximity, a sense of politeness tugging at him, and the palpable tension that suggests retreating too quickly would feel like letting you know exactly what's going on inside him. He braces his hands on the countertop, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move.
âYouâre doing great,â you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. âYou look⌠very normal.â
He shoots you a lookâsharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everythingâof the closeness, the heat, the way his body wonât stop reacting.
A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and itâs infectious.
Another snap.
Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself heâs perfectly fine, even as the tightness in his shoulders (and pants) and the fluttering in his stomach suggest otherwise. You adjust slightly on the counter, careful not to bump into him, yet your leg brushes against hisâa fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow thatâs exactly the problem.
The photo captures it perfectlyâ how awkward, flustered and tense he feelsâbut he has to admit it looks convincingly real.
Jack stands in the hallway outside your apartment, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other hovering nervously near the doorbell. He had meant to just text, like a normal person, but⌠he canât. He knows this isn't a real date, but he's old-fashioned. And if this is the only date he'll ever get with you, he's gonna take advantage of it. Make sure he treats you right.
He clears his throat, glances down at the flowers. Bright colours, a little messy, like you. Not too fancy, not too staged. Perfect.
With a deep breath, he presses the doorbell. Immediately, he hears the faint creak of the floors, then the shuffle of footsteps.
You appear, coat wrapped around you, hair tucked loosely behind one ear. For a second, heâs frozen. You look⌠breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.
âHey,â he manages to say, voice casual but tight. âI brought you these.â He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.
You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. âYou really didnât have toââ
âI know,â he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. âBut I wanted to. And, uh⌠figured it's a great mood setter.â
You shake your head, laughing softly. You take the flowers and bring them inside quickly before you descend the stairs together. Jack watches your every movement, noting the way your bag swings lightly at your side, the soft fold of your coat, the way your hair catches the light. He keeps his expression easy, teasingly dry.
âThought Iâd give you the thrill of being escorted down,â he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. âBetter than a text, right?â
âThrill? Really?â you ask, smirking, though thereâs a warmth in your voice. "But honestly, you really didn't have to. I can't remember the last time someone I dated picked me up at the door."
âWell, then,â he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. âYou haven't been dating real men, then.â
You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Heâs smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasnât been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.
Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. âAfter you,â he murmurs. Allowing himself a moment to watch you slide inside, feeling like a fool for how much longing pulses through him all at once.
He climbs in after you and starts the engine. Quietly, carefully, he steals a glance at you. Youâre talking, smiling lightly, and he thinks, God, how did I get stuck pretending this is casual?
The drive is calm, but his chest is not. Heâs careful to sound nonchalant, cracking a small, dry joke about the traffic while secretly memorising the way the light hits your hair, the tilt of your head, the easy grace in your movements.
By the time you reach the restaurant, heâs still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But itâs there. Every glance, every pause in his voice, every stiff swallow betrays it.
Jack guides the car up to the curb in front of the restaurant, engine ticking down. You slide the door open, coat wrapped around you, and he follows behind with that calculated calm heâs been practising all eveningâbut the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.
The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadnât been able to see before. God. The colour, the cutâitâs perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadnât thought imaginable. His chest tightens as his jaw clenches. He clears his throat subtly.
You catch him staring. âYou look stunned,â you say lightly, teasing him. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."
âStunned? Me? No. IâI mean, yes. You look⌠good,â he says quickly, fumbling with the words. âVery⌠good. Not too good. Perfectly good.â
You laugh at him, the sound soft and familiar, and he feels the tension in his chest ease slightly, replaced by that quiet, warm ache he always tries to hide. He leans back, trying to act like heâs relaxed, though his eyes keep flicking to you.
Conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally. You joke about work disasters, late-night shifts, and ridiculous coworkers. He teases you about something smallâa clumsy gesture, the way you sip your waterâand your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries heâs being too obvious. Heâs careful not to let it show, but every glance, every brush of your hand against the table, every tilt of your head pulls him in closer.
Halfway through dessert, you remember the photos. âRight. HR,â you mutter, pulling out your phone.
Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but heâs tense, every muscle alert. You angle the phone and ask him to smile. He grins, but his eyes flick to yours instead of the camera. His chest tightens againâGod, you look⌠stunning.
The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. âWant me to take one for you both?â he asks.
You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.
The waiter snaps the photo. Jackâs hand brushes yours just slightly on the table enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like itâs a casual touch. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what heâs been trying to hide all night.
He watches you eat, drink, laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. The more he observes, the more aware he becomes: every smile, every glance, every little motion pulls him in, and pretending itâs all just for HR, just for photos, is getting harder by the second.
The car ride home is enveloped in a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of your fingers flicking through your phone. After a few minutes of focused tapping, you send off all the staged photos to Olivia, feeling a rush of relief wash over you. Finally, itâs done.
Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesnât say anything, just watches, calm and steady, and somehow that makes your pulse tighten again.
As you pull up outside your apartment, streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement.
âIâll walk you up,â he says, breaking the silence.
You shake your head immediately. âI canââ
âI'll walk you up.â His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you canât quite shake, so you relent and follow him inside.
Once in your apartment, the sound of your shoes soft against the floor fills the space. Jack stands at the threshold.
Suddenly, your phone buzzesâonce, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. âNo,â you mutter, exasperated. âNo more. Iâm done.â
Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. ââŚEverything okay?â
You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. âYep,â you chirp, a little too brightly. âEverything's good. Totally fine.â
Suspicion narrows his eyes. âWhat did Olivia say?â
âI donât want to talk about it.â
âTrouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.
Cautiously, you meet his gaze. âShe wantsââ You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. ââŚmore.â
Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. âAnother hug? Anotherââ
âNo.â You grimace. âNot that kind of more.â
He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out, âShe said HR wants a kiss.â
The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. ââŚA kiss,â he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.
âBarely a kiss,â you rush to clarify. âMicroscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake itâangles, illusions, movie magicââ
He steps closer, measured, careful, like heâs approaching something fragile. âBreathe,â he instructs softly, his voice steady.
You do. Or try to. His gaze stays steady on yours, grounded in a way that almost makes it worse.
âWe donât do anything you donât want,â he murmurs, low and even.
Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. âItâs fine. We have to... for HR.â
âRight,â he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. âHR.â
You donât back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. âUhâcome in. We can do it in my room.â
Jack follows dutifully, hands clasped loosely behind his back. You place your phone in the corner, angle it just so, and hit play on the recording. Olivia can screenshot the part she wants, you're not gonna attempt to even pretend you can have a steady enough hand for this photo.
Jack steps in front of you, drawing close. Thereâs still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.
âThis is ridiculous,â you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.
âExtremely,â he agrees immediately, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It helps, just a little.
You move closer before your thoughts can twist into doubt, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you.
âDo you want me to justâŚ?â He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.
You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. âIâve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school.â
His laugh is soft and unguarded, slipping out before he can catch it. He exhales deeply, then raises his hand slowly, giving you ample time to back out.
Instead, you freeze.
His palm gently cups your cheek, warm and tender, his thumb grazing just below your eye. Your heart lurches, pounding so violently that you fear it might be captured on the recording.
âThis okay?â he murmurs, voice careful again.
You nod. Barely.
He leans in and brushes your lipsâjust a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesnât count. Almost.
Your chest jolts anyway.
Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepensânot rushed, not hungry, just⌠there. Real. His thumb strokes your cheekbone without thinking. One hand settles at your waist, light enough you could step away.
You donât.
Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like youâre checking that heâs real. His breath stutters once before he steadies it again.
A sudden crash outside jolts you both back to reality.
He pulls away just enough so that your foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the charged air. ââŚThat should probably satisfy the committee,â he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.
âProbably,â you manage, voice embarrassingly unsteady.
Silence hangs thick and heavy, and neither of you moves.
His eyes flicker helplessly to your lips before he catches himself, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. âOkay,â he says, his tone rougher than before. âWe should⌠send it to Olivia.â
âRight. For HR.â You hit send, hands trembling slightly.
Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like heâs still catching up to his body.
Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesnât move.
âRelieved?â you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.
âRelieved to be done changing clothes for the hundredth time,â he says.
You grin, still slighlty shaky. "Okay, no more roleplaying⌠unless you wanna go to that medieval fair next month?"
That finally elicits a genuine snort from himâthin, tired, and undeniably real. âCount me out,â he grins, a hint of warmth creeping back into his demeanour.
"Hmm, too bad," you laugh.
Silence settles in, heavy with the ghost of the kiss. The warmth. The fact that neither of you is quite looking at the other.
âCrisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it.â
Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then he nods once. âYeah,â he says. âWe did.â
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, sickness, bus breakdown.
word count: 5.5k
a/n: won't spoil much but we finally get a conversation I know many of you have been looking forward to! hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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You wake up hours later, disoriented, in an empty bed. A fleeting memory flits through your mindâJackâs fingers brushing against your cheek as he slipped away. The space beside you is still faintly warm, so he hasn't been gone long.
You stretch slightly, feeling a subtle easing in your body. The fever fog that has haunted you has thinned; your joints still ache, but the pain has softened, and when you sit up, the room no longer tilts or sways.
You pause, bracing yourself for a wave of discomfort or dizziness, but nothing comes. Instead, you let out a slow breath, one you hadnât realised you were holding.
You're through the worst of it.
The house is quiet, just the low hum of appliances and the faint, comforting clink of ceramic from the kitchen. Carefully, you swing your legs over the side of the bed. You move slowly, but steadily, bare feet padding across the floor. Each step feels deliberate, like your body is reminding you not to get cocky.
Jack stands at the counter, already dressed and wearing his prosthetic. Heâs poured himself a cup of coffee, and as you enter the room, he looks up at the sound of movement. And for half a second, his face gives him awayârelief, clear and unguardedâthen it's gone, smoothed into something calm.
"You're up," he says.
"Don't get too excited," you reply, voice still scratchy but more robust than it was yesterday. "I can stand. It's a low bar." You slide into a chair before your legs can argue otherwise.
He huffs a quiet laugh and slides a steaming mug of coffee toward you without a word. You wrap both hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into your palms.
Itâs easy, for a fleeting moment, to imagine afternoons like thisâshared silence, coffee waiting, and Jack attending to you with a casual care that feels immensely significant.
You donât let yourself stay there.
âI should head back later,â you say lightly, attempting to downplay the heaviness in your heart. âRide out the last of it at my place.â
Jackâs response is immediate. âYou donât have to,â he says. âYou can stay. At least another day.â
The offer lands heavily, its weight tugging at something tender and overworked inside you. Your heart, still fatigued, protests at the effort it takes to ignore it. You swallow the instinctive âyesâ that threatens to escape and instead paste on a smile, one that doesnât quite reach your eyes.
"Thanks, but I should probably check that my roommate didn't leave the oven on all night," you say, trying to keep the mood light. âOr if she left the window open again. Last time we had pigeons. Plural.â
Jack studies you over the rim of his mug, his eyes measuring something unspoken between you. His gaze searches yours, weighing whether to challenge or let it go, but in the end, he relents.
"Let me take you home at least," he says. Itâs phrased casually, but thereâs something firm underneath it. It's not a question.
You open your mouth to protestâIâm fine, I can order an Uberâthen close it again. The truth is, youâre still tired. Still a little shaky. And part of you doesnât want to be alone quite yet.
âOkay,â you say finally, a reluctant acceptance creeping into your voice. âIf youâre sure.â
âI am.â
The drive is quiet, only broken by the soft murmur of radio hosts drifting from the speakers. The city moves past the windows in soft blurs of grey, and you watch as familiar streets slide by. Jack drives carefully, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console.
"You feeling okay?" he asks, glancing at you briefly.
âYeah,â you say, the answer forming more easily now. âTired, but feeling significantly less like death.â
He exhales something almost like a laugh. âGood.â He pauses, then adds quieter. âIâm glad.â
When he pulls up outside your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine idles. The moment stretches.
âThank you for taking care of me,â you finally say, breaking the silence.
His gaze flicks to you then, steady and sincere. âAnytime.â
Hesitating for just a moment, you reach for the door and push it open before doubt can worm its way back in. The brisk air outside is colder than you expect, a stark contrast to the warmth inside the car.
Jack waits until youâre inside before pulling away.
Up in your apartment, the quiet feels amplified, almost overwhelming in its emptiness. You set your bag down, lean back against the door, and take a moment to breathe, grounding yourself. You close your eyes, trying to centre your thoughts, but your chest feels inexplicably tight.
You tell yourself he was just being kind. That itâs natural to feel concern for someone unwell. That people were watching in the ER. That thatâs why he drove you home.
You struggle to find a suitable excuse for him bringing you to his house, for staying, for the way he watched you breathe like it mattered. Every explanation circles back to the same fragile word.
Kindness. He was just being kind.
You repeat it in your mind like a mantra, over and over, until the syllables lose their meaning and no longer feel true.
Over the next few days, you recover in slow increments. The coughing dulls, the chills fade, and your voice gradually starts to sound more like your own. Jack checks in daily, nothing dramatic, nothing heavy, just simple texts.
Howâs your head?
You eating?
Take your meds?
You respond honestly, but you donât share the emptiness of your apartment or how you keep replaying the comforting weight of his arm around you, or how nice it felt to be taken care of.
By the time your next night shift rolls around, youâre functional. Not great. Not fully recovered. But upright. And breathing. And pretending thatâs enough. Â
Pretending is your forte after all.
âYouâre back!â Parker sidles up beside you at the hub, eyes flicking up to the board before landing squarely on you with evident relief. âThank god.â
Your brows knit together as you turn to face her, arms crossing automatically. âWhat do you mean?â
She doesnât bother to mask her frustration. âAbbotâs been a nightmare to work with,â she says. âDistracted. Snappy. I swear he was checking his phone every two minutes. He even had Lena hold onto it just in case he was busy.â
You blink in surprise. "Oh."
Parker gives you a look. âIâve never seen a guy so worried about someone with the flu,â she continues. âAnd that doesnât even cover the day you came in sick."
Your stomach does a small, traitorous dip.
âDonât know how you managed to sneak that past him,â she adds with a grin, clearly misreading the situation, and thinking you snuck out of the house after he left. âBut he was a wreck that night. Total mess. He even had Robby come in hours early so he could go home to you.â
Oh.
You hadnât known that.
You quickly school your face into a neutral expression and reach for a tablet, grateful for the excuse to redirect the focus away from this conversation. âI donât think he was that worried,â you say, aiming for casual. He couldn't have been. It was probably just an act to keep the lie going. âIt was just the flu."
Parker hums, unconvinced. âUh-huh. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.â
You shoot her a look. âWell, I'm back and Iâm good.â
âGood,â she says brightly. âBecause I canât handle seeing his worried little frown all shift. Itâs upsetting. And frankly, it kills the vibe.â
Before you can respond, the speakers crackle. Trauma alert. Heart attack, mid-50s.
You glance up just as Jack strides in beside you, already attuned to the urgency of the situation. His gaze flicks to youâquick and sharpâassessing your readiness. When he sees you standing steady, tablet in hand, colour back in your cheeks, he visibly relaxes; the tension in his shoulders easing just the slightest bit.
âYou good?â he asks, low.
âYeah,â you assure him. âPromise.â
He nods once, satisfied enough to move on, but not before his hand briefly brushes your elbowâgrounding, unnecessary, and comfortingly familiar.
The call unfolds smoothly. You and Jack work seamlessly together, slipping back into an easy rhythm. He hands you the BP cuff before you ask. You anticipate his questions, fill in details without stepping on his toes. When the patient winces, Jackâs attention is splitâhalf on the monitor, half flicking to you, like heâs making sure youâre not pushing yourself.
You catch him doing it. Again and again.
âIâm fine,â you murmur under your breath at one point, adjusting the IV line with practised hands.
âI know,â he says just as quietly. âHumour me.â
The patient notices, too. Gives you a knowing smile. âYou two work well together,â he says.
Jack answers automatically. âShe's a great doctor.â
You canât help but notice Bridget, hovering on the periphery, biting her lip to suppress a smile as she watches the interaction unfold.
Later, as you clear the call and step away from the rig, Jack finally exhales fully, tension releasing from him. He looks at you like heâs been holding something in all shift.
âYou sure youâre okay?â he asks again.
Rolling your eyes, you can't help but feel fond despite the annoyance. âI survived. See? No hovering required.â
A hint of a smile escapes him.
In the middle of a week already testing your patience in every possible directionâwork, roommate, sicknessâfate decides to push a little harder.
Itâs a wet, freezing, grey evening, the kind that makes merely existing outside feel like punishment. Youâre regretting your decision to venture out even more when the bus gives a sickly sputter, then a series of choking gasps, before it finally dies.
It's not your stop. Not even close. After a few excruciating minutes of anticipation, the driver announces in a weary tone that theyâve experienced an âengine failureââan official term that translates into your language as: get out, everyone, and good luck finding your way home. And for you, this means: youâre in deep trouble.
The emergency stop is in a neighbourhood you only recognise because youâve looked up ER wait-times here once (long live study procrastination)âlong, loud, not exactly the sort of place you want to be stuck alone in after 6 PM.
People scatter toward the nearest bus stop, but the next bus wonât arrive for an agonising forty minutes, and the Uber wait-time is an excruciating hour. You can almost hear your wallet wailing at the thought of the fare while your sanity threatens to unravel completely. Staring at the useless little map on your phone feels futile as you weigh your optionsâand your desperate situation.
Reluctantly, you call Jack.
Not because you want to, but because youâre desperate. Itâs his night off, and with his work-life balance already dangling by a thread, the last thing you want is to turn him into your personal rescue service. You already feel like you intrude on every corner of his life, but you have no other options, and you really, really cannot be late.
He answers halfway through the first ring, his voice warm but tinged with alertness. âHey,â he greets, instantly gauging that somethingâs amiss. âWhatâs wrong?
âI, umâŚâ You pull your bag closer to your side, acutely aware of the scattered figures around you. The sidewalk feels emptier with each passing moment, only a few souls left waiting for their rides.
âCould you⌠can you come get me?â
Thereâs a sharp inhale on his end. âWhere are you?â
You give the cross-streets.
Dead silence follows.
âWhy the hell are you there? I thought you were working tonight?â he asksânot loud, just tight.
âI am. The bus broke down,â you mutter quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. âIâm fine, itâs justâmy next connection doesnât come for forty minutes, and Iâm going to be late, and Iââ
âStay where you are,â he commands immediately. Thereâs a jangle of keys, a shift in movement that speaks volumes. âDonât walk around. Donât move. Iâm coming.â
The line clicks shut, leaving you to hug yourself closer against the chill. Ten long, agonising minutes stretch out, headlights gliding over puddles while you fidget anxiously. Then, finally, his car pulls in sharply, stopping with a slight skid. Jack is out before you have a chance to fully rise from the bench, and his expressionâGod, he looks furious.
âWhat the hell is this commute?â he demands as you slide into the warmth of the car. âWhy didnât you tell me it was this bad?â
You fasten your seatbelt, the click sounding louder in the tense silence. âItâs not alwaysââ
He slams the door harder than usual, takes a breath, and dives into the driverâs seat, shutting his own door with a similar intensity. His jaw clenches and flexes as he starts the engine. âThis is a forty-minute detour from your normal route,â he states as he pulls out into traffic.
You stare down at your lap, your heart sinking as you feel his eyes flicker toward you, searching. âYou do this every night?â he presses.
No answer.
"Every morning?â His voice is edged with concern now, but youâre unsure what reaction the truth would elicit.
Jack exhales heavily. âJesus, sweetheartâŚâ
"I'm sorry for calling you," you murmur.
âHey.â He glances over at you, and in his eyes, the anger begins to dissolve into something softer. âNo, no, sweetheart. Iâm not mad at you. You can call me anytime.â His tone softens as he pulls onto the main road, still moving quickly but with more control now. âI justâif Iâd known it was like this, I wouldâve driven you.â
You try not to read into it. But God, itâs hard not to. The car hums, steady under his hands as he turns towards the Pitt. He drives a little slower now, like his pulse has finally caught up. The car hums around you, warm and steady, and the small coil of panic in your chest loosens.
The road smooths out, streetlights streaking past in lazy lines. Jack drums his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel before letting out a resigned sigh. âYou know,â he says, breaking the silence, âYou're really living up to your nickname, Trouble."
You blink at him, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. âWow. So this is my fault?â
âObviously. This screams personal vendetta."
You nod solemnly, playing along. âI did sense a hostile vibe from the engine.â
He shoots you a look thatâs both incredulous and amused. âDonât joke about engines. Too soon.â
âSorry. My bad.â You smile slightly.
Another light. He brakes a little harder than necessary, then catches himself.
âYou scared me,â he admits, the weight of his words hanging between you.
You swallow, the openness of the moment catching you off guard. âSorry,â you whisper, your voice barely a breath.
Silence looms, but you power through it, not wanting to let the gravity of the situation linger too long.
âGood news, though,â you say brightly. âIf weâre ever in a zombie apocalypse, I now know three main exits and one suspicious alley to escape down.â
He exhales a laugh through his nose. âThatâs⌠comforting.â
âI bring value to this partnership," you tease, the tension easing just a touch again.
He shakes his head, a reluctant smile breaking free despite the circumstances. âNext time, Iâm driving you. No buses. No apocalypse training on my watch.â
You grin, sinking back into the comfort of the seat. âLook at that. One near-death experience, and I get upgraded transport.â
âDonât push it,â he says, but thereâs warmth in it.
The email hits your inbox at 3:20 PM, right as youâre dragging yourself out of bed for another night shiftâbrain fuzzy, your soul hovering somewhere between awake and asleep, but notably more intact than itâs been in a week.
The lingering ache of being sick has mostly packed up and left; no fever, no bone-deep exhaustion, just the manageable, familiar tiredness of someone who works nights and makes questionable life choices. Enough that Jack has finally stopped hovering at work, no longer watching you like you might keel over if you blink too hard.
Your roommate, Talia, insisted on playing the same Sabrina Carpenter song on repeat most of the morning, so instead of sleeping, youâre now able to recite it word for wordâbackwards, if necessaryâin multiple emotional tones.
Still, you feel⌠mostly good. Functional. The kind of okay that means you can make it through a shift without medical supervision or concerned looks from a certain doctor who pretends not to worry and fails spectacularly at it.
The email lands like it knew all of this and thought you can't have it too good.
HR Follow-Up Required â Marriage Verification & Cohabitation Status
You stare at it. At your wall. At the email again.
Then you text Jack.
You: Did we accidentally commit another policy violation in our sleep or something?
Jack: Not unless you fought another patient on my day off. Itâs a follow-up. Meet me 5:50 outside HR.
You groan into your pillow, drag the covers over your face in a last, futile act of protest, then roll out of bed anyway.
Your rubber band waits on the nightstand. Picked by Jack after someone in the ER clocked your conspicuously ringless fingers and decided it was a topic for public discussion. You slip it into your bag.
Your real ringâthe one you both picked out in a haze of exhaustion and bad coffee and⌠something else you refuse to nameâslides onto your finger instead. It settles there, familiar, grounding.
Just in case HR demands proof, like some medieval marriage inquisition complete with torches and sworn testimony.
When you arrive at the HR office, Jack is leaning against the wall, his hair still damp from a stress-induced shower, you guess. Yours was.
Seeing you, his posture relaxes slightly. âYou good?â he asks.
âNo,â you reply flatly.
âGood. Weâre on the same page.â He opens the door, his shoulder brushing yours in a fleeting moment of solidarity. The fluorescent lights inside still buzz like theyâre trying to warn you to turn around. You ignore them.
Gina looks exactly the sameâprofessional, rigid, already tired of this. "Doctors Abbot and Y/L/N,â she nods curtly in acknowledgement. âLetâs proceed.â
You and Jack take your seats, your knees bumping lightly beneath the table, a light and steady contact. You donât move away. Neither does he. You're too tired to ponder its meaning.
Gina lifts a thicker folder this time, the heaviness of it mirroring the weight in your chest. âWeâve reviewed your submitted documents. Everything looks good. HoweverâŚâ
Ah, the dreaded âhoweverâ.
ââŚWe require further information.â
Jack nods politely. âOf course.â
She flips open a checklist that looks like it was designed specifically to ruin your week. âFirst point: cohabitation.â
Your stomach tightens at the mention of the word, but you manage to maintain a composed expressionâtired but neutral, a facade you've mastered over the last few weeks.
âYou currently still list separate addresses,â Gina continues, her tone brisk, leaving little room for interpretation. âGiven your marital status, this discrepancy raises concerns for the COI committee. You mentioned last time that you were moving in togetherâcan you provide us with an estimated move-in date?
Before you can gather your thoughts or swallow your rising panic, Jack interjects with a measured tone. âWeâre still finalising logistics.â
Ginaâs gaze sharpens, her brow slightly furrowing. âIâll need you to have a date by the end of this week,â she presses. âTo avoid any complications with your submissions.â
A whole week. Luxurious. Generous. Insane.
Jack's jaw goes tight. âWeâll have a date by Friday.â
You steal a glance at him, but he doesnât meet your gazeâhis focus is locked on Gina. But, his knee presses more firmly against yours, a silent gesture that tells you he understands the weight of the situation, that heâs right there with you.
âGood,â Gina says, like sheâs assigning homework, not deciding the fate of your careers. She tries something resembling a smile to soften the air, though it feels forced, and her eyes drift to your hands. âMay I see your rings?â
You're not sure whether this is part of the interrogation or just her attempting to show interest like normal people do. Either way, it feels weird.
Jack, steady as ever, raises his hand. You join him, your hand trembling only slightly, thankfully. The weight of the ring feels suddenly heavier under her gaze.
âLooks good. Please ensure youâre wearing rubber substitutes in the ED.â
With that, she flips open another folder, âWeâve reviewed the documentation you previously submitted,â she says.
You and Jack exchange a subtle glance.
âYour timeline and personal statements have been added to the file,â she continues. âHowever, the COI committee has some follow-up questions due to the proximity and supervision overlap.â
Jackâs posture stiffens, a flicker of concern ghosting across his features. âSuch as?â he asks carefully.
Gina slides a page across the desk. âThey require supporting evidence.â
Your brows shoot up involuntarily. Supporting evidence? For a marriage? Is this HR or Homeland Security?
Gina leans forward, her tone clinical. âPhotos together that predate the marriage. Proof of joint decision-making. Any texts or emails that chronicle the evolution of your relationship. And most cruciallyâdocumentation confirming your living arrangements moving forward.â
Jack maintains his calm facade, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying the storm of emotions beneath. âWhat kind of documentation?â he asks.
âA signed statement of cohabitation,â she states. âAlong with the new shared address and the date of your move.â
Your brain short-circuits. This is no longer theoretical. No longer a loophole or a technicality. Itâs real, sharp-edged and official. This was supposed to be temporary, and now you have to move in together. Just the thought sends you spiralling into a desire to crawl under the table and vanish.
âWeâll handle the administrative updates,â Jack replies.
Gina nods. âPlease do. The committee expects everything to be submitted by the end of the week.â
Sure. Why not? Whatâs next? A home visit to validate your life together?
With a finality that echoes throughout the room, Gina closes the thick folder. The sound is solid, finalâan exclamation mark on this unsettling discussion. âThatâs all.â
Relief washes over you, and you nearly exhale the tension you've been holding since you walked in.
You leave the room, and the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a wave of uncertainty washes over you. Your knees wobble slightlyânot to the point of collapse, but enough that Jack instinctively catches you by the elbow, concern etched in his features. âYou okay?â he asks, his tone laced with genuine worry.
âI mean⌠define âokay.ââ
He huffs a tiny laugh. âFair.â
âShe wants a move-in date this week,â you say, the weight of the situation settling heavily between you.
âYeah,â he concurs, nodding. âBut letâs not forget the silver liningâshe also complimented our rings,â he says, his expression deadpan but the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. âA rare gesture of goodwill. I think Iâll frame it as a keepsake.â
You snort, unable to suppress your amusement. Itâs a surprising relief to laugh with him at a moment when everything feels overwhelming, and the walls seem to close in around you.
At that exact moment, a nurse walks by. "Oh! Congrats again!â she beams, her eyes sparkling with excitement. âYou two are seriously the cutest couple." Her gaze shifts to you, and she winks, adding, âI know quite a few people who were disappointed when they found out you snatched up this guy.â
You catch Jackâs reactionâthe abrupt stillness in his posture, the way his chin dips slightly. For a fleeting moment, you swear you see a hint of colour bloom on his cheeks.
You smile politely, trying to brush off the compliment. âThank you,â you say, though it doesnât quite capture the flutter of uncertainty in your chest.
As the nurse walks away with a cheerful grin, you and Jack lean against the wall. He mutters, half-joking, âWeâre doomed.â
You shake your head, trying to inject some lightness into the air. âWeâre improvising impressively,â you counter.
He raises an eyebrow at you.
With a nudge of your shoulder against his, you offer him a playful look. âHey, at least you know you still have options after the dust settles.â
His jaw ticks. He looks ahead and doesn't answer, besides a low hum. You arch a brow. Interesting reaction, but you know it's probably just because he doesn't want to discuss that with you.
Perhaps it forces him to think about what heâs giving up by continuing this charade with you.
You let out a resigned sigh. âShift?â you suggest, refocusing on the task at hand.
âShift,â he agrees with a solemn nod. âAnd afterwards⌠we need to talk about moving in. Properly.â
At the mention of the impending conversation, your heart performs an Olympic-level flip in your chest. You strive to keep your voice steady and calm. âOkay.â
He nudges your shoulder again as you walk toward the locker roomsâlight, casual, and seemingly unnecessary. To anyone observing, it might appear as a friendly gesture. But to you, at that moment, it means everything.
The shift unfolds like it always does.
A string of traumas. A combative patient. Two codes. An endless, relentless stream of congratulations youâre both too tired to deflect. You hope those die down soon.
By the time dawn bleeds through the skylights, your scrubs smell like antiseptic and coffee, youâve run on adrenaline fumes for hours, and your brain feels soft around the edges. Most of the ER is in the slow-motion limbo between night and day shift. Lena passes by, calling a soft, âGood work,â like she can smell the burnout steaming off your body.
Jack is at the hub, leaning on one forearm as he signs off the last chart.
That blank post-chaos expression sits on his faceâthe one he only gets after heâs run entirely out of adrenaline and is operating on quiet, stubborn will.
You drift over, shoes dragging on the tile.
He lifts his gaze as you close the distance, as if heâs perpetually attuned to your presence. âYou okay?â he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.
âThink so,â you say, though the weariness clings to your words. âAnd you?â
His nod is small and automatic. A lie, but a polite one. You can read the truth in the way he stands too rigidly, how he leans onto his left leg to alleviate the strain on his prosthetic.
âCome on,â he murmurs, logging out. âLetâs escape before someone congratulates us again. I'll drive you home.â
âBold of you to assume weâll make it all the way to the parking lot unscathed.â
âDonât jinx it,â he mutters, guiding you toward the door with a soft nudge against your shoulder that feels suspiciously like checking whether youâll topple.
Youâre too tired to pretend the proximity isnât comforting.
In the hallway, a nurse from the day shift calls, âCongrats again, you two! Seriously, cutest couple in the department!â
You both resist the impulse to react besides a polite nod, maintaining your pace.
Jack murmurs, âI wasnât aware weâd entered a department-wide popularity contest.â
âOh, but weâre winning,â you say. âEasily.â
âI regret everything,â he replies, but thereâs the faintest smile in his voice.
You hit the parking lot in dawn light that feels too gentle for the night youâve had. Both of you move like your skeletons are one millimetre out of alignment.
Jack unlocks the car, and you slide into the passenger seat, grateful for the warmth of the seat heater already cranked up. For several streets, silence envelops you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine and the soft jazz emanating from the radio. You lean back, allowing the warmth to seep into your sore muscles.
He glances over, breaking the silence. âYouâre quiet,â he observes.
âSo are you.â
âBecause if I start talking,â he says with a half-smile, âI might fall asleep mid-sentence.â
You give him a look. âExtremely reassuring from the person driving the car.â
He glances back. âYou still have energy to sass me. Thatâs comforting.â
âI can sass and be half-dead," you argue. "Itâs called multitasking.â
His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile, but faltering as exhaustion tugs at him. He exhales, a long, deliberate breathârevealing that his thoughts are churning beneath the surface.
âSo,â he starts, choosing his words carefully, âabout what Gina said.â
You focus intently on the windshield, tense anticipation coiling in your stomach. âThe unified household thing?â you ask, bracing yourself.
âYeah.â
Your stomach tightensânot panic, just the weight of this is happening whether we prepared for it or not. When the two of you agreed to this ruse, moving in had not even been at play. And now, you have to lest the lie gets caught and your life gets ruined.
The sun glints off the steering wheel. Jack turns it with one hand, the motion easy and tired and familiar. âWe need one address,â he continues, a trace of seriousness creeping into his voice. âA real one.â
âRight,â you respond, nodding slowly.
âAnd we need it soon.â
"Mm."
âAnd the logical choice isââ
âYour place,â you finish for him, your breath hitching in your throat. Suddenly, youâre acutely aware of the space between you, the warmth of the car, and the way your chest feels impossibly full.
You can feel his gaze on the side of your head. âYour roommate isâŚâ he begins.
You make a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. âA menace to public safety,â you supply.
âThatâs one word for it," he chuckles, shaking his head.
You trace a foggy line on the window with your finger. âAnd you live ten minutes from the hospital," you add, weighing the pros and cons in your mind.
He nods once. âI do.â
âAnd you have⌠space," you acknowledge.
âYes." He pauses, then adds lower, âAnd I donât mind sharing it.â
He really needs to stop speaking like that. It makes your heart trip, stumble, crash, the whole shebang. He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, a tiny nervous gesture you rarely catch from him. âDoesn't hurt,â he adds, âthat you might get actual sleep there.â
So, he had overheard you complaining to Shen about Talia earlier. Or maybe he just knew it from your dark circles. Either way, he's right.
The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Sunlight spills over both of you. You look at himâreally look. Tired. Messy hair from the shift. That soft, worn-out fondness he doesnât realise is written across his face whenever he looks at you right after dawn. Or maybe youâre imagining it, but you let yourself have this one for once.
âI donât want to upend your life,â you say.
He huffs softly. âItâs not an upheaval.â
âThatâs not exactly reassuring,â you retort, brow furrowing.
âItâs honest.â
You study him, heart racing, seeing him in this momentâtired, soft around the edges, his focus on you showcasing how much he truly cares.
This was supposed to be temporary.
And yet. The decision settles in your chest, warm and inevitable. Of course, youâre moving in with him. There was never any other option.
âOkay,â you finally say, attempting to sound casual.
He turns to you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. âOkay?â he echoes, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.
âYeah.â You give a slight shrug, as if the decision is obviousâa simple matter of practicality. âOkay. Your place."
Something unknots in his shouldersâa slow release he mustâve been holding since the HR meeting.
You add, turning your head to avoid his face, "Just for a bitâI'll find somewhere to stay after this is over.â You don't want to see the relief he must be feeling after hearing you saying that.
You can feel his gaze on you but the light changes and he faces forward again, turning the wheel. "You can have the bigger closet,â he says casually, like itâs nothing at all. Like he didn't hear what you said.
âJack,â you whisper, âIâm not taking your closet.â You won't be there for long so it doesn't make sense to rearrange his entire life for a couple of months.
âThen weâll share," he counters, his expression unwavering.
His suggestion makes your pulse quicken. âYouâre impossible,â you murmur, shaking your head with a smile.
He hums, a soft and low sound that kills the discussion, and turns onto your street.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, hungover, sickness.
word count: 5.1k
a/n: thank you to the anon that suggested this! hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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It's dark when you wake, only a thin sliver of light cutting through the heavy black curtains.
Waitâyour curtains aren't black.
You jolt upright, your head immediately protesting, a sharp ache blooming behind your eyes. The room comes into focus in pieces: clean lines, muted colours, the faint scent of soap and coffee lingering in the air. Familiar but not yours. It takes a secondâmemories clicking back into place one by oneâfor it to register.
This is Jack's room.
Fragments of the night surface as you sit there blinking. Jack holding the car door open for you. Buckling you in. The way he'd scooped you up without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Carrying you here as if you weighed nothing.
Your gaze drifts to the other side of the bed. The pillow is untouched, sheets smooth and neatly arranged. Either he never came to bed, or he's been up for hours. You know which one it is, and you tell yourself it's a good thing. He's a gentleman. He wouldn't cross that line without asking.
Still, the quiet disappointment sneaks in anyway, small and irrational, settling somewhere low in your chest.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. Standing makes the hangover assert itself with renewed enthusiasm, and as you move, you catch a faint whiff of stale alcohol clinging to your clothes.
You grimaceâthat won't do.
The bathroom is thankfully mercifully close. You strip quickly and step into the shower, letting the warm water fall against your shoulders, washing away the sticky remnants of the night. You linger longer than necessary, breathing deeply until the ache in your head dulls to something manageable. And until you stop panicking about every single thing you did last night.
Why did you stay on his lap when there were seats free? Oh God.
Noâbreathe, it's fine.
You stay for a moment longer.
On the counter sits a new toothbrush, still in its packaging, set neatly beside a bottle of Tylenol. You stare at it for a second longer than necessary.
Of course, he thought of that.
You brush your teeth, swallow one pill and wrapped in one of Jack's soft towels, you venture back into his bedroom. After a moment of consideration, you open his closet because you can't force yourself back into your old clothes again. You pull out a soft, well-worn shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
You hope he doesn't mind.
Hair still dripping, skin warm from the shower, you pad into the kitchen barefoot, following the faint, grounding scent of coffee. Jack sits at the kitchen island, pen moving with lazy precision across an open newspaper, filling out the crossword faster than you ever could. A mug steams beside him. He looks up at the soft scuff of your footsteps, expression easyâ
âand then his eyes catch.
Itâs subtle. Almost not there. Just the briefest pause, a flicker of surprise he doesnât quite manage to hide before smoothing it away. His gaze tracks the way his shirt hangs on your shoulders, the way the hem brushes your thighs. His mouth curves into something deliberately casualâor maybe you're just being wishful.
"Morning sunshine," he says lightly. Teasing. Like he hadn't just spent a second recalibrating at the sight of you.
"Morning," you mumble, voice still rough. You gesture vaguely at yourself as you pad further into the kitchen. "I borrowed your clothes." Youâre too hungover to feel truly embarrassed, which is probably for the best. If you were fully functional, you might notice how the heat skims down your spine anyway.
âI noticed,â he says, smirking at you. âAm I about to walk into a crime scene?â
âOh, shut up,â you mutter, knowing exactly what heâs referring toâthe mess on your floor from yesterday. âI was having a crisis.â
"You weren't the only one," Jack mutters into his cup. You're not sure you heard that right, so you let it slide. Mostly because you desperately needâ
âCoffee?â you ask, scanning the kitchen. Your gaze lands on the sleek espresso machine tucked into the cornerâchrome, intimidating, definitely expensive. You hum softly. âOf course youâd have this thing.â
Jack makes a sound thatâs halfway between a scoff and a wounded noise. He stands, rolling his shoulders. "A little respect,â he mutters, already grabbing a mug from the cabinet. âThat machine has kept me alive for years.â
âIs that what you call it?â you ask. âI thought it was stubbornness.â
He smirks over his shoulder, starting the machine with practised ease. âSame thing. You want food?â
The thought makes your stomach roll unpleasantly. You grimace and shake your head. âNot yet. Still feel⌠questionable.â
He laughs, quiet but unmistakable, and you catch him biting it back like heâs trying not to show you. âThat tracks,â he says. âYou tried to outdrink Santos.â
âHey,â you protest weakly. âDonât be mean. She was out to get me last night.â
âOr,â he says lightly, handing you a mug that smells like salvation, âyouâre just a lightweight.â
You accept the coffee with a grateful sigh, but donât bother sitting at the island. Instead, you turn immediately toward the couch, drawn by the promise of soft cushions and fuzzy blankets. You collapse into the corner, tucking your legs beneath you, blanket on top, mug cradled in both hands.
âYou got Netflix?â you ask, already reaching for the remote.
Jack looks at you. âWhat do you think?â
You grin over the rim of your mug. âOh, right. I forgot you were old.â You press the on button anyway, needing a distraction from how domestic this feels. How normal it feels when it isn't.
He rolls his eyes, but you hear the slight, amused huff he can't stop. A minute later, he joins you, fresh coffee in hand, settling into the chaise lounge with practised ease. Some home dĂŠcor show chatters in the background. Neither of you is really watching.
He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes on the screen and asks after a moment. âYou alive over there?â
âBarely,â you murmur, then, after a moment, you say softer, âThanks. For last night. And⌠you know."
For not letting you deal with this on your own, for being there last night, mostly for pretending to be with you when he doesn't want to.
He glances at you then, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settles back into easy familiarity. âAnytime.â
Your foot bumps lightly into his thigh after a minute, a soft nudge. âYou donât have to keep that on for me,â you say, tone easy, eyes still fixed on the screen like itâs no big deal.
Jackâs brow creases, surprise flashing across his face before he schools it away. Thereâs a pauseâjust long enough to register the weight of the momentâthen he reaches down, unfastens the prosthetic, and sets it carefully beside the couch.
You donât comment on it. That feels important somehow.
âYou know,â you say after a beat, leaning back and settling in, âI once dated someone with a prosthetic arm.â
Jack blinks. Once. Then again. âDid you?"
âYeah. He had this habit of⌠losing it,â you continue. âUsually right around dish-washing time.â
âLosing it,â he repeats flatly.
You nod. âTragic stuff. We searched everywhere. Couch cushions. Laundry basket. Miraculously, it always showed up after the kitchen was spotless.â
Jack's silent for a moment. âThatâs impressive,â he says.
âWeaponised incompetence,â you reply. âWith accessories.â
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âFor the record,â he says, glancing down at his leg, âI keep all limbs accounted for.â
âGood,â you say. âThat wouldâve been a dealbreaker.â
His mouth curves into a smile, small and genuine, like he didnât mean to let it show.
"What about you? Any bad exes?â
He studies you for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, like heâs deciding how much truth to risk. Then he exhales through his nose. âMy ex-girlfriend once decided she could dye hair.â
You sit up a little. âOh no.â
âNo training. No test strand,â he continues. âFried it clean off.â
You burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, falling back against the couch. âThatâs awful.â
âI had to wear a cap for months,â he adds dryly. âIt was not a strong look.â
âThatâs tragic,â you say, wiping at your eyes.
âIt built character,â he huffs with a smile.
You sip your coffee, the smile lingering longer than necessary. The show keeps rambling in the background, but itâs easy to tune out now. Every so often, you catch Jack glancing at you. Heâs subtle about it. Careful enough that you tell yourself itâs nothing, even as the feeling settles warm and persistent in your chest.
Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and the hosts aggressively debating grout colour, the conversation softens. He asks how you got into medicine, which turns into talking about your parents, the distance, and the quiet disappointment you've learned to live with. You try not to dwell on the way his jaw tightens, the faint furrow between his brows when he tells youâfirmlyâthat you chose right. That youâre doing great.
Later, itâs his turn. He talks about the military, the good and the bad, and eventually the day he lost his leg. His voice stays steady, but the room grows heavier around the words. The silence that follows isnât awkwardâitâs careful, respectful, something shared rather than avoided.
At some point, you drift, awareness fading at the edges. You vaguely register Jack shifting, feel your legs slide toward him without conscious thought. He adjusts instinctively, angling himself so they can rest comfortably across his lap. It feels natural in a way that startles you even through the haze.
âCareful,â you mumble, half-asleep. âDonât lose anything.â
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, barely more than a breath.
You donât move your legs.
And he doesnât make you.
It's like the hangover never really left you. There's a dull, persistent wrongness that's followed you for days now, clinging to your joints and settling behind your eyes. You keep telling yourself that it's dehydration. Lack of sleep. Anything but what it might actually be.
Because you do not have time for that. You have to work, and you have to study.
You're fine. You're functioning. That's what matters. You show up to work, you do your job, and so what if you're a bit slower than normal to reach conclusions? No one's noticed. Well, no one but Jack. You've felt his gaze following you, but so far, it seems like he's accepted your excuses of tiredness.
The shivers hit you midway through your shift. A sudden and deep chill materialising out of nowhere that crawls up your spine and wraps itself around your ribs. Your fingers stiffen over the keyboard as you try to keep charting, shoulders hunching instinctively to preserve warmth. You're wearing a light hoodie, obviously being way too optimistic about how warm the spring weather would be.
Because that's why you're freezingâit's not due to anything else.
But the cold feels internal, like it's radiating outward instead of the other way around. You pause, jaw tightening, and force yourself to breathe through it. Lena, who sits at the other side of the hub, thankfully hasn't noticed.
As your gaze sweeps near her, your eyes land on a blue hoodie draped over the back of a chair. Robby's, you guess. He must have left it by mistake earlier. Without really thinking, you stand and slip it on, instantly feeling warmer. You exhale, just a little, as you sit back down again.
Moments later, you sense movement beside you. You look up to find Jack approaching, his pace slowing as his eyes flick over you. His gaze catches on the hoodie, brows furrowing.
"What are you wearing?" he asks, coming to a stop on the other side of the counter.
You continue typing, "Uh⌠a hoodie?"
His eyes don't leave it. "Whose?"
You glance down, momentarily surprised by the question. "Robby's, I think?"
Jack exhales, barely audible, but you catch it. His jaw tightens, fingers twitching once at his side before he schools himself. Without another word, he turns and disappears into the locker room.
You frown but return to your typing, that's already taking much longer than you'd like. You don't have time to wonder what that was about.
Jack returns a minute later, holding a brown fleece sweater in his hands. He stops in front of you and holds it out. âHere. Wear this instead.â
Before you can protest, he reaches forward, easing Robbyâs hoodie off your shoulders with a gentle but unmistakably decisive tug. He folds it neatly and tucks it out of sight, then helps you into the sweater.
His fingers brush your arms as he adjusts the sleevesâquick, efficient touches, clearly meant to be practical. Still, your skin tingles where heâs touched you. He smoothes the fabric at your shoulders, then pauses for half a second, checking the fit like he wants to be sure itâs right.
Itâs careful. Thoughtful. More intimate than he probably intends.
You catch Lena watching, lips already curled into a grin. She mouths, men. You roll your eyes and tug the sweater on properly, trying and failing to ignore the warmth blooming in your chest.
As you settle back at your station, Jack doesnât immediately move away. His gaze lingers on you, sharper now.
âAre you feeling alright?â he asks.
You nod slowly, careful not to aggravate the dull pressure building behind your eyes. âYeah.â
It sounds convincing. Youâve said it enough times.
He studies you for a beat longer, then, without asking, his palm comes up to rest against your forehead. The touch is light but steady. Youâve already taken Tylenol, so thereâs no fever for him to findânot that there ever was one. Just a headache.
A small, tired smirk tugs at your mouth. âYou don't have to worry about me,â you murmur. "I'm fine."
âHmph,â he replies, pulling his hand back, brow still knit. He tries to let it go. You can tell he does.
He doesnât succeed.
The rest of the shift passes quietly, but Jackâs attention never really leaves you. He notices the way you stop bouncing your leg, the way you keep your movements smaller now, more deliberate. He clocks how you start taking shorter sips of water, testing each one before swallowing.
You miss a step once, nothing obvious, just a momentary pause mid-task, like your brain hiccupped. You recover quickly. He still sees it.
When the chill creeps back in, you tuck your hands into the sleeves of his jacket, curling inward without realising it. A few minutes later, he steps closer, letting his body heat radiate toward you. You donât look at him. He doesnât comment on it.
By the end of the shift, youâre still upright. Still doing your job. Still pretending thereâs nothing wrong.
Maybe you were wrong yesterday. Maybe you were sick. Just a teeny tiny bit, thoughânot enough to stay home. You're still able to do your job no matter what anyone says.
Well, no matter what, Jack's gonna say. You know he'll try to send you home, which is definitely not necessary.
So what if your throat hurts with every swallow? Or if your head's pounding? That's why medicine exists, and in a mere hour, you'll be fine like you were yesterday. A bit off, but not enough to justify being at home and letting your team be down one person until someone gets called in to replace you. Which means you'll ruin someone's day off.
You just need to avoid Jack.
Jackâs earlyâbecause, of course, he isâand heâs midway through hand-off with Robby when you drag yourself through the doors. The lights feel too bright the second you step inside. Your head dips instinctively, shoulders rounding forward, posture screaming please donât look at me. You know itâs obvious. You can feel it radiating off youâheat and chills tangled together, exhaustion lodged deep in your bones. Still, you try. One foot in front of the other. Normal. Casual.
It lasts about half a second.
âOhoho, absolutely not.â Jackâs voice cuts clean through the room, sharp with disbelief, and you freeze mid-step. Robby looks up at the same time, his expression shifting from neutral to concerned in the span of a heartbeat.
âOh, yikes,â Robby mutters once he really sees you.
Which, honestly, is rude.
So what if your eyes are red and your skin a washed-out pallor? So what if there's a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your hairline despite the chill creeping under your clothes. You're fine!
You'd tried to hide it with makeup, but clearly it never stood a chance. At least not judging by how Robby reacted.
âHey, guys,â you say, aiming for breezy. It comes out rough insteadâscratchy and hoarse, like youâve spent the night shouting instead of coughing quietly into a pillow and bargaining with your immune system.
Jackâs eyes narrow instantly. âSweetheart,â he says, tone firm and unmistakably final, âYouâre sick.â
You lift your chin, stubborn to the end. âI'm fit as a fiddle,â you reply, forcing a grin that lands somewhere closer to a grimace once you feel it pull at your face.
Jack just looks at you flatly. Deeply unimpressed. A look that means youâre done arguing before you've even started.
He shifts slightly toward Robby, whoâs already gathering the tablet like heâs been expecting this outcome. âYou mind staying a bit longer?â Jack says. âIâm gonna take her home.â
Robby doesnât hesitate. âYeah, yeah. Go.â
âIâm fine!â you protest automatically, the words tumbling out on instinct, even as Jackâs hand settles around your elbow. The contact is gentle, steady, but thereâs no mistaking the intent; itâs not a suggestion. He steers you toward the exit, body angled just enough to shield you from curious looks, pace unhurried but determined.
âUh-huh,â he mutters, clearly unconvinced. âSure you are.â
You try to dig your heels in, but your legs donât cooperate the way you want them to.
âCome on, Trouble,â he adds softly, steering you through the doors.
The cool air outside hits your face, sharp and bracing, and you realise a second too late how unsteady you feel. The ground seems to tilt under your feet.
Jack notices immediately. He slows without a word, shifts from holding your elbow to wrapping his arm around you, and matches his pace to yours. âEasy,â he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.
In the car, he doesnât rush. He opens the door, helps you in, waits until youâre fully settled before reaching for the seatbelt himself. Then, from the backseat, he pulls out a blanket and drapes it over your legs, tucking it in like itâs second nature. Only once youâre secured and warm does he close the door.
Through the windshield, you watch him pull out his phone, brow furrowed and jaw tense, his thumb moving quickly across the screen. He casts a glance back at you, a silent check-in, as if needing the reassurance that youâre still there. Despite the fever humming beneath your skin and the overwhelming fatigue that clings to you, a small, tired smile finds its way to your lips.
The drive is fastâten minutes flying by. You drift in and out, head lolling slightly, only waking when the car door shuts.
Jackâs arm is around you immediately when youâre out of the car, steady and sure. You donât really need it, but you feel terrible, and you donât have the energy to pretend you donât like the way he holds you. So you lean in and let him guide you inside. Let him help you out of your coat and shoes, too.
He takes you straight to his bedroom and gestures at the bed.
âSit,â he says gently, already rummaging through a drawer. He pulls out some clothes and presses them into your hands. âGet changed. Iâll make you a cup of tea.â
You do as he says, movements slow and clumsy. By the time you make it to the kitchen, a steaming mug is waiting for you on the counter.
Jackâs already moved into doctor mode. His stethoscope is draped around his neck, thermometer in hand, and a pulse oximeter sits on the counter. He hasnât said a word yet, just watches you like heâs cataloguing every flicker of fatigue, every subtle tell of your fever.
âYouâre pale,â he says finally, voice low, more observation than accusation. He gestures toward the counter. âSit. Let me check you.â
You hesitate for a moment, stubborn, almost defiant, but the weight of exhaustion wins out. You sink onto the chair as he bends slightly to be at your level. He checks your temperature first, pressing the thermometer under your tongue with gentle precision. Then he listens to your chest with the stethoscope, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the slightly shallow rhythm of your breaths.
âHeart rateâs up a bit,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you. âRespirationâs fine, but youâre running a fever. It's most likely the flu.â
You open your mouth to protest, but your throat feels raw, scratchy, and weak, and the words falter.
Jack doesnât push. He just sets the stethoscope aside, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes on you. He grabs a cup of water, holds it to your lips while you sip, then retrieves the pulse oximeter to slip over your finger. Each movement is deliberate, calm, and practised, but thereâs a tenderness in the way he watches you, an underlying intensity in his focus that makes your chest tighten. "Normal," he mutters to himself when he takes it off, his hand still holding yours.
A knock at the door breaks the moment. He hesitates, glancing back at you. âIâll be right back,â he assures.
Heâs gone only a moment, returning with a brown paperbag. You watch in silence as he pulls out a container and sets it on the counter. The aroma hits you immediately, rich and savoury.
Pháť.
Your chest tightens a little. Thatâs what he was doing on his phone.
He pours it into a bowl, careful not to spill, and slides it toward you before taking the seat beside you at the island. He watches carefully as you take the first spoonful.
âYou should go,â you mutter around the steam. Your appetiteâs gone, but you try anyway. For him.
âRobby can wait a bit longer,â Jack replies without hesitation, his tone firm. Itâs clear that this isnât up for debate. âHave a bit more.â
You do. Slowly. You don't succeed in eating much, but Jack's pleased enough that he doesn't argue over it and brings you to bed.
Once heâs satisfied that youâre tucked in, warm, and as comfortable as youâre going to get, he leans closer. Before you even realise it, his hand is in your hair. Fingers threading through damp strands, smoothing them back from your forehead and along your temples.
Your eyes drift shut for a second, caught between exhaustion and relief, but you canât stop noticing how deliberately he moves. He tucks a stray strand behind your ear, then returns to smooth it again, lingering just a heartbeat too long. His thumb brushes your temple as he shifts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging it snug and smoothing the fabric over your arms again. Every gesture carries more than thought; it carries worry.
âCall me if thereâs anything,â he murmurs, softer now, almost a whisper meant just for you. âAnything at all, okay?â
You nod, words stuck in your throat, the weight of gratitude making your chest feel impossibly heavy. "Okay. Thank you.â
âOf course, sweetheart.â He tugs the corners of the blanket in again, his fingers brushing your cheek. This time, the touch lingers a little longer than necessary. You donât pull away. You can feel the tension in him, the way heâs unsettled by seeing you like this.
You feel him hesitate for only a moment, then his hand returns to your hair, brushing it back again before he steps away. He hovers in the doorway longer than he needs to, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your breathing begins to even out. You don't hear him leave; you just let yourself sink into the blankets that smell like him.
You can't remember the last time someone took care of you when you were sick. It's nice. So for the first time all day, you allow yourself to just⌠be sick.
Even if it's only for a moment.
You wake sometime later to the muted grey of early morning light seeping through the curtains. Your head feels heavy, like itâs stuffed with cotton, and every limb protests when you shift even slightly, a dull ache radiating through your joints.
You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it, letting out a faint, miserable sound before you can stop yourself.
Almost instantly, thereâs movement beside the bed. A soft scrape of wood. Jack is there before you even register that he's pulled a chair next to the bed. He mustâve been sitting there watching over you. His hair is slightly damp from a shower, and he doesn't have his prosthetic leg on, so it can't have been long since he got home from work.
âHey,â he murmurs, low and gentle, like loudness might break you. âEasy.â
He slides an arm behind your shoulders and helps you sit just enough to drink. You sip carefully because everything feels fragileâyour body, your balance, your pride.
âSorry,â you rasp after a moment, your voice barely a whisper as the words crackle from your dry throat.
Jack frowns softly. âFor what?â
You gesture vaguely at yourselfâat the blankets that feel like weights, at the tissues scattered about the bedside, at the pathetic little cough you canât quite suppress that escapes your lips. âFor⌠being like this.â
His jaw tightens, not out of annoyance, but in that way he does when something deeply bothers him. He leans closer, his presence warm and reassuring. âDonât,â he says quietly, his gaze steady. âYou didnât do anything wrong.â
With a small, weary sigh, you sink back against the pillows, exhaustion pressing down on you. The room feels too warm and too cold at once, your skin prickling with another wave of chills.
Without a word, Jack reaches for the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and layers it over you, tucking it around your shoulders with deliberate care.
âYouâre shaking,â he notes, concern threading every syllable.
âIâm fine,â you try to insist, out of habit more than belief.
He gives you a look, not stern, but soft, edged with a worry that wraps around both of you. âYouâre really not.â
You donât argue. You donât have the energy. Jack settles on the chair, positioning himself close. His forearm rests near your hip, thumb making slow, grounding circles against the fabric of the blanket. You wish he'd do it on you instead.
âHead hurt?â he asks gently, his eyes searching your face for any sign of distress.
You nod. âFeels⌠fuzzy.â
âYeah,â he murmurs. âI figured.â He presses a cool palm briefly to your forehead, then your cheek, as if checking twice. You lean into the touch.
âOkay,â he says, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. âLetâs see how youâre doing.â
You make no protest as he takes your temperature, his fingers gentle yet assured in their movements. The device beeps, and he squints at it, his brow knitting with concern. âStill a little high,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
Then, with the ease of someone who has navigated these waters before, he produces a small tray adorned with your medications. âTime for these,â he states softly, nudging the glass of water toward you with an encouraging smile. Once thatâs done, he checks your pulse and even asks you to sit up enough for him to check your breathing again, warming the stethoscope in his palm.
Youâre too tired to comment, too weak to argue, and you find yourself leaning toward him more than you mean to, forgetting for a moment that normally you hide this side of yourself.
âJack?â you murmur, voice small.
âMm?â
âCould you⌠stay?â The words come out small, heavy with embarrassment, almost a whisper. Theyâre tinged with a raw, unspoken need for comfort.
Thereâs no teasing, no hesitation in his response. â'Course, Iâll stay, sweetheart," he murmurs, tone low and certain, as if itâs the only possible answer.
âIn the bed?â The words escape before you can stop them, small, almost pleading.
He pauses for only a heartbeat, gaze flicking down at you, concern sharpening his features. Then, with the ease of someone used to moving decisively when needed, he grabs his crutch and steps around the bed, carefully sliding onto the spot beside you. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, but the motion is steady.
You exhale, finally letting yourself lean into him. A shiver runs through you, body weak from fever and exhaustion, and instinctively, he slides an arm around your shoulders, drawing you flush against his side. His chest is warm beneath your temple, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a quiet, grounding force against the chaos in your own body.
âSorry,â you murmur, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. âI donât usually get thisââ Your voice falters; you canât even finish the thought. The idea of allowing someone to take care of you, of letting yourself be fragile, feels almost foreign.
âHey,â he murmurs, tilting his head slightly to press against yours. His hand cups the back of your head, thumb brushing through your damp, loose strands with a gentle, unthinking rhythm. âYou donât have to explain.â
You nod faintly, eyes heavy, eyelids fluttering shut, but still burning with the exhaustion that seeps into every fibre of you. His hand remains there, steady, warm, comforting. He adjusts minutely, just enough to make sure youâre comfortable without disturbing you, sliding slightly closer, smoothing the blanket over your waist and legs, shifting his chest so your body rests more comfortably against him.
You relax a little more, letting your cheek press into his chest, letting your body mould against him, letting your breathing slow to match the steady, measured rhythm of his. Your hands curl lightly against the blankets, fingers brushing against the side of him.
âShhh,â he murmurs softly, thumb still tracing tiny circles against the back of your head. âIâve got you, sweetheart.â
The words sink into you, wrapping around your chest warmly. You exhale slowly, letting your body loosen entirely for the first time in days, allowing yourself to be cared for, to feel safe, to simply exist against him.
He stays just like that, hand warm at your back, thumb brushing your hair, body pressed lightly against yoursâa quiet anchor in a storm that isn't over just yet. You let sleep claim you fully, guided by the gentle, steady pulse of him beside you.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, alcohol consumption, sexual tension.
word count: 5.5k
a/n: hope you guys have had a good christmas if you celebrate and a happy holiday if not! here's another instalment of my favourite people at the moment. hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
and on a general note, i will be removing everyone whose name is crossed out from the tag list for the next one. if your name is crossed out, and you want to be added again, pls make sure your blog is visible before you leave a comment or an ask.
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Considering everything, you're doing remarkably well. You'd successfully completed an entire work week, endured the congratulations and light-hearted teasing from your colleagues, and most importantly, you'd survived every interaction with Abbot without revealing the heavy secret you're harbouring together.
A secret that beats and claws at your chest every day, yearning to break free with every glance Robby sends your way at shift change.
The most significant win of all? Youâve only had one full breakdown, complete with snot and tears streaming down your face. The other episodes of emotional unravelling have been less dramatic, limited to erratic breathing and a few tears.
The big one happened the day after Abbot dropped you off, and you'd questioned when you woke up if it had all been a caffeine-deprived hallucination. The ring glinting on your finger had answered that for you and subsequently sent you spiralling. (It's also the same ring that almost made Parker drop her granola bar when you pulled it out of your shirt, dangling the chain you'd placed it on in front of her.)
So you have clung to denial all week, carefully avoiding unnecessary discussions about the rings, the looming presence of HR, and the truth about your marital status. You go to great lengths to convince yourself that Abbotâs every action is devoid of hidden meaning. Heâs just being his normal self. But despite his unchanging demeanour, the way he slides water bottles next to your computer while youâre deep in charting feels monumental. The gentle touch of his hand on your elbow when he senses youâre overwhelmed carries weight you never anticipated. Each of his smiles, the ones you so easily dismissed before as harmless encouragement, now feels like a silent affirmation of something more significant.
You remind yourself constantly that heâs kind, and heâs your attending. And that heâs married to you accidentally, not purposefully.
So you cling to denial like itâs your life raft, surviving on that, adrenaline, and the vague hope that maybe, just maybe, this will magically sort itself out. Deep down, you know you should be smarter than this.
But what finally makes the facade crumble is not the ER staff or HR. No, itâs Olivia, your best friendâand unfortunately, the one person you can never hide anything from, no matter how hard you try.
You've only just gotten home, sitting on your bed with a Chinese takeout box from yesterday and a medical textbook in front of you, when your phone buzzes aggressively on your bedside table with an incoming FaceTime call. You stare at it in horror as Olivia's name lights up the screen, and feel a tightening in your chest. Youâve been avoiding her for days, responding only with half-hearted texts in the desperate hope she wouldnât call you out on your behaviour.
You should know better.
The call ends abruptly, and just as relief sweeps over you, the phone buzzes again, and you know you can't avoid her any longer. You place the Chinese on the bedside table and, with trembling fingers, you pick up your phone and finally press the answer button, steeling yourself for whatâs to come.
"âŚYo," you attempt to sound nonchalant as her face fills the screen, but thereâs a palpable tension in your voice.
She narrows her eyes immediately, "Yo?"
You shrug, leaning back against the headboard, feigning casualness. âJust trying something new.â
She blinks, contemplating, but then eventually decides to cut through your bullshit. "What are you hiding?"
"Nothing," you shoot back, wincing slightly as your voice betrays you.
She just stares at you.
You rub your face, trying to gather your thoughts. âLivââ
Her eyes widen, and she gasps, "It's a man, isn't it?"
You choke on your own surprise. âWhatânoâwellâkind ofââ You swear she has to be part psychic or something cause how the hell did she know that?
"Oh my god! Who is he? Is it that hot attending you've been pathetically crushing on?"
You freeze, caught off guard. Seriously? What the actual fuck?
Her mouth slowly drops open as realisation washes over her. "Oh my god! It is!"
You bury your face in your hands, mortified as heat rushes to your cheeks. "Liv, pleaseâ"
âYouâre blushing,â she crows with delight. âIs he there? Is he in your apartment right now? Is that why you didnât pick up? Waitâis he hiding in your closet?â
"No! He's not here!"
"Show me your closet!"
"Liv, honestly! He's not here!" you groan, fighting to keep your composure as she cackles. The weight of your secret feels unbearable. You exhale slowly.
"LivâŚ" your voice goes small. Keeping this from her feels like holding your breath until your chest aches.
Her expression instantly softens, a flash of concern flickering across her features. âHey, seriously. Whatâs going on?â
You swallow hard, your heart racing as you hesitate for a moment, grappling with the weight of the secret you've been keeping. Finally, you manage to say, âWe got married.â
You know you promised not to tell a soul, but this is Olivia. She knows you better than anyone else, able to see straight through any mask you put on (as she's proven time and again). Keeping secrets from her feels impossible, and honestly, you donât want to. This is breaking you, and you desperately need her support.
Olivia blinks at you in shock, her eyebrows shooting up. â...Come again?â
"Wegotmarried," you mumble fast.
"What?"
"You heard me," you say, panic bubbling over. "It was an accidentâa wrong form at the convention, and HR thinks we did it on purpose, so we agreed to pretend, and now weâre in this whole mess, and we bought rings andââ
"What the fuck?" she interrupts.
"I know," you groan, pressing one palm against your forehead.
"Youâ" she starts, then pauses, her expression switching from astonishment to glee. "You accidentally married your attending?
"âŚYes."
There is a beat of absolute, deadly silence.
Then Olivia screamsâno, shrieksâand vanishes from the frame, probably careening off her couch. You hear a clattering noise, something toppling over, before she bursts back into view, her hair wild and her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and incredulity. âStart. From. The top,â she demands. âAnd donât you DARE leave out anything.â
You sigh and begin. You tell her everything. Not cleanlyâshe interrupts too much for thatâbut enough that by the time you reach the part about the rings, youâre pacing your room in socked feet, your Chinese takeout completely forgotten.
Olivia sits back slowly, hoodie tightening around her like sheâs retracting into a shell. âSo, let me get this straight. You⌠married the man youâve been pretending you donât have a crush on for a year.â
âItâs notâitâs not a crush.â
âIt is so a crush,â she fires back. âSweetheart. I have screenshots.â
You curl into yourself, mumbling, âOut of contextââ
âYou were sober.â
You bury your face in your pillow with a dramatic groan. âThatâs notâ.â
âYou mooned over him because he saved you a seat next to him at the bar one time. Donât lie to me.â
"Okay, fine. I-yeah⌠It's a crush," you admit and flop back onto your back. There it is. The admission. Out loud. And real. The ceiling has never looked so judgmental.
Oliviaâs expression softens ever so slightly, but her tone stays sharp. âOkay, good. Acceptance makes things easier." She rubs her eyes. "Shit, I can't believe you're actually married."
"Me neither. You should have seen the banner the ER made for us. There was glitter on it," you reply, a weak laughter escaping you.
She collapses onto her couch, laughter bubbling out of her. âOh my god. No wonder you look like you aged six years.â
Before you can reply, your phone buzzes insistently. Three new messages sliding across the top of your screen:
Abbot: You home?
Abbot: You didnât text when you got in.
Abbot: Just making sure everythingâs alright.
Your heart leaps and crashes all at once.
Olivia catches the shift in your demeanour immediatelyâof course, she doesâand her eyes widen. âShow me.â
âNo.â
âShow me, or Iâm hacking your phone.â
You glare at her, but still screenshot it and send it to her.
Her mouth slowly, slowly drops open. âOh my god,â she whispers. âHe is so in love with you.â
âHe is not in love with me.â
âSweetheart,â she says gently, âI am begging you to hear yourself. This man is texting you because heâs worried."
Heat rises at the back of your neck. "You don't know him. This is just what he does." Even you know how flimsy it sounds, but Abbot does not love you. You're certain of this.
âI know enough,â she insists, raising an eyebrow, a challenge silently hanging between the two of you. You snort despite yourself.
She studies you quietly, eyes softening. âOkay. Jokes aside⌠are you actually okay?â
You hesitate. Then nod. âIâm just tired. And everything feels... surreal.â
She nods in sympathy. âYeah. That tracks.â
Another buzz interrupts the moment.
Abbot: If youâre asleep, ignore me. I just want to know youâre home safe.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Oliviaâs voice is softer now. âYou should text him back.â
âI donât know what to say.â
âStart with: âIâm safe.ââ She offers decisively. âYou can freak out about your feelings later.â
You take a deep breath and type:
You: Home. Showered. Alive. Trying to sleep.
His response is almost immediate.
Abbot: Good. Rest. If you need anything, call.
You close the message app, the warmth of his concern lingering in your chest like a punch that leaves you breathless. He really makes it hard for you to pretend this doesn't mean anything when he's being sweet like that.
Olivia watches you for a long moment. Then, quietly says, âYou know⌠it doesnât have to stay fake.â
You pull your sweatshirt tighter around yourself and shrug, âThere's nothing to make real.â
She looks at you for another long moment. âOkay. None of that matters right now. Youâre exhausted. Youâre overwhelmed. And you need to sleep. And I have to go to work now, though I'm not too sure how I'll be able to focus on programming with this on my mind. Your life is practically a rom-com movie."
A rom-com without the romance or the comedy, sureâit's more like a thriller where you hold Abbot hostage for three months until your residency finishes.
You huff a tired laugh. âHave a good day, Liv.â
âGoodnight, Mrs. Abbot.â
You raise a finger to the screen. She cackles and hangs up.
In the silence that follows, with your room cloaked in darkness and your pulse still thrumming Abbotâs name, you admit it once more, quietly, just to yourself this time. Yeah. Itâs a crush. A stupid, impossible, heart-aching crush.
And youâre in deep.
Daylight is already seeping through the hospital's windows by the time the night shift winds down. Jack's hunched over the computer, finishing his last chart, when Bridget passes by and tells you that the lab finally faxed the repeat lactate you needed.
He looks up briefly, noticing the slight sway in your stance. You're tired, no, exhausted, though you're doing a valiant effort to hide it. You return Bridgetâs smile, rolling your shoulders back in an attempt to shake off the fatigue.
Jack doesn't hesitate before he speaks, "Go home. I'll take care of it."
You pause momentarily, weighing his words, but after seeing the firmness in his expression, you relent, surprising both of you with how easily you agree. You must be really tired.
âThanks, Jack,â you say, your fingers lightly squeezing his bicep in a gesture of gratitude before you make your way toward the locker room.
He watches you leave, his heart dancing out a salsa in his chest. He's lucky you can't feel the turmoil that brews in him when you speak his name. How he hates that he told you to call him that, and how much he loves it when you do. How it's even worse when it's in combination with your touch.
He leans back down, but keeps one eye on the hallway, making sure that you actually leave and don't get roped into treating another patient.
You donât notice the way he watches you go.
You also miss the way Robby tracks your path, too. How he shifts his gaze to Jack, who hasn't seen him yet, wondering why you're leaving alone and not with him. Robby also sees something in Jack's face that you don't. Something careful. Something protective. And for anyone whoâs known Jack as long as he has⌠something that looks a lot like feeling.
Robby corners Jack the second you step out of sight. âGot a minute?â he asks, too casually. Jack recognises the tone instantly and freezes for half a breath before nodding. Robby notices that, too.
They head up to the roof, the door creaking as it opens. Jackâs shoulders are set, not defensive, but bracing. He knows whatâs coming. Heâs been expecting this. It's the fact that it took a week for Robby to corner him that's surprising.
Robby doesn't waste any time. âAlright,â he says, turning to face him. âWhatâs going on?â
Jack exhales a short breath. âYou dragged me up here. You tell me.â
âDonât be cute,â Robby snaps, leaning on the railing. âYou and your⌠wife.â
At the mention of the word, Jackâs entire body goes stillâan instinctual reaction he canât suppress.
Robby lets out a humourless laugh. âSee, that right there. You freeze every time I bring her up. And she looks like sheâs gonna faint when someone says congratulations.â
Because you're carrying the weight of a lie you shouldn't have been forced to, Jack thinks to himself. His jaw tightens, a flicker of turmoil crossing his usually composed features.
Robby steps closer, lowering his voice. âLook, brother, Iâm not mad youâre together. Hell, I bet good money on it happening someday. But youâre lying to me, man. And I need to know why.â
Silence sits heavily between them. Robby softens a fraction. âJust tell me.â
Jack leans on the railing next to him, staring out over the waking city, the moment stretching painfully as he gathers his thoughts. His voice is flat when he finally responds, âIt wasnât intentional.â
Robby blinks. âWhat do you mean it wasnât intentional?â
âIt was paperwork,â Jack explains. âAn HR form that got processed before we caught it. By the time we realised what had happened, the system had already updated our records.â
Robby stares at him.
Jack swallows, forcing himself to continue. âIf we'd tried to reverse it, HR wouldâve done a full conflict-of-interest audit. They wouldâve pulled every chart I supervised for her, every procedure I signed. Everything sheâs done in residency could've been flaggedââ
âAnd she would take the hit.â Robby finishes quietly.
Jack nods once.
Robby takes a step back, rubbing a hand over his face in disbelief. âSo youâre telling me you two woke up married, and instead of undoing it, youâre just pretending until she finishes residency?â
Jack's jaw clenches at the word pretending. "Thatâs the plan,â he says.
Robby mutters something halfway between disbelief and sympathy, âHoly shit.â
âYeah.â
Both men fall into silence as the city hums below them, the morning rush slowly gathering pace. Finally, Robbyâs keen gaze returns to Jack. âYou care about her,â he says quietly. âMore than youâre admitting.â
Jack doesnât answer. He doesnât deny it. For Jack, thatâs louder than a confession.
Robbyâs gaze sharpens with recognitionâand something like resignation. âJesus, Jack.â
Jackâs voice is low when he finally speaks. âShe didnât ask for any of this. Sheâs just trying to survive residency. Iâm not dragging her down with me.â
Robbyâs expression shifts, a beat of sympathy. âYou're not dragging her down by admitting your feelings, you know.â
Jack stares straight ahead, knuckles whitening on the railing. He knows you've decided to stay in the Pitt, but you're only just finishing your residencyâthings can change fast. He doesn't want to be the reason you decide to put your life on hold.
And there's also the fact that he isn't sure he could survive the heartbreak of having you ignore him every day because he'd revealed his feelings. He'd much rather bear the weight of his unrequited feelings forever and still be able to talk to you.
Robby shakes his head, his demeanour softening. âOkay. Listen. Iâm not going to HR. Iâm not going to anyone. I get why you did it, and⌠sheâs a good kid. She works her ass off.â He sighs. âYou'd better keep her protected. Because if this backfires on herââ
Jack nods. âI know.â
âIâll help you keep this steady,â Robby says. âBut donât lie to me again.â
Jack meets his eyes, guilt and relief mixing. âDeal.â
Robby claps his shoulder once, a silent promise of support. âAlright. Iâm going down." Heâs halfway to the door when he pauses, âOhâand Jack?â
Jack looks back.
Robby smirks, tired but knowing. âYou might wanna consider the fact that she loves you, too." The rooftop door clangs shut behind him.
Jack shuts the thought down before it can finish forming. Hope is a liability he canât afford. He stays where he is, gripping the railing, the sun catching on the exhaustion in his eyesâand the thing heâs decided he'll keep quiet forever if it means having you in his life.
A few days later, Jack's cursing Dana outâloudlyâin his head. She's the one who decided to throw a celebration for the two of you, and the reason why he's currently in your apartment to get the story straight before the wolves descend.
And yes, you've got your story straight, but he's also sitting on your bed, wondering if he's hallucinating. He has to beâmaybe he'd accidentally inhaled whatever his patient had been on earlier and was just now experiencing the effects.
He knows that isn't possible.
And yet, that's the only explanation he's got as to why he's here watching as you try on different tops. Shimmery, matte, sleeveless, with sleevesâhe couldn't care less at the momentâhe's completely stumped by how you'd just turned around and stripped off the fabric, leaving him in view of your bare back. His gaze noticing how the only thing that's covering you is the thin bra strap that he all too easily could clasp open. He can't see your front, but he can imagine it.
Fuck.
You're turning around again, spinning slightly, and your mouth opens to ask him about it, he thinks. He's not too sure, barely able to hear you speak through the rush of blood in his ears. He answers, adequately, he guesses, because you don't look confused, but you still turn around and strip it off again.
Good God. Is this hell? Had he died and was now being tormented?
Jackâs really regretting wearing jeans right now. He shifts awkwardly, attempting to adjust himself without drawing your attention to the fact that he's half-hard from just the sight of your back.
Well, not just your back. It's also the mini skirt that hugs your curves and folds over your ass, and the smooth and supple skin of your legs that disappears into heeled boots.
Christ. The last time he saw you in normal clothes was at the convention, but this⌠This is something else.
This is bad.
How the hell is he supposed to live through a night where you'll have to pretend to be together? A night where he'll have to touch you to keep up pretences and not let you see just how affected he is by it?
Oh, he's so fucked.
You arrive at O'Neill's at 6.30 sharp to the familiar buzz of music and laughter. The bar, only a five-minute stroll from the hospital, is your usual place, and tonight itâs alive with the chatter and laughter of your fellow night shift colleagues, desperate to celebrate a little before they have to leave.
You and Abbot are both off tonight. And as Dana had told you earlier in the week, with a knowing glint in her eye, everyone had been shocked they hadnât caught on sooner, with your schedules aligning almost perfectly.
You had just nodded and smiled and pretended that it was totally on purpose and that people were stupid for not noticing soonerâguess fate has your back on that matter.
As you scan the room, Parkerâs head pops up from a booth, and she waves you over. âLovebirds!â she calls out, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she pats the seat next to her. You make your way over, spotting Bridget and Shen at the bar, and a few nurses by the pool table. There are probably more people hiding around, but Abbot's fingers are ghosting along the small of your back, and itâs taking all your focus not to lean back into his touch.
"Are you drunk? I thought you had to work?â you tease, plopping down on the cosy leather seat beside her. Lena grins at you as Abbot slides in next to you.
âDrunk on love,â Parker declares with a cheeky wink. âBut tragically sober. Nobody wanted to swap with me. So, you owe me a night out another time," she jabs her finger at you.
"And me!" Bridget chimes in as she and Shen return, balancing a tray of drinks, mostly mocktails, on their arms. "To the newlyweds," she announces, thrusting a colourful drink toward you and nudging a beer toward Abbot. "First round's on Shen."
"Not that I had any say in that," Shen grumbles as he sits down.
"You earn more than I do," Bridget shoots back.
"Yeah, yeah," he mutters in feigned exasperation. He raises his glass high above the table, a triumphant grin on his face. âTo the newlyweds and to me winning the bet!â
Parker leans across the table to give him a gentle smack on the shoulder. âThere should be an automatic forfeit if you brag about it too much,â she quips.
"Nuh-uh," Shen retorts defiantly. "You're just mad because you weren't even close."
As Parker and Shen discuss, Lena leans in close. "You guys don't have to sit like you're colleagues."
"We are colleagues," Abbot responds. Yet, as Lena's gaze sharpens, he casually drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you closer in a way that feels like it's always belonged there. Warmth radiates from him, and for a heartbeat, everything else fades away.
You take a large sip from your drink (alcoholic, thank god), trying to focus on the lively conversation around you. Yet, all your senses seem to hone in on the weight of Abbot's arm and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.
âThis okay?â he leans down, his voice barely above a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. You canât muster the words to respond, so instead, you nod subtly, offering a smile that you hope looks convincing. He mutters dryly, âJust blink twice if Iâm overcommitting to the bit," and the tension dissipates slightly as you snort.
To avoid suspicion, the two of you had agreed on a game plan that involved touching, of course. No real couple would avoid showing affection for the other, and that meant that you had to if you wanted to look believable. But now, as you sip your drink, you canât help but wonder if all of this is truly worth it. Not when only the feeling of his arm has your heart beating like a drum in your chest.
You need to get hammered if you want to survive tonight.
So by the time that day shift rolls in and swaps seats with the night shift, you're pleasantly drunk. Dana has taken the seat where Parker sat and is in the middle of telling a story about a man who thought hot glue could fix his stab wound. Youâre waggling your fingers at Robby, who has just joined you, with a cold beer in hand, mouth opening to tease him for being late, when the unmistakable beat of Scream and Shout blasts out the speakers. Your eyes immediately lock onto Samira and Trinity at the bar, who turn to find you as well, and nod towards the dance floor. Your fingers grip Abbot's forearm, a spark of urgency igniting your chest.
"I have to go," you announce, and before he can react, you're shimmying your way across his lap. Robby snickers loudly at the sight (mostly at Abbot's surprised face and subsequent adjustment of his pants), but you don't have time to analyse it, already running off to join the others on the dance floor and joining their singing (screaming) of, "It's Britney bitch!"
"So, you and Abbot, huh?" Samira grins as she twirls you around a few songs later.
You grin back at her, the alcohol buzzing in your veins making the lies fall easily from your lips. "I know, I know. We're the cutestâget in line. I think Iâve heard that a million times by now."
"Honestly, you guys made me wanna barf multiple times," Trinity reveals with a playful smirk.
âWhat?â you exclaim, taken aback. âWhy?â
âOh, please," she teases, her tone lighthearted. "You think youâre being subtle with those bedroom eyes across the ER? Weâve all seen it!â Her laughter rings out, infectious and teasing.
Your eyes widen in shock, and you stammer, "Weâwe've notâ"
âOh, relax,â Trinity says, waving a hand dismissively. âHeâs your husband. You're allowed to do it. Speaking of which, is he good?" She raises her eyebrows, wiggling them with a cheeky grin, much to Samira's delight.
"Trinity!" you gasp, your cheeks flushing.
âWhat?" she shrugs. "He walks around like heâs packing, so Iâm gonna assume thatâs a yes!â
âOh my god,â you murmur, horrified laughter spilling from your lips. âI need another drink.â
"Yes! Shots!" Trinity cheers, practically dragging you to the bar in her enthusiasm after she's done laughing at you. Desperate to escape the suddenly awkward conversation, you let impulse triumph over reason, downing two shots in quick succession before returning to the dance floor. You're absolutely not going to entertain the thought of Abbot in bed, if he's gentle or rouâ.
You're just gonna dance. And definitely not think anymore.
By the time youâre following them back to the booth, you're more than thoroughly exhausted and starving.
"Oh my god, I could eat a horse," you groan dramatically, letting your head fall back against the booth, eyes closed in despair.
Samira nudges you playfully, about to tease you, but itâs the distinct sound of something thudding onto the table in front of you that catches your attention, followed by an irresistible waft of deliciousness. A steaming basket of fries sits there, courtesy of JackâAbbot, whoops. Ah, fuck it, you're already so far in it. What does it matter if you call him Jack in your head, too?
Jack stands there, nonchalantly nodding toward the fries as if itâs no big deal, but for you, it means the world. Because it means that he had ordered them before you even knew you were hungry.
âOh, you know me so well. I could kiss you right now,â you exclaim, a wide grin of gratitude spreading across your face.
"Yeah, yeah. Just eat, sweetheart," he replies, but you think his ears glow redder, or maybe it's just the lighting in here. He pushes a glass of water towards you, too. "This is preventative care."
You don't get the chance to answer before Samira swoons to your right. "Aww. You guys are so cute."
Jack nudges your shoulder gently, signalling that he wants to sit down, and you squeeze up against Samira, pushing her to the right, who does the same to Trinity, but Trinity hasnât quite caught on yet that she needs to move for that to happen. And before she can react, the other side of the booth gets filled up.
Robby glances over, a suspiciously mischievous grin spreading across his face. âYou can just sit on Jack,â he suggests.
You narrow your eyes at him, wondering why he's all of a sudden done with his pouting and questioning glances, but you can analyse Robby's reaction another time. You don't have the brain power to do that right now.
With nowhere else to go and no reason to object, you slide out of the way, allowing Jack to sit down. The space is cramped, and you find yourself comfortably perched right against his back. His arms hover uncertainly for a moment before you pull them around you, revelling in the warmth of his embrace. You tuck into the fries to hide the fluster of your actions, and the way your cheeks flush even more as Jack tucks his chin into the corner of your shoulder so he can talk to Robby.
Conversation ebbs and flows around you, but Jack barely registers it anymore. At some point, he feels the weight of you shift, slow and unguarded, until your head comes to rest against his chest. Your hair brushes his collarbone, warm from the crowded booth, and beneath it all, he can feel his own heartbeat steadying, syncing to the soft little sounds you make when you laugh under your breath.
Youâre tired. Drunk, tooâjust enough that youâve stopped pretending you arenât. Jack doesn't mind. He lets his shoulder angle slightly so youâre more comfortable, his arm resting loose around you, not claiming, just there. He likes it when you're like thisâhappy and free from the stress of the ER. The bar noise fades into something distant as people start peeling away, one goodbye at a time, until there's just a low hum of the small group of people still hanging around.
You'd tried to slide off earlier, mumbling about how his leg must be hurting, but it was a half-hearted move, and he barely had to tighten his grip to keep you in place. He's decided to soak in this moment for as long as he can, nose buried deep in your hair whenever he gets the chance so he can catalogue and savour your sweet scent, not sure if he'll ever get the chance again. Somehow, you don't feel the hardness in his pants that he's just accepted won't fully die down, or maybe, you just don't care.
Maybe it means that you likeâno, he can't start thinking like that.
Eventually, Jack glances down. Youâre half-gone, eyes heavy, cheek pressed to him like thatâs where you belong. He smiles without meaning to.
âYou ready to go?â he asks softly.
You hum, barely a sound, and nuzzle into his palm when he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. The simple trust of it hits him harder than he expects. His chest tightensâsomething fond and careful unwrapping.
"Sweetheart?"
âMmm.â
Thatâs enough of an answer.
âWeâre heading out,â Jack tells the guys still lingering, already guiding you up with an arm around your waist. You come easily, leaning into him as if itâs the most natural thing in the world. Outside, the cool air cuts through the warmth of the bar, and you blink like youâve just woken up.
Then, you panic. âYou canât drive.â
Jack laughs, low and easy, because of course youâd worry about that. âI only had two beers,â he tells you, opening the passenger door. âAnd that was hours ago.â
âOh.â You sound confused, brows furrowing cutely. You let him help you in. He leans across to buckle your seatbelt, close enough to catch the faint scent of perfume and alcohol on your skin.
âThank you,â you say quietly. "Did you have fun tonight?"
Jack meets your eyes, really meets them, and decides to answer honestly. âI always do when I'm with you.â He smiles at the pleased hum you make and places a bottle of water in your lap before he gets inside himself.
He starts the car and pulls away from the curb, the seat warmer kicking on beneath you. The city slides past in streaks of light, and for a few minutes, itâs just the road and your breathing evening out beside him.
Then you frown. ââŚThis isnât the way to my apartment.â
âI know,â Jack says, eyes forward. He's not gonna leave you at home alone when you're drunk.
You look at him, confused but not alarmed.
âYouâre staying at mine,â he explains. You donât say anything right away. Jack catches your reflection in the windowâthoughtful and uncertain. Then he smirks a little, unable to help himself and also wanting to hear you say something, to let him know he isnât stepping over the line. âYour place has stairs,â he adds. âIâm not fighting gravity tonight.â
That finally gets you.
âYeah, yeah,â you mutter, but youâre smiling now. You sink back into the seat, tension draining out of you as if youâve decided to trust this moment, trust him. The rest of whatever you were going to argue slips away, and the car fills with a quiet, comfortable calm.
Jack drives on, steady and careful, already planning how he'll get you inside without waking youâjust in case you fall asleep before you get there.
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Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies.
word count: 6.9k
a/n: from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for reading and responding so nicely to the first part! I hope you enjoy this part just as much. and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Abbotâs house is in a quiet, well-kept neighbourhood, close enough to the hospital that on a good day, you could walk to work. Your apartment, on the other hand, is at least an hour away on foot, and that is if you walk fast.
It's quiet inside when he opens the door.
It's not the kind of quiet that belongs to a place where someone just slept, but the kind that settles after a long day of pacing and thinking and not-coping. A stillness so dense it feels like the walls are holding its breath.
It's a quiet you can relate to.
Being invited into his spaceâallowed behind the version of him the hospital seesâhits you sharply, right in the chest. You bury it fast. You can't afford to paint this in any other light than what it really is. Youâre not here because this means something.
Youâre here to clean up a mess.
He leads you down the hallway into the combined living room and kitchen which you take it in automatically. The bookcase packed with medical texts and binders, a shadow box hidden placed in between, a single lamp left on in the corner like he forgot it was there. There's no clutter, no touches of comfort, just a purely functional room.
The kitchen island holds a half-finished cup of coffee and⌠chaos, but tidy chaos. One laptop sits open, surrounded by printed HR policies, a legal pad filled with Abbot's handwriting, a highlighter without its cap, and sticky notes lined up with military precision.
"You did all this since this morning?" you ask.
Abbot rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah. Couldn't sleep. Thought we'd need a head start." He clears his throat and moves to the fridge. "Coffee? With a splash of milk?
You blink. "You remember what I drink?"
He shrugs. âHard to forget when the entire ER panics if we run out of milk and you go feral.â
"Hey!" you protest. "That only happenedâ"
"âthree times," he finishes.
You scowl. He smirks, barely, handing you the mug and nodding toward the island. "Let's start with the timeline."
You sit beside him. Your knees touch for half a second before you both shift away. He hands you a pen and your fingers brush. Both of you freeze.
You feel his eyes on your face. Itâs only for a second, but you feel it anyway. You can see his jaw tighten from the corner of your eye before he looks back down at the paper.
Everything feels awkward. And you can't help but think that you've ruined whatever small chance you might have ever had by agreeing to this.
Not that it matters. You've never had any chance with him.
He clears his throat first. "Sorry."
"It's fine," you say, even though it isn't fine. It's torture. Slow emotional waterboarding. You take a sip to calm yourself.
He pushes forward. "HR wants a full breakdown. âWhen we started dating. Why we kept it private. Why the wedding happened the way it did. Why it wasnât disclosed. And why weâre not living together.â
You groan and drop your forehead onto the table. "Just kill me."
"No dying," he mutters. "I refuse to work any sooner than I have to."
You lift your head just enough to glare. He huffs a laugh.
He taps the legal pad. "Okay. Timeline. Let's say October."
"Why October?"
He writes it down. "It's far enough back to seem serious. And it avoids overlap with your shift change. If we choose later, HR will assume your reassignment was because of me, and then we get the whole supervision problem. October makes the most sense."
You stare at him. "You really thought this through, huh?"
His ears colour faintly. You've never seen that before.
"Couldn't sleep," he repeats.
Something treacherous stirs your chest.
He continues, "We need to say we knew it was a marriage license and that we meant to do it at the convention."
âYes, we were swept away by the intoxicating scent of stale coffee and lukewarm pastries. Truly romantic.â
He rolls his eyes at you. "Funny."
You shove his arm lightly. He pretends not to smile.
"We need a real reasonâŚ" he says, quieter this time.
"Something actually romantic?" you mutter.
His eyes flick to yours and hold just a breath too long before he speaks again. ââŚSomething thoughtful,â he corrects softly. âSomething that mattered enough we could claim it as ours. Thatâs why the convention. Quiet in its own chaotic way. No one cared. Just us.â
You blink, chest tightening, the feelings youâve carefully buried straining to the surface. Itâs fake, you remind yourself. Heâs faking it. Youâre faking it. Thatâs all this tightness is. You smile, hiding the pain behind your usual humour.
âRight,â you say, voice lighter. âBecause nothing says forever like fluorescent lights and branded pens.â
He glances at you, eyes soft with amusement. âHey, if I can get your attention in that lighting, Iâm feeling pretty confident.â
You snort, but the flutter in your chest betrays you. It's just a joke, you remind yourself. Nothing else. It's not like you don't care about the lightning when it comes to him⌠or anything.
âWhose idea was it?â Abbot asks, looking at his notes.
You tilt your head. âDo we really have to assign blame?â
âHR will ask,â he says evenly. âAnd we need one answer.â
You groan. âFine. You pick.â
He pauses, considering, then says, âMine.â
"Why yours?"
âBecause,â he says, calm as if heâs discussing the weather, âIâm more believable as the person who would want something private. Something⌠just for us.â
Warmth spreads from your chest to your fingertips, a quiet, traitorous bloom. You squash it. Youâre getting good at that. ââŚOkay,â you say. âThen you suggested it.â
He scribbles it down, not looking up, just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You move on quickly, before the tension can stick. âSo, living together⌠We say we planned to move in after I finish residency. To avoid a conflict of interest.â
You raise an eyebrow. âNoted: HR is horny for boundaries.â
He chokes on a surprised laugh. âPlease never say that phrase again.â
"No promises," you say grinning. You always feel proud when you're able to make that happen.
He rubs his temple. âFine. Any other reason?â
âMy roommate,â you say, flat as ever.
Abbot groans. âThe one who left an open can of tuna out for two days⌠and called it âairing it outâ?â
âShe was enhancing the aroma,â you reply, entirely serious.
He narrows his eyes. âEnhancing what? The risk of botulism?â
âExactly. So we were also waiting for my lease to end.â
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and controlled, and for a flicker of a second, his gaze lands on you, sharp and amused. âWell, at least that story doesnât require a single lie.â
âUnfortunately,â you murmur, and scribble it under his notes.
Warmth sneaks in, light but persistent. Like thisâthis momentâisnât entirely fake.
He clears his throat, professional again, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, and the tiny spark in his gaze, suggest that he isn't hating this as much as you imagined he would. Or at least you hope so.
"And why didn't we disclose it earlier?"
Abbot inhales, then says, "Because we wanted to figure out what we were before bringing it into work. We hadn't planned on getting married just yet, but⌠it felt right."
Your pen stops mid-stroke. You pause, caught on the slight edge in his tone, then you start again.
The paper fills upâdates, locations, alibis. Lies shaped like wishes.
He sits back. "Okay. Read it."
You do, and each line twists something deeper inside you.
We started dating in October.
We kept it private on purpose until we knew it was serious.
We married quietly because it felt right.
We plan to move in soon.
None of it is real. Except for the parts you wish were.
You put the legal pad down, hiding your trembling fingers in your lap. "That's the version HR gets."
Abbot nods slowly, his steady gaze landing on your face, somehow sensing your nerves. "This protects you," he says softly. "That's the only thing that matters. You're a damn good doctor. I'm not letting bureaucracy fuck that up."
You search his face. "So⌠we're good?"
He studies you backâlike he sees everything you're trying to hide. The panic. The worry. But nothing else because thereâs nothing besides that to see. There canât be.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "We're good."
You exhale. Too fast. Too shaky. He hears it.
He nudges your knee gently with his. "Hey. We've faced worse."
"Oh yeah?" you say weakly, stomach knotting as a single lie multiplies. "Name one thing worse than HR drama mixed with an accidental marriage and impending career doom."
He thinks for half a second, his eyes glinting. "Your roommate's tuna."
You snort, and for a moment, the panic eases. "Okay. Fair."
Abbot's car is sleeker than you expected. Black, understated, the kind of practical luxury someone buys when they can afford quality but are allergic to attention. The seat is warmâor it becomes warm, seconds after you suppress a shiver. Of course, heâd notice. Thatâs just Abbot being Abbot. Not⌠anything else. Not the kind of noticing you keep pretending you donât want from him. You don't comment on it, and neither does he. That's just how he is. Observant. Fixing problems without needing to point it out.
You try to look out the window like this is normal. Like sitting in his car after spending the afternoon at his house is normal. It isnât normal. And you definitely donât feel normal. But you keep your face pointed at the window like thatâll trick your brain into behaving.
The ride is shortâten minutes of some radio station humming in the background, and then you're at the hospital. When he parks in his designated spot, you can't help but notice the difference between your worlds.
He drives ten minutes; you commute forty-five minutes on the bus with two transfers and someone elseâs elbow in your ribs. Abbot probably doesnât even think about the distanceâhe just goes where he needs to go, while you, on the other hand, need to time it perfectly.
The space between you feels sharp. Which is good. Sharp is safer. Sharp keeps you in your lane, far away from the soft places you keep almost slipping into.
He stands there grounded and composed, and it is impossible to miss how far that is from where you are. Your place is a shared apartment on the far end of town, with a roommate who keeps nudging you toward the door. You check listings day and night, hoping for something within reach, but the prices are higher than you can keep up with. So most days, you run on coffee and whatever small amount of optimism you can manage.
You're worlds apart.
You both exit the car at the same time and walk to the entrance, side by side, not touching and not speaking. You take in the last bit of quiet before what will probably be another hectic night.
The moment you pass through the door, someone calls out, "Congratulations."
You frown. Abbot visibly pauses mid-step.
Another voice joins in, "Congrats!"
You whip your head up to look at Abbot. He mirrors it perfectlyâwide-eyed, wary.
"âŚIs itâ" you start.
"It's not my birthday," he murmurs.
The noise swellsâparamedics nodding like they knew this day would come, an EMT giving a full thumbs-up, a nurse waving from triage. Your heart drops the second you even see it.
The banner. Huge. Glittery. Hanging lopsidedly across the edge of the hub like someone hurried to staple it together during their break.
CONGRATS ON GETTING MARRIED!!!
Every muscle in your body locks. Abbot stops beside you like he's hit an invisible wall.
Maybeâmaybe it isn't for you?
Except it is. Obviously. Completely. Catastrophically. And you feel it when the entire ER turns toward youâa wave of warmth and attention and curiosity you are in no way prepared for.
Dana leans against the counter, arms crossed. âFinally doing something dramatic enough to match your day-shift reputation,â she says to you. âI was starting to think night shifts had turned you soft.â Her eyes narrow slightly as she scans you and Abbot, tilting her head as if weighing the story. A faint smirk tugs at her lips, but thereâs something in her gazeâa question unspoken, a suspicion barely contained.
You open your mouth to respond, but air is the only thing that escapes. Abbot shifts his weight slightly, his elbow touching yours, a quiet, grounding nudge of presence. You inhale, steadying yourself. "How did you guys find out?"
âHR emailed me,â Shen announces, leaning on the counter. He lifts his iced coffee and slurps loudly. âApparently, Iâm your supervising attending now since âmarital conflict of interestâ means Abbot isnât allowed.â
Great. Fantastic. And of course, Shen had to share that with everyone. Why wouldn't he?
You glance at Abbotâquick, cautious. He doesnât look angry. Or happy. Or anything you can decipher in the two-second window you give yourself.
âNo one here bet on married,â Shen adds, âso depending on how long youâve secretly been together, I might still win.â Another slurp, even louder. Dana smacks his arm.
Your face burns. Of course, they bet on you. From the back, Collins watches with a soft, knowing smile. Her gaze catches yours for a heartbeat, and she nods almost imperceptiblyâa quiet approval among the chaos. It calms you slightly.
But then Robby appears from around the corner. Robby, who is Abbot's best friend. Who knows every detail of Abbot's life for the past who-knows-how-many years. His brows knit. His gaze goes to Abbot firstâof course it doesâand then to you, back to Abbot, back to you again. He steps a foot closer, looking between you again. âSo,â he says slowly, quietly, âthis is real? You two⌠got married?â
âWeââ you start, but your voice catches.
Abbot steps in smoothly, voice firm. âYes. We did.â
Guilt curdles in your stomach. You hate lying. Especially to Robby. He once sat with you for two hours after a rough shift because you couldnât stop shaking. Lying to him feels like swallowing glass.
Abbot must feel some of it, too, because his voice softens. âIâm sorry we didnât tell you sooner, Mike.â The nickname lands with weight. âIt⌠happened fast. It felt right.â
The ER collectively awws. Someone whistles. Someone else shouts, âAbout time!â which is⌠horrifying.
Robbyâs expression tightens, but he swallows it down and nods. A silent, later. A silent, Iâll hear you out.
You glance at Abbot. Heâs calm, observing the room, letting the chaos happen around you. He catches your eye briefly, a silent youâre okay in the tilt of his head and the faint curve of his mouth. No words, no fuss, just steady presence. You draw in a breath, grounding yourself on that small certainty.
Someone from the back shouts, âWe bought cupcakes! Theyâre in the break room!â Another voice yells, âTheyâre red velvet for love!â It sounds suspiciously much like Parker and Bridget.
Abbot shifts closer, so slightly you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't attuned to every atom of him right now. Which you shouldnât be. Whatever. Itâs just adrenaline. Stress. Proximity. Nothing else.
He responds for you. "Thank you. Now, let's get ready for shift change." His tone leaves no room for any more questioning, and the ER slowly settles when they realise they won't get more out of you. The excitement dies down, monitors hum, nurses trade charts, and the day shift leaves. Robby lingers at the hub, finishing his sign-out notes, but his eyes keep flicking to you and Abbot.
Abbot steps up beside him. "You ready for sign-out?"
Robby doesn't answer immediately, searching Abbot's face. "Yeah," he says finally. "Let's do it." He goes through the cases succinctly, efficiently, but the energy is off. His words are fine. His mood is⌠not. You stay rooted in place, unsure whether to leave, caught under his watchful gaze. It keeps straying to your ringless fingers, then to Abbot, and then back to the chart as if hoping the paper will magically explain everything. When he finishes, he exhales sharply. "ER's yours."
But he doesn't move. Abbot waits. You brace yourself. Robby folds his arms, a complicated expression on his face. "So," he says deceptively light, rubbing his beard. "You two got married."
Your pulse jumps, but Abbot answers evenly, "Yes."
Robby squints at him. "You didn't tell me."
Abbot opens his mouth, but Robby holds up a hand. "No, really," he continues, tone tightening. "This isn't me being mad that I wasn't best man or whateverâthis is me wondering why two of my favourite people in this entire department tied the knot and somehow forgot to mention it to the guy who literallyâ" he waves a handâ "has been betting on you getting together since February."
That might have been funny if he hadn't immediately sobered. âBut jokes aside?â His gaze lands on Abbot. âYou donât hide good news from your friends. Especially not this kind of news.â
That hits. Lands like a sucker punch straight to the gut.
Abbot's voice softens. "It wasn't planned."
âYeah,â Robby says slowly, eyes narrowing. âI figured that part out. Because if it had been, youâd have told me.â Thereâs no bite in his tone, just a quiet certainty.
Then his focus shifts to you. Less accusing. More⌠checking in. âAnd you,â he says gently. âAre you okay? Becauseâlook, you know I like you. Youâre good for him. But this,â he gestures again between you and Abbot, ââcame out of nowhere.â
âIâm okay,â you murmur. You tell yourself itâs true. Or true enough.
His gaze sharpens like he can see the guilt swirling in your stomach. "Something about this is⌠odd."
Abbot straightens, trying to do damage control before anyone overhears and rumours start spiralling. âRobbyââ
âIâm not saying itâs not real,â Robby cuts in quickly. âHell, Iâve been saying it should be real for months.â His voice softens. âI want this for you. Both of you.â
You swallow hard.
âBut Iâm also not blind,â Robby finishes quietly. âAnd I know when Jack is hiding something.â
Abbot tenses, but doesnât deny it.
Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead. âLook. Iâm not going to pry. Iâm not going to judge. Whatever this is, you two will figure it out.â He slings his backpack over his shoulder. âI just wish youâd told me before I had to read it on a banner.â
Abbot's expression flickersâthe smallest crack in his façade.
Robby steps closer and lowers his voice. âYou two okay with each other?â A pause. âThatâs all I care about.â
You nod. Abbot nods.
Robby watches you both for a heartbeat longer, then breaks into a crooked, tired smile. âGood. Then congrats,â he says finally, clapping Abbot's shoulder. âReally. I mean it.â He starts toward the exit but calls over his shoulder. âTry not to traumatise my ER, newlyweds!â
Abbot watches him go, and exhales like heâs been holding his breath for twenty minutes.
When Robby disappears out the door, you murmur, âHe knows.â
Abbot shakes his head. âHe suspects.â
âThatâs basically the same thing.â
Abbot huffs, barely a laugh, his mouth opening to replyâ
"âHeads-up: trauma patient five minutes out," Lena cuts in, phone in hand, as she takes her place behind the counter again, no longer off to the side to give you a moment of privacy.
He gives you a small, steadying lookâchecking in without words.
You breathe in. Out. âOkay,â you say. "I'm ready."
And then you're both swept into the rhythm of night shiftârunning toward alarms, toward chaos and the next thing that needs you. No time to talk. Just glances. Moving in sync like always. Except now everyone watches you a little differently, looks a little longer, whispers a little louder.
Youâre monitoring fluids for a patient who just stabilised after a hectic febrile workup. Earlier, the room had been chaos: labs running, vitals fluctuating, Shen, Bridget, and you juggling tasks. Now, the patient is stable, resting on the bed, and the ER noise has faded to a background hum.
Shen leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. âSo,â he grins, âDoctor Abbot. You've taken his name, right?â
You glance at him over the IV line. âShen,â you warn, keeping your voice low as the pale woman beside you clutches her blanket harder.
He lifts her hands innocently. âIâm just sayingâcongratulations! I mean, you guys kept it quiet butâwow. Definitely did not expect you to be married.â
Bridget stands to the side, "Please tell me you haven't been together for ages. I don't wanna owe Shen money." She grins at you and tries to move to avoid Shen, but he's too fast and manages to nudge her arm lightly in retaliation.
You adjust the IV, making sure the line is still patent. âCan we not do this here?â
Shen wiggles her eyebrows. âI already told everyone, so I figure Iâm just reinforcing the message. Plus⌠youâre getting a new badge, right? With the new name?â
Bridget chuckles. âOh, and donât forget to update your pager. Canât have people paging the wrong Doctor Abbot.â
You breathe in slowly through your nose, ignoring them. âSomeone will be in to check on you soon,â you tell the patient softly, tucking the blanket a little closer around her shoulders. âWeâll keep working on whatâs causing the fever.â
You turn to Shen and Bridget again. âGo bother someone else, guys.â You shoo them out the door, stripping off your gloves and heading after them.
âRight, right. Doctor Abboâow!â
Lena flicks the back of Shen's head as she passes by with a chart. âLeave her alone,â she scolds. Then, says quieter to you. âSeriously though? Congrats. Weâre happy for you.â
You nodâtight, awkward, emotions jammed somewhere in your throatâluckily spared answering because an overhead page crackles:
âAttention please, incoming trauma. Two patients with extensive injuries. ETA five minutes.â
You catch Abbot's eye across the ER, a silent you ready in his gaze. You nod back. The trauma is messyâMVC rollover, possible spinal involvement, unstable vitalsâbut you and Abbot fall into your usual rhythm: sharp, efficient, nearly telepathic. You hand him what he needs before he asks. He adjusts the plan when he hears your assessment. Thereâs no time to think about anything except the patient. But between orders and flashing monitors, you feel him. Not lingering, just⌠making sure youâre there. A grounding point in chaos.
Hours pass like minutes: traumas, codes, and sepsis, each case threading into the next. Laced through it all are whispers and winksânurses, paramedics, and doctors teasing and grinning at you.
You want to scream. Abbot handles it better, but even he cracks when Parker corners him at the hub, a look in her eye that means sheâs about to harass someone for sport.
âSo,â she says, leaning an elbow on the counter, âI heard you haven't been together for long. Shot-gun wedding, huh? When's the baby shower?â
Abbot stops mid-signature, pauses for a long, heavy beat, then says, âEllis, go check on North 3.â
She grins, âSend me the wishlist.â
Abbot shoots you a glanceâdry, resigned, the universal face for kill meâand you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing aloud.
Thereâs no time to talk. No time to process. No time to figure out how to handle being married in an ER that suddenly wonât stop noticing everything. Just glances. Little nods. Half-smiles. A brush of his hand against your back as he passes between rooms.
You manage to pull him into a quiet corner hours later, chart in hand, under the guise of discussing a patient. "Hey, I'm really sorry. I know you wanted to keep it a secret," you whisper searching his face for any anger or regret.
But Abbot doesn't blink, doesn't even hesitate before saying, "Don't worry about it. I got your back, just like you've got mine, yeah?"
Your brow furrows, but he keeps your gaze steadily, so you nod. "âŚYeah."
"Good," he says and with that he's called back into the ER again leaving you to wonder why he isn't more angry when he only agreed to do this because it wasn't going to be known. But you don't have time to think about it too long when your name gets called, too, and another patient demands your attention.
You don't even get to speak again until it's nearly 6 AM, and youâre both charting side-by-side, exhausted and vibrating with the leftover adrenaline of the shift.
He clears his throat. âYou holding up, Trouble?â The nickname lands softer than usual. Almost⌠careful. You ignore the way your stupid heart reacts to that.
You nod. âYeah. You?â
He exhales. âIâve had worse.â He glances at your hand. You glance at his. ââŚWe need rings.â
You swallow. âYeah. I know.â
âSoon,â he adds, still typing, voice maddeningly steady.
Your heart thumps once, hard. âAfter shift?â
He nods once, tiny, almost invisible. âAfter shift.â
For one fragile second, the ER noise fades. Then a monitor screeches, and the world snaps back into motion.
Abbot's car envelops you in warmth and darkness, a stark contrast to the chaotic echoes still resonating in your mind from the ERâthe shrill wails of alarms, the congratulatory remarks from colleagues, and Parker and Shen's incessant and unnecessary commentary.
God, those two can really be annoying.
As Abbot pulls onto the road, steering towards his home where youâll wait until the shops open, you sink deeper into your seat, exhaling a heavy sigh. "I swear, if one more person congratulates me, Iâll fake my own death,â you declare.
"Mm," Abbot hums, eyes on the road. "Make it convincing. HR will audit your autopsy."
You half-groan, half-laugh into your hands. You don't even have to look to know he is fighting back a smile. "Goddamn HR."
The car is silent for a moment until he speaks again. "You know, Ellis asked me who confessed first,"
"What did you tell her?"
"That I wasn't discussing it while literally placing a chest tube."
"Reasonable," you say.
"She didn't think so," he continues, turning the wheel. "She offered to take over."
You huff a laugh. "Of course, she did."
A soft quiet begins to blanket the car, the only sound being the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic swoosh of tires on the asphalt. As you glide through the early morning streets, memories of Robbyâs face flash in your mind.
âYou saw Robby's reaction,â you say after a moment, breaking the silence. âHe looked⌠I donât know.â
âHurt,â Abbot supplies, his voice low. âAnd suspicious.â
You nod. âYeah."
âHe deserves an explanation,â Abbot murmurs. âSomething believable.â
âMm.â Nothing you come up with feels believable enough. You pick at the hem of your scrubs just to keep your hands busy. Streetlights carve Abbot's expression into calm lines, and theyâre the kind of lines you want to trace with your fingers and absolutely shouldnât. And you donât. Obviously. Because that would mean something youâve spent months pretending you donât feel.
Your throat tightens before the words even form. âI just⌠I keep thinking about the look he gave you. Like he thought youâlike we blindsided him. And heâs not wrong, because we did, and now everyoneâs staring at us, and HR is breathing down our necks, and Iââ You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. âI canât stop thinking that I dragged you into this.â
Abbot's hands tighten on the wheel, just a small shift, but enough that you feel it. âYou didnât drag me into anything," he counters, his tone firm yet gentle.
âIt feels like I did,â you whisper.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. âTrouble,â he says, the nickname softer than youâve ever heard it, warm enough to trip every wire in your chest. âI made the decision to do this. Not you. Not HR. Me.â
âButââ
âNo.â His tone softens but stays firm. âI knew exactly what I was doing."
You turn your gaze out the window, watching the world fly past, your vision blurring slightly. âIt just⌠doesnât feel fair.â
He glances over at you briefly, eyes steady in that way that makes your chest go warm and tight. âWhat doesnât?â
âThat youâre shouldering the fallout of something that only affects me.â
Abbot huffs a sound that isnât quite a laugh. âYou think I wouldâve done any of this if I didnât want to?â
You shrug. âI think you felt responsible.â
He shakes his head. âI felt involved. Thereâs a difference.â
You donât answer.
He waits a moment then adds, quieter. âIâm not trapped. And Iâm not being forced. So stop acting like you tricked me into anything.â
His conviction hits you hard, a mixture of relief and guilt swirling within. He means it; he genuinely believes what heâs saying. And yet, âItâs not that simple,â you mumble.
âIt is,â Abbot says. âYouâre overwhelmed. Youâre scared. And youâre tired.â A pause, softer now. âBut you didnât do this alone.â
Silence settles between you, but less heavy this time. Less sharp.
You breathe out slowly. âI just donât want to make your life harder.â
âYou didnât.â
âAbbâJack," you correct yourself.
âYou didnât,â he reassures you firmly. âHR wouldâve hunted us either way. At least now weâre being hunted together.â
You canât help but let out a tired laugh, the tension in your chest loosening like a fist unfurling. âThatâs supposed to make me feel better?â
âYes,â he says. âIt should. It's harder to hit two targets. I should know.â His voice is so dry, so perfectly him, it knocks another laugh out of you before you can stop it.
And for a momentâjust a momentâyou let yourself bask in the warmth of being in his car, in his quiet, in his orbit, like the world outside isnât waiting to eat you both alive.
By the time Abbot unlocks his front door, the sunrise is in full bloom behind the house. You step inside and instantly feel it: the warmth, quiet and stillness. You really like his place. It beats yours by milesâbut honestly that isn't hard to do when he doesn't live with a roommate from hell.
He closes the door behind you, looks you over once and says in that soft-but-firm attending voice, "Go shower."
You blink. "âŚWhat?"
âYouâve been in trauma bays for twelve hours,â he says simply. âYour shoulders are tense; the warm water will be good.â
The second he says it, you feel how high your shoulders sit. âOkay,â you admit. "You know, you can just tell me I smell next time."
âShower,â he repeats with an amused huff. âPlease.â
You follow him down the short hallway, through his bedroom, doing your absolute best to pretend your brain didnât just short-circuit at the sight of his bed.
He flips on the bathroom light, hesitates for a second like heâs suddenly very aware this is his bathroomâhis spaceâ, and youâre stepping into it. âThe water heats fast,â he says. âTowels are on the rack. Donât mock the shampoo.â
Your nerves dissipate slightly at comment, clearly meant to make you feel more at ease, and you grin at him. âYou know Iâm going to."
He closes his eyes briefly. âJust go. Leave your scrubs in the corner. I'll put on a wash later."
You nod, slipping past him.
"And⌠take your time. Really."
You look up. He's leaning one shoulder against the doorway, scrubs rumpled, hair mussed, voice low from exhaustion. He looks unfair like this. Soft. Domestic.
You shouldn't stare. You do anyway.
"âŚThanks," you breathe. Itâs nothing. Just exhaustion making you weird. Anyone would stare at their attending, looking soft and human for once. Not because itâs him. Definitely not that.
He gives you a faint smile. "Tea or coffee for when you're done?"
"Tea," you say, then pause, adding, "I'm still trying to avoid coffee after shift."
"Ah. Shaky gremlin. Yes, I remember you saying that."
You swat at him on instinct. He dodges, grin slipping out before he can stop it. The warmth in your chest is immediate and dangerous. You hate how easily your brain twists that grin into something else. Something he probably doesn't mean.
Something you can't want.
You push it down, strip off and step into heaven. Scalding water, steam, the kind of pressure that actually gets between your shoulder blades. So much better than the sputtering stream that turns cold in minutes at home.
You stand under it so long your fingers prune. Wash your hair with Abbot's shampoo and conditioner, and want to weep because it's far more expensive than anything you own.
When you finally emerge, wrapped in one of his absurdly soft towels, you realise the flaw in your planâyou have no clothes.
You eye the scrubs on the floor, but the thought of getting into them again sounds horrible. So, you peek out of his bedroom door.
"Jack?" you call softly.
He appears immediately, like he was hovering nearby. And then he freezes. His gaze flicks down without lingering, but the flick is enough to make your pulse jump. You try not to overthink the way he swallows. Or the way you're suddenly convinced you've made this weird.
He clears his throat. "I, uhâput clothes on the dresser for you. Sorry, I should've said."
"Oh." You look behind you, where a neatly folded T-shirt and sweatpants lie. "Thanks."
He rubs the back of his neck. "They should fit. Mostly. The drawstring works."
Your stomach flips harder. Itâs just clothes. Just practical. Completely normal. Except you like the idea of wearing his clothes far more than you should.
You retreat to change. You look⌠borrowed. Claimed. You donât think about that. Itâs just cotton and a drawstring, you tell yourself. Just laundry. People borrow clothes all the time without it meaning anything.
Except you do think about it. Way too much.
When you come out, Abbot is leaning on the kitchen counter with two mugsâone steaming with tea, one with something darker. His eyes lift. Thereâs a pause. Barely a second. A breath.
âYou look⌠comfortable,â he says, voice low.
You fight the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. âYour clothes are very soft.â
âTheyâre just clothes.â
âTheyâre very⌠you clothes.â
He laughs under his breath. âNot sure what that means.â
You donât explain. You donât look away, either. You donât explain because if you open your mouth, youâll say something mortifying like they feel like you. Which is a ridiculous thought. Stupid. Over-tired. You are absolutely not cataloguing the ways his shirt feels different from your own.
He hands you your mug. âDrink.â
Your fingers brush. Itâs brief. Itâs nothing. You feel it everywhere. You sip at it slowly.
He nods at the couch when you set the empty mug down. âNap time.â
You snort. âDidnât realise I was five.â
âYouâre five if I say youâre five. Lay down.â
âBossy.â
âIf the shoe fits," he shrugs.
You think about arguing, but the couch looks obscenely comfortable, and your body sinks into it like itâs been waiting for this moment all night.
Abbot pulls a blanket over you without fanfareâjust something gentle and you tell yourself heâd do it for anyone. You hate how much you wish that wasnât true.
You mumble, âYou should sleep too.â
"I need to shower, and if I lie down, I won't get up again."
You snort and mumble something about him being an old man, already halfway succumbing to sleep.
He leaves you in the living room and the quiet of his apartment surrounds you. There's just the faintest sound of water rushing. Your tired brain conjures an image you absolutely shouldnât entertainâhim stepping into the shower after you, warm steam, shared exhaustion, shared spaceâand you kick it out immediately.
But the thought⌠warms something in you. Something dangerous. Something you try to suffocate with exhaustion.
It works because within minutes, youâre asleep.
The mall isnât open yetânot fully. Only a few stragglers hover near storefronts, eager to get their errands done before the crowds appear. But the jewellery store gates are already up, lights warm and soft, with a salesperson sipping coffee behind the counter.
Abbot hesitates before stepping inside, like this is somehow more intimate than you wearing his hoodie or showering in his bathroom this morning. Youâre not sure youâre reading that right. Youâre not sure youâre reading anything right.
âReady?â you ask.
âNo,â he says honestly. âYou?â
âAbsolutely not.â
You walk in anyway.
The salesperson perks up. âMorning! Looking for something special?â
Abbot freezes. You freeze. Then both of you say, at the exact same time, âWedding rings.â
Thereâs a beat, then the salesperson brightens. âOh! Congratulations!â
You try not to choke on the irony.
âThank you,â Abbot replies. âWe need simple bands. Nothing extravagant.â
âMatching?â the clerk asks, delighted.
Your inhale is sharp enough to hurt. Abbot glances at youâbarely a flick of his eyes, but you feel the question in it. You, in turn, give the tiniest nod.
Yes. Fine. Whatever. Itâs for HR. Definitely not because the thought of matching anything with him makes your pulse skip. Get a grip.
âYes,â he tells the clerk softly. âMatching.â
She ushers you to a tray of plain bandsâgold, silver, platinum, brushed, polished.
Abbot gestures. âYou pick first.â
You shake your head. âNo, you go.â
He huffs a breath. âWeâre already bad at communication, and weâre not even a realââ
He stops. A bit too fast. Keeping the bit up for someone who he doesn't need to be doing it for. Your heart flips at that.
âJust pick something,â you say gently.
He studies the rings carefully. Finally, he selects a simple, polished bandâclean, minimal, and understated.
You blink. âThatâs⌠perfect.â
The salesperson smiles brightly. âTry it.â
Your throat tightens as he slides the band onto your finger. You look downânot at himâbecause if you look at his face right now, you will combust. You blame adrenaline. Or sleep deprivation. Or the fact that this is all for paperwork. Anything but the truth clawing at the back of your throat. The ring is warm from his hand. Too intimate. Too soft. Too easy to imagine it meaning something else.
You try the ring on him tooâalso not looking directly at him because it feels forbiddenâand the band fits him like it always belonged there. Which means nothing. Symbolism is for people who didnât end up married by accident at a CME convention.
âLooks good,â you whisper.
"You too," he says.
You pretend you didnât hear that. You pretend it doesnât lodge itself in your ribs like a live wire.
The clerk sighs happily, clasping her hands. âYou two are adorable.â
You almost choke. Abbot frowns. She rings it in. He pays without a word, batting your card away like the idea of you paying is offensive.
âWear them out?â she asks.
He looks at you. Another silent question. You nod. He nods. You both slide them on. And something shifts. Not loud. Not obvious. Something small and mutual and terrifyingly real. Too real for something that isnât supposed to be real at all.
Abbot parks in front of your building with the engine still running, both of you sitting in the soft midday sun and the fast churn of Pittsburgh traffic. You lean your forehead against the cool window, hoping pressure alone might keep your brain from leaking out your ears. That short nap had only succeeded in making your exhaustion worse.
He glances at you. âYou sure youâre okay to go in?â
âIâm so tired,â you murmur, âI can hear colours.â
His mouth curls. "Call me if you need anything.â
You nod, fingers already curling around the door handle before you stop, hover, and look at him. Really look.
The ring on his finger. His hoodie slouching over broad shouldersâmatching the one youâve borrowed. His eyes warm, worried, focused entirely on you like he hasnât been awake for more than 14 hours.
âThanks,â you whisper. âFor⌠all of this. For not letting me drown.â
âOf course,â he murmurs.
Of course. Like it was easy. Like it wasnât ruining you a little at a time.
You slip out before your heart can do something dramatic, trudging up the steps in a fog. None of this means anything. It canât. Heâs your attending, and youâre exhausted, and tired brains invent closeness where there isnât any. Thatâs what youâll tell yourself later.
You donât look back. You canât. But if you did, youâd see him still thereâengine running, eyes on you, waiting until the door closes fully before he pulls away. And youâd wonderâlike you always doâwhether youâre the only one feeling too much⌠or if heâs just better at hiding it.
But you already know the answer to that. Unfortunately.
You press your forehead to your door and breathe. This is fine. You can do this. You can pretend.
At least, you think you canâexcept pretending shouldnât feel like falling.
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/hr inaccuracies.
word count: 5.7k
a/n: it's finally here!! I'm still in shock over how many people want to read this, so I truly hope you enjoy the first instalment. This was so much fun to writeâand as a little treat/sneak peak, I can reveal that there will be ER reactions in the next part... Furthermore, as this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Next part
The Pittsburgh Convention Center is already buzzing when you arrive. Doctors of all ages scurry in the doorsâmost wearing the resigned look these events always inspire.
You can't remember the last time you were awake at this hour while heading towards work instead of stumbling home for sleep. But for once, you're well-rested at 8 AM. A rare assigned night off, followed by another scheduled night off, meant you even started binging Stranger Things again. Finally able to catch up on the latest seasonâin between studying, of course, now that the board exam is only a few months away.
The line for sign-in snakes all the way to the doors, so you opt to wait outside for Robby. Being the chief attending means he gets dragged to these things more often than anyone. You donât envy him, but at least it means you won't be suffering alone. You hadnât exactly volunteered for this conventionâyour name had been the lucky one drawn for âresident attendance,â which is hospital-speak for punishment with free muffins. But you havenât seen Robby much since switching from days to nights, so at least now youâll get a chance to catch up.
You lean against the cold brick wall, thumb flicking absentmindedly at your screen as you relish in the warm sunlight. Thereâs an overflow of cat videos on your screen, courtesy of your best friend, Olivia, who stole your phone last night when hers died. Cute, sure, but after fifty in a row, the novelty dies.
"Hey, Trouble." A warm and low voice greets you. "Get into any fights while you were waiting?"
You freeze for half a secondâjust long enough for your thumb to completely miss the video and scroll past three in a blur. It's not Robby's voice. And nobody calls you that besides Abbot. Your stomach dips, a quiet swoop you pretend not to feel. Without even seeing him, you can already picture the smug curve of his mouth (and those soft lips you definitely haven't thought about in embarrassing detail).
You look upâand sure enough, there it is. That irritating smirk. Tackle one (or two) volatile patients, and suddenly you're branded for life.
"Oh, real original," you deadpan, hoping the dryness of your voice hides the way your heartbeat just began sprinting. "Why are you here?"
Abbot huffs a laugh. "Well, don't look too happy to see me." He pushes one of the heavy glass doors open with his shoulder, and you make a conscious effort not to look at his arms. They fall down the slope of his broad shoulders anyway.
"I'm just surprised. Didn't think you could survive direct sunlight," you say as you fall into step beside him.
"Ha. Ha." His voice is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Robby got cornered by Gloria and approximately six inches of paperwork. Some emergency error he needed to fix. So I got voluntold."
"Oh," you say, then shrug. "Well, look on the bright sideâyou're here with me. Could have been Parker."
Abbot scoffs, throwing you an amused look. "Yeah, still not convinced that's the bright side."
"Hey!" you swat his shoulder. He rubs it dramatically, though you barely touched him. Your fingers still buzz from the contact, traitors that they are. It's just due to static, not anything else.
Missing Robby is a disappointment, sureâbut getting Abbot is⌠something else entirely. He has this way of filling a room, a kind of steady warmth that shouldnât be distracting but absolutely is. After years of only brief overlaps (shift swaps and the occasional post-shift drink), working beside him has brought back a kind of awareness you thought wouldâve faded by now. The fact that he meets your deadpan humour with the same dry spark doesn't have to mean anything. Doesn't mean anything. He's your attending; you're his resident. Nothing more, nothing less.
Inside, the air smells like bad coffee, and those cheap blueberry muffins every CME event pretends are breakfast. You and Abbot step into the registration line behind a group of doctors loudly complaining about its slowness. He leans toward you, just enough that your shoulder brushes his. You absolutely do not adjust your stance to keep it there. "Ten bucks says she'll make us sign something pointless."
"She?"
He nods towards the clerkâmid-60s, glasses dangling from a chain, a tired expression carved by years of bureaucratic suffering.
You shake your head. "Iâm not betting on a guaranteed loss."
He shrugs, nudging your shoulder as he leans back. "Boring."
You move forward slowly, and when it's finally your turn, the clerk barely glances up. "Scan your badges."
You both hold out your IDs. The tablet beeps, processes, and then loads a screen full of boxes:
You huff softly. "I still don't understand why they insist on calling it a household."
Abbot shakes his head with a light shrug. "Bureaucratic loophole that makes tracking attendance easier. Hospitals love that shit."
"Sign here and here," the clerk says, tapping the bottom of the screen.
He signs firstârefined, controlled, like everything he does. You try to sign neatly, but his attention flicks to your hand, and your signature comes out fast and messy. His mouth twitches, amused.
The tablet glitches. Flickers. Resets. Then displays:
CONGRATS!
Form Submitted Successfully
Record #: 0401-PA-JG-1229
He frowns. "Congrats on⌠what?â
The clerk stamps your lanyards without looking up. âCongrats. Next.â
âYou heard her,â he says, glancing at you. âApparently, weâre champions at paperwork.â
You pocket your badge with a shrug, put on the lanyard, and follow him toward a hall with vendors pushing pens and stress-ball kidneys in the doorway. Neither of you notices:
The tiny Pittsburgh County Seal in the screenâs corner
The phrase Self-Uniting Certification Receipt under your signatures
The integrated QR code quietly scanning your IDs into the countyâs system
Or the fact that Joint Liability Household Group is a shared template for training pairs and marriage filings because someone in IT loves âstreamlining".
Abbot grabs a cup of coffee. You take a muffin, mostly so your hands have something to do. And together, blissfully unaware, you walk into the conventionâ
accidentally married.
The Pitt always smells like bad coffee, disinfectant, and whatever food some ill-advised intern decided to microwave. Youâre not fully clocked in mentally; the lights are too bright, your scrubs feel stiff from the dryer, and you've already spotted half the day shift's charts stacked like a Jenga tower waiting to fall on the counter. Youâd rather be home under a blanket, binging Stranger Things, and absolutely not replaying a certain someone brushing his knee against yours.
Unfortunately, that's not how life works. You scan the board at the hub, getting yourself up to date, when Parker and Shen appear beside you wearing identical, deeply suspicious grins.
"Hey, you," Parker chirps, way too brightly for someone clocking in for a 12-hour shift. âHow was the convention?"
Shen sips from a mug that says â#1 Dadâ even though he doesnât have kids.
You narrow your eyes, glancing between them before you answer. "It was fine. Nothing special." You pause. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Shen shrugs with feigned nonchalance. "We heard you went with Abbot instead of Robby."
ââŚYes?"
âAnd how was that?â Parker leans in, still with that grin on her face, like she knows something.
âIt was fine?â You try to keep your tone even, as if your face isnât growing warmer by the second. Nothing happenedânothing worth blushing over. A knee brush. A laugh aimed at you. A look youâve been trying very hard not to think about. Youâre not blushing because of him. Youâre blushing because theyâre ridiculous.
Before either can answer and interrogate you further, the universe decides to intervene, sending you salvation in the form of Abbot.
"Hey, Trouble." He appears, hands holding onto the stethoscope around his neck. He nods at the other two. "Shen. Ellis."
They both smile wider, like someone just confirmed a conspiracy theory, before disappearing in opposite directions with zero subtlety.
He watches their retreat with narrowed eyes. "What was that?"
"No idea," you shrug. "They're⌠them." Your voice comes out too casual, and you have to fight the urge to look anywhere but directly at him. Smooth.
He hums. "Concerning."
"Deeply," you say. "Rounds?"
"Yes," he replies, heading after you.
The shift explodes after thatâfractures, heart attacks, appendicitis, and even a man blaming his chest pain on a ghost. Abbot moves through the chaos like he was built for it. Quiet instructions, steady hands, and the dry comments only you seem to hear. The transition from day shift to night had been hard, but his calm presence had made it easier than it had any right to be. He trusts your assessments, backs your decisions, glances over at you in that silent is-that-patient-serious way that always pulls a reluctant smile out of you even when you're stressed out.
You donât think about the way he looks at you in the chaos or how that steady attention always finds you first. You donât think about it, because that would make it something.
Something you can't afford to think about.
Hours later, you finally collapse in the break room, unwrap a sandwich, and reach for your phoneâ
âand freeze.
Inbox: 1 unread message â HR Department.
You tap it open.
Mr. and Mrs. Abbot,
Congratulations on your marriage.
Please report to HR after your shift ends.
Your stomach drops straight through the linoleum.
"What?" you whisper.
You reread it. Then reread it again. By the fifth read, thereâs no denying it.
You're fucking married to Abbot.
Or at least HR really, truly, believes you are.
You stand so fast the chair screeches on the floor, your sandwich discarded on the table as you peek out of the break room like you're evading snipers. And given the nosiness of the ER, you practically are.
You catch sight of greying hair and bee-line over to him, murmuring," Can we talk in private?"
His brows knit slightly, attention sharpening the way it does when somethingâs wrong, but he doesnât protest as he follows you. You head for the one place no one lingersâthe utilities closet. He closes the door behind the two of you.
"What's going on?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching your face for answers. He's worried, you realise. And you also suddenly realise youâre standing very, very close, but you don't have time to freak out about that right now.
"Have you seen the email?" you whisper frantically.
âWhat email?â
âThis one!â You thrust your phone at him like itâs radioactive.
He takes it, reading in silence. His features go from neutral, to incredulous, then⌠amused. A tiny, disbelieving huff of laughter escapes him. Then, a muttered, âOh shit.â
Your panic spikes as you take the phone back. "What are we gonna do?" The words tumble out too fast.
Abbot rubs the back of his neckâthinking, calm, maddeningly unbothered compared to your spiralling. âThis isâyeah. This is fucked up,â he admits.
âYou think?â You gesture wildly at your phone, nearly hitting a mop bucket.
He sees the way your shoulders shake, the tremor in your exhale and his hands land on your shouldersâwarm, steadying, confident in a way that pierces straight through your panic. âHey. Breathe. Weâll figure it out.â His head moves until he catches your eye.
You blink up at him. His voice is low, steady, and grounding. âMeet me after shift in the cafeteria. Weâll talk everything through, okay?â His thumbs rub slow, calming circles before he seems to realise it and stopsâbut the warmth lingers anyway.
You force a breath in. Then another. Heâs not panicking. Heâs not angry. Somehow, that makes your heartbeat slow. You'll figure it out. âOkay.â
For a moment, the two of you just⌠stare. Too close. Too quiet. Too something you refuse to name.
Thenâ
The door swings open. You and Abbot jump apart like teenagers caught making out.
âOhâsorry,â Bridget, a nice enough nurse when she doesn't possess the worst timing in the world, says. She pauses in the doorway with a crate of disinfectant, her eyebrows climbing practically to her hairline. âDidnât know this closet was⌠occupied.â
Abbot clears his throat. âWe were just leaving.â
âYou were justâyeah. Sure.â
Abbot breezes past her. You follow, cheeks burning. Bridget watches the two of you go, holding a bottle of disinfectant like she'd just been handed the juicest gossip ever. And knowing the ER, it won't take long for this to spread.
Wonderful.
The second you and Abbot walk out of the utility closet and disappear into separate exam roomsâyour faces slightly scrunched, steps a little too fastâBridget doesn't even pretend to be subtle. She sets the disinfectant on the counter with a dramatic thunk. Across the hub, Lena and Shen glance up. Parker freezes mid-step with a glove halfway on. Bridget stares at them, then points directly at the closed closet door.
âOkay,â she says loudly, âsomeone explain to me why they were in there alone.â
Parker perks up instantly. âWaitâtogether?â
Lena swivels her chair. âDoctors donât go into that closet unless something is either on fire or⌠spicy.â
Shen taps his finger against his chin. âWhat closet? The one with the mops or the scary mannequin?â
âThe mop one,â Bridget says.
âOh yeah,â Lena nods. âThatâs definitely the kissing closet.â
Parkerâs eyes go wide at the implication. âThey werenâtâwere they kissing?â
âI didnât see kissing.â Bridget shrugs. âBut I saw distance-adjustment.â
Shen raises an eyebrow. âDistance-adjustment?â
Bridget mimics two people jumping apart. âThe âwe were standing too close for coworkersâ shuffle. Pretty sure his hands were on her shoulders.â
Shen whistles. âHot.â
Lena starts tapping a pen against her clipboard, brain already spiralling.
âOkay, but listenâshe went to the convention with him, right?â
âYep,â Parker says. âAnd they also came in at the same time, earlier. Like five seconds apart.â
Bridget leans forward, lowering her voice. âGuys. Iâm changing my bet. They hooked up this weekend.â
Parker frowns, âNo way. Theyâre pining. Too afraid to make the first move.â
Shen disagrees, "They have definitely been together for months.â
Lena glances down the hall and nudges Shen. âLook.â You and Abbot reappear, keeping a careful foot of space between you. A very suspicious foot. She murmurs, âYep. Thatâs a couple trying too hard not to be a couple.â
And as Abbot hands you a chart, Parker whispers, âOkay. I agree. That is absolutely two people trying not to touch each other. Iâm changing my bet.â
Shen snorts.
The cafeteria hums with the low, constant drone of a hospital that never sleeps. Families huddle over styrofoam containers. Interns speed-walk toward the coffee machines. And you sit in the far corner, fingers wrapped around your tea like it's a lifeline. Still keeping up with your attempt to lessen your caffeine intake after shift. Admirable, stupid, and mostly painful. Coming off a 12-hour shift and having to wait for HR to open is not ideal on a criminally low amount of caffeine. But if you want to make something a habit, you have to keep at it even in times of crisis. Yawn. Blink. Regret your life choices.
Across from you sits a cup of coffee for Abbotâblack, bitter, and demonically strong. You donât know how he drinks it, but you know he does. You know too much about him, more than a resident whoâs only been on his shift for months should. The way his lips press together when he's worried, how his âbreaksâ are just quick bites, the way he leans against counters when heâs thinking, his dry humour that matches yours. Dangerous knowledge. But knowing things doesnât mean wanting things. You keep repeating that like repetition will make it true.
Ten minutes have passed since you got off. Ten minutes of spiralling. Ten minutes of re-opening the PDF, zooming in, checking signatures, timestamps and metadata. The verdict is the same every time.
You're legally married.
To Jack Abbot. Your attending. Your walking, talking career complication.
And the more you stare at the email, the more your stomach twistsâbecause what if he hates you for what you're about to tell him?
Just as your pulse spikes again, the chair across scrapes softly against the floor.
"Trouble," Abbot greets as he slides into the seat, and you push the cup toward him with a stiff hand.
He takes a sip and groans softly, because apparently he likes drinking melted asphalt, and then the two of you sit in heavy silence. Letting the reality of the situation ooze between you like a spill no one wants to clean up. Decompressing after a long night that suddenly got much longer. His shoulders slump; yours tense. You can almost feel the air thickening around the word married.
"SoâŚ" he says after a moment, leaning back, brow furrowed. "It's obviously a mistake. We just tell HR the tablet glitched and get it annulled."
You inhale shakily. "âŚWe can't."
He freezes, coffee halfway to his lips. His eyes lift to yours, searching. Concerned. Guilt punches your sternum.
You hate that you're the one who has to tell him this. Hate that he even has to sit here and discuss it because of you, rather than just emailing HR that it was a mistake.
Your hands tremble as you slide the phone across the table. "They already filed everything," you say quietly. "Likeâeverything."
He scrolls. You watch every microexpression as he processes:
Marital status updated
Insurance merged
Spousal beneficiary auto-linked
Emergency contact changed
COI review pending
His brow furrows. "You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters.
"I wish," you whisper. You feel a sick twist in your gut. "If we claim it was an accident, HR launches a full conflict-of-interest investigation and checks your evaluations for bias. They might even freeze my GME file until it's resolved, which would delay my residency. Plus, payroll already processed it; undoing it triggers an automatic audit alert."
Abbot's jaw locks. You've never seen him look so⌠furious? The flicker of anger makes your stomach dropâuntil you realise it's not at you. Is it for you?
He blinks. Absorbing. Calculating. The silence between you tightens like a noose.
So you continue, "I-I can't go through thatâI'm three months from finishing. I'll lose my offer, my attending start date, all of it." You rub your eyes hard. "This was supposed to be the boring part of residency, not⌠this. I'm so sorry, I never wanted to drag you into this, make it your problemâ" You breathe hard through your nose, trying to stop your word vomiting.
Abbot sets your phone down carefully, like it's explosive, but his eyes lift to yours immediately, steady as always. "This isn't your fault."
You don't respond.
Maybe not initially. But now? It's your career on the line, not his.
He straightens slightly, "Okay. Then⌠we pretend."
Your breath catches. "Pretend?"
He nods, calm. "For a few months. We stay married on paper until the system's cycle and the COI flag clears. We avoid audits, ethics reviews, GME interference, and get through evaluations. Then, once it's safe⌠we quietly file for divorce."
You blink at him. He's so⌠steady about it, and you can't help but notice his use of we. So unflinchingly willing to do this when it's just for you and not him.
"But won't people notice?" you ask, because you can't ask the thing that's clawing at your ribs. Why are you doing this for me?
"Nobody has to know," he says. "We're not doing this to fool the ERâwe're doing it to avoid blowing up your entire career."
Oh. It makes sense now. He's only doing this because no one besides HR has to know.
Your throat tightens anyway.
Abbot's voice softens. "Trouble⌠I'm not letting you lose your future over a tablet glitch. Not when you've decided to stay in the ERâwho knows, maybe Iâll finally get a night off for a change."
His bad attempt at humour still manages to make your lips twitch. "You own a police scanner and come in when no one's called you."
"Still," he shrugs, and there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes that he's managed to pull you out of your panic.
You search his face for any dishonesty. Any hint that he isn't just saying it to be kind. But there's none. He's actually willing to do this for you. Not reluctantly. Not with resentment. Just pure commitment.
"âŚOkay," you decide. "We pretend." You nod like this is easy. Like pretending hasnât already been your speciality where heâs concerned.
Abbot gives you a tiny, unexpected smile that hits harder than the caffeine withdrawal. "Partners in crime," he murmurs, lifting his coffee in a toast.
"Don't call it a crime," you whisper back, clinking your tea against it. "It's already bad enough."
He smirks. "Right. Partners in bureaucratic survival." He sets his coffee down, rubs a hand over his face, and exhales. "We need rules. If we're doing this, it has to be airtight."
You straighten a little, palms clammy around your cup. "Right."
âAlright,â he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. âRule one: No one finds out. HR only."
"Not even Robby?"
He hesitates. "Not even Robby."
You take a breath, thinking. âOkay. Then rule two⌠We keep acting normal at work. Like nothingâs changed.â
Abbot nods. âGood. Professional boundaries stay the same. Iâm your attending, youâre my resident. That doesnât change.â He says it firmly, but thereâs the faintest flicker at the end. Like the words donât sit entirely flat in his mouth.
"Rule three," you say before you can think too hard about it. âWe have to sync our stories. HR is going to ask questions. They always do with COI cases.â
He groans quietly, rubbing his forehead. âTheyâre going to ask when we got together.â
âAnd how long weâve been together.â
âAnd why we didnât tell anyone sooner.â
âAnd who proposed,â you say grimly.
He looks up at you. âWho did propose?â
You blink. âIâ⌠I donât know.â
âWell,â he says pragmatically, âyouâre the one who panicked and dragged me into a utility closet today, so I'm voting for you.â
âHey!â
He laughs, warm and tired and annoyingly charming. You throw a napkin at him.
âOkay, okay.âHe swats it away, still smiling. âWeâll decide later. For nowârule four: We coordinate finances.â
Your stomach drops. âFinances?â
âHR merged our tax profile,â he reminds you. âJoint filing, spousal insurance, beneficiary assignmentâwe canât contradict any of that.â
âOh my god,â you whisper. âWeâre going to have to list each other on our W-2s.â This suddenly feels a little too real. And then it hits youâthis could have been Robby. You trust Robby, sure, but with Abbot it feels different. Somehow steadier, safer, like you know you can lean on him even without knowing him that well. Like you know, he won't let you fall.
âI know.â He sips his coffee grimly. âTill death or divorce do us part⌠or tax season ends.â
You groan into your hands, hating how you could find that funny when the world is crumbling around you.
âRule five,â he continues gently, âIf HR asks for proof of relationship, we provide minimal, consistent details. Nothing elaborate.â
You peek at him between your fingers. âLike what?â
He shrugs. âSomething simple. Something believable.â A beat. âCoffee. We bonded over coffee.â
You stare. ââŚYou hate the way I make coffee.â
âI do,â he agrees. âBut HR likes cute stories.â
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. It softens the edges of the dread. âOkay,â you say, voice steadier. âRule six: We keep it temporary. Until the system resets, GME does the next cycle, HR stops monitoring the paperwork, and I'm an attending."
âAnd then we file for divorce,â Abbot finishes gently. âClean. Quiet. No fallout.â
You nod. You nod even though something inside you folds sharply at the idea. But you ignore it. Push it down. Let it sink beneath the surface like a stone.
He leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. âOkay,â he says. âThen we have a plan. We stick to the rules, no matter what. We get through this.â
You try to exhale all the tension out. âYeah,â you say. âWe get through this.â
He nods, slow and sure, then glances at the clock. âWe should head up. Don't want to make HR wait.â
âRight.â You stand, gathering your cup, your nerves fraying at every edge. You're about to go lie to HR, no big deal⌠At least you have Abbot with you. âThanks, Abboââ
He steps in closer, just a fraction. A quiet correction, warm but firm, âJack.â
Your breath stutters. âIâwhat?"
"Call me Jack," he repeats.
"I-Iâm not⌠No one but Robby calls you that.â
"You're my wife now," he says, voice low enough that only you can hear it, his eyes trained on your face. He'd aimed for humour, but it got caught on something on its way out. He clears his throat, then says softer, "Try it."
It shouldnât matter. Itâs just a name. It shouldnât feel like stepping over a line youâve been avoiding for months. You look up at him, throat suddenly too tight. He waitsâpatient, steady, infuriatingly gentle. He'd just called you his wife, and now he wants you to break the one rule you set up to protect yourself.
"âŚJack," you say, barely above a whisper.
Something flickers across his expressionâsubtle, sharp, gone too fast to name. But itâs there. A glimmer. A shift. A ripple you donât have the training to diagnose.
He exhales once, slowly. âThere you go.â And then he steps back, like the moment didnât just tilt the whole damn room.
You follow, pulse hammering, the name still warm on your tongue. He told you to call him Jack. And you did. But in your head, he stays Abbot.
Itâs easier to pretend youâre not falling for someone if you never let their first name touch you. And youâre still pretending. You have to.
The HR office feels colder than the rest of the hospital. It's all laminate wood, beige walls, and fluorescent lights buzzing like a warning.
You and Abbot sit in two hard-backed chairs across from the desk, trying to look normal. Like married people. Like two people who got married without disclosing a prior relationshipâand are only worried about that part, not about a lie that could destroy careers. You glance at him; he meets your eyes with a half-smile. Itâs quiet, but it tells you heâs got thisâand you can handle it too.
Gina, the HR representative assigned to your case, doesn't bother smiling. She folds her hands, gaze sharp and posture rigid. She nods at Abbot. "Doctor Abbot." She turns to you. "Doctor Y/L/Nâor should I update the records to say Abbot, too?"
Your eyes widen in panic, but you manage to hide it by blinking hard. "No. I-uh⌠I've decided to keep my last name." You hesitate, not sure if that was the right answer to quell suspicions. "For now. At least."
You catch Abbot's mouth twitching at the corner of your eyeâheâs trying not to laugh at you. You nudge your shoulder against his, a small, quiet retaliation, "Though this one has been trying to change my mind. Right, Jack?" You keep your smile easy, like this is harmless teasing and not the kind of joke that makes something traitorous flicker low in your chest.
He meets your gaze steadily, completely unshaken, and lets a small nod escape. "Right." His attention shifts to Gina with the same calm assurance he gives patients: deliberate, measured, in control.
Gina doesn't smile back. She nods once, precisely, then opens a binder. "Let's start with the obvious: this is an unusual situation."
"We're aware," you say softly, stomach twisting.
"Yes," she replies, tone dry. "I imagine you are." She taps the printed marriage licenseâyour marriage licenseâas it inconveniences her personally. "Now, first issue: neither of you disclosed your relationship."
Because there is no relationship. Never was. But Gina can't know that. You and Abbot exchange a quick glance.
"Right," he says. "About thatâ"
She lifts a hand to cut him off. "Hospital policy requires disclosure within thirty days of a romantic relationship. You've been working together closely for months. And you submitted a marriage certificate with no prior notification."
You swallow. "We're⌠private about our personal lives." It sounds every bit the bad excuse it is. There's no hiding it.
Gina's eyebrows rise with disbelief so loud she doesn't need to verbalise it. "Many couples are private," she counters. "But they still comply with policy. You two did not. This puts the hospital at risk for conflicts of interest, claims of favouritism, liability issuesâneed I continue?"
God, she's scary.
You shake your head. "No, ma'am."
âGood.â She triesâtriesâto soften her tone, but the attempt dies somewhere between her diaphragm and her clipboard. "And lookâI'm not accusing you of bad intent. But from our perspective? This looks rushed. It looks concealed. And it looks like you were avoiding filing the proper paperwork until you couldn't avoid it any longer."
Your throat feels too tight. Your pulse is too loud. Abbot glances toward you, a subtle shift in posture as if positioning himself between you and whatever fallout could come next.
Gina shuffles some forms, her expression unflinching. âThat leads to the second issue: as of now, we have no filed documentation indicating the nature of your relationship prior to⌠this.â She gestures at the marriage license. âThatâs a serious omission.â
Can she see how heavily you're breathing? Does she know you're lying?
You force your voice steady. âWhat happens now?â
âWell,â Gina says, leaning back. âWe will need full documentation for our COI review. Including a timeline of when your relationship began.â
Your lungs stop working. Maybe if you're lucky, Abbot has a breathing tube in his bag.
She continues, unimpressed, âAnd before you ask: yes, the timeline matters." She looks through her files. "Doctor Abbot oversees the night shift,â she says, glancing at him, âbut Doctor Robinavitch was your supervising attending physician on day shift, correct?â
You nod. âCorrect.â
âAs long as Doctor Abbot was not your direct supervisory attending physician at the time your relationship began, we shouldnât have a problem. But moving forward, Doctor Abbot cannot supervise you. Evaluations or sign-offs on procedures must be from another attending."
Okay, well, that sucks. But you can live with it. And if you place the 'relationship' as beginning before you moved to night shift, you might actually get away with this unscathed.
âAnd where,â Gina continues, âare you two currently living? I assume together?â
You jolt slightly, not expecting that question to come. Which, when you think about it, is silly. Of course, she was going to ask.
Abbot answers just a beat too fast, "We're⌠coordinating that."
Her eyes narrow. "Meaning you're not living together yet."
You swallow. "We've been⌠in the process."
âThat should have been disclosed as well.â Her tone sharpens. âMarried couples typically have a shared address. Without one, this becomes even more irregular on paper.â
Abbot shifts. âWeâll update the file once we finalise it.â
Gina writes something down. You canât tell if itâs good or bad. âVery well. Next steps: Youâll submit a written statement of your relationship history and a joint address once the decision is made. The COI committee will review everything and determine if adjustments to scheduling are required. They might also review previous cases to ensure there has been no bias.â
Your stomach sinks. Reassignment? You've just gotten used to night shift and the people there.
"And, Doctor Y/L/N," she adds pointedly, looking at you, "as a resident nearing completion, this type of oversight can reflect poorly if not handled properly."
You go cold. Abbot visibly bristlesâto you at least. There's a flare of his nostrils, a tightening of his fist. It's just an attending caring for his resident, you tell yourselfâa normal reaction from a colleague to a threat wrapped in a warning.
He keeps his voice even. "We'll submit everything promptly."
Gina nods. "See that you do. You're dismissed."
You both stand a little too fast, a little too stiff. As you leave her office and enter the hallway, Abbot mutters under his breath,"âŚWell. That could've gone worse."
You raise your eyebrows, staring at him in disbelief. "How? She basically said 'Nice marriage, file your paperwork, or we'll ruin your lives."
Abbot grimaces. "Yeah, okay. Fair."
"We need a plan. A real plan. Fast."
He nods. "Then first thing after we sleep, we sit down and draft a timeline. Come over to mine before shift starts. I'll text you the address."
Your stomach flips. Annoying. Predictable. Impossible to ignore. And absolutely not romantic. Nope. Just adrenaline and stress and⌠something else you refuse to name.
He looks serious. Committed. Your partner in this insanity. You're still not sure why he has agreed when it isn't his ass on the firing line, but you guess that is him in a nutshell. Behind that mask of dry comments and steady hands, he's too caring, too considerate, too⌠him.
"Okay," you breathe. You begin walking towards the exit together. "I can't believe you told her we're moving in together."
"At least I wasn't sitting there like a popsicle."
You glare at him. "I wasn't frozen. I just wasn't expecting that question."
"Maybe she'll forget it," he continues, but by the look he gives you, he's aware that it isn't likely.
Still, you answer, "Maybe."
You stop outside the doors. "Hey," he says. "We'll get through this." His eyes find yours, hazel glinting even more green in the daylight. "Together."
Your heartbeat stutters. You want to make a joke, lighten the mood, but are at a loss for words. So all that comes out is, "âŚYeah. Together."
You don't tell him that's the part that scares you the most.
Next part
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