Just keep it clean and don't call me honey.

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. Hadn’t expected it to feel like something essential had been pulled out of him—like his body didn’t 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 do—something 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, he’d go. And as long as you were here—even in another room—he wouldn’t.

He'll reach for it when you're gone. Not a second before.

You've left for the guest room half an hour ago—your room now—after getting ready for bed. He'd convinced you to keep your things in his bathroom, arguing that it made more sense than to move them—a 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 left—that you're still in the bathroom.

But this time the familiar scent is not there. He'd turned the pillow around, rather desperately, hoping—praying—to 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 sleep—it'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 in—begging stay with me, stay with me—but 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 out—

His eyes snap open to another nightmare—one 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 would—he 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 move—couldn't if he wanted to—so 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 it—the 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, stuttering—but you keep at it.

He knows it’s 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 warm—real.

"Hey," you whisper, giving him a small smile.

"Hi," he says back.

You don't say more. You don’t ask anything. You don’t push. You just look at him, something soft in your expression, and then—

you pull your hand away.

The loss is immediate. He swallows, disappointment filling his aching chest. Of course. He should've known you wouldn’t stay. You just came to make sure he was okay. That’s what good people do. People like you.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known not to expect more. Men like him don’t get to have things like this. Not with everything he carries. Not with everything he’s failed to carry. Not with—

The mattress dips beside him. You don’t 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 doesn’t 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 you’ll 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 floor—he 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 u—" 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 like—" 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.

"Hey—the 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 trap—that 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 you—yawning 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 nice—it's what you tried to convince yourself at first—but deep inside, you know it's really about not sleeping with Jack. It’s unsettling how quickly your body has gotten used to it—how 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 in—come to the 'dark side' or whatever you call it—" she grins, "and then you're too tired to even notice."

"No, ugh—I'm the worst," you groan. "I'm so happy you're here. You're one of the few nurses I've managed to convince."

"Don’t you mean the only one?" Lily tilts her head, red ponytail slipping over her shoulder as her eyes narrow playfully. There’s 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.

Lily’s been here as long as you have—long enough that you can’t quite remember any shifts without her. She’s 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, she’s the one who brightens it.

And somehow—miraculously—she’s 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."

"I’ve just slept like shit the last few days," you admit, shrugging one shoulder.

"Uh-huh," someone mutters in passing. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Parker, but you do anyway. She’s halfway past the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, already moving like she’s got somewhere better to be.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you call after her, because you absolutely cannot let it go—even though experience tells you that’s 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. "That’s just funny."

You sigh, regretting this conversation even more. "Why?"

"So has Abbot."

"So what?"

Parker’s mouth curves, just barely. "It’s just funny that two newlyweds both show up to work tired." There’s just enough pause after it for the implication to settle.

"Oh my—" Lily’s 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 Parker’s already turned back to Lily, completely ignoring your protest. "I’ve got twenty on it happening this year," she says, like she’s placing a perfectly reasonable bet. "You in?"

"Oh, I’m absolutely in," Lily replies instantly, all delight and zero hesitation. "Thirty on it happening in three months—and them pretending it didn’t until it’s too obvious to hide."

"Guys," you groan, dragging both hands down your face this time. "Guys, please—"

They’re already walking away, laughing like this is the best thing that’s happened all shift.

You stare after them, equal parts horrified and exhausted. "…I hate both of you," you mutter, even though they’re long gone.

But you know the night shift's noticed. The way you lean in more, flirt a little easier—just trying to take Olivia’s advice, even if you’re doing it far more subtly than she'd like you to.

Still, you didn’t 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, you’re using it to catch up on your charts.

You’re 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.

"I’m 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 hall—and just in time to see Smith slip through the doors of one of the rooms. "Don't tell me it's—"

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 hasn’t crossed a line yet, but she’s right on the edge."

Jack’s 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. Shen’s head snaps toward Jack, eyes wide, then flicks to you like he’s suddenly very aware he’s in the blast radius of something.

You turn fully in your chair, staring up at Jack. "She hit on you?"

Jack blinks, like he hadn’t quite anticipated the reaction. "Yes."

"When?"

"When you were—" he gestures vaguely toward your midsection, searching for the least awkward phrasing, "…I turned her down."

Your brows knit tighter. "Why didn’t 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 19—I 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. "I’m sorry. I didn’t 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 should’ve told you. I’m sorry." He pauses, then asks, "Are you mad?"

You look up at him then—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s 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.

"I’m mad at her," you continue, turning back toward your screen, though you’re not really reading it anymore.

Jack shifts beside you, thinking. "I’m going to write her up."

You glance at him again, surprised. "You are?"

"That’s two attendings now," he says evenly. "And there’s also the shit she pulled with you." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Hopefully it’s a reality check."

"And if it’s not?" you ask.

A hint of something dry creeps back into his expression. "Then I’ll have her moved back to days."

You raise a brow.

"Make her Robby’s problem," he finishes.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, cutting through the lingering irritation. "Wow. Harsh."

"He’ll survive," Jack says lightly, completely unapologetic.

You study him for a moment, something softer settling in your chest now. "…Thanks," you say.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, pushing off the counter slightly. "It’s my job as your attending to take care of you."

He says it lightly. It doesn’t feel light. Doesn't quite match the way he’s looking at you.

"Hey," you say, catching Parker just as she’s finishing up, the early signs of shift change rippling through the department. "Wanna go out soon?"

Her head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical. "Uh, yes?" she says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask."

A small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. "Good."

You mean it more than she realises. You need it—something loud, something distracting, something that isn’t 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.

It’s not about Jack. Not really. You trust him. It’s the audacity of it that gets under your skin. The fact that she knew. That she looked at him, at the ring, at you—and 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 sight—and your stomach sinks.

Smith.

She’s 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."

There’s 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.

"Uh—let’s invite day shift too," you add quickly, already stepping back, reaching for a pen you don’t 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, "I’ll tell Lily what’s 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. "Jack’s 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 work—sleeves 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 there’s anything," Jack says to you, like he hasn’t already said it twice. He'd offered the house for you guys to get ready together, something the other girls had squealed at—more 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."

"It’s a ten-minute walk," you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms. "I’m not wasting my money on that."

Jack exhales, slow and long, like he saw that coming. "Hand me your phone."

You don’t 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. "Jack—"

"Relax," he says, not even looking up. "I’m not reading your messages."

"Wow, thank you for that bare minimum reassurance."

He huffs a quiet laugh, then hands the phone back. "My card’s on there. Take an Uber."

You glance at the screen, then back at him, sighing. "…Alright."

He studies you for a second, like he’s 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. "I’ll see you later, honey."

The door clicks shut behind him, and there is exactly one second of silence. Then—

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 you’re 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. "Also—wow."

She steps fully into the living room, turning slowly like she’s 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. "I’m just gonna—"

"Trin—" 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 there’s no real heat behind it.

"Wait, is this your room?" Trinity asks.

"No," you say quickly. "Trinity—"

"I’m 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 she’s still not entirely sure she’s allowed to take up space there—but she’s trying. There’s 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 she’s easing into the rhythm of it. You're not sure how Trinity managed to convince her to come out with you—but 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, Trinity’s voice echoes from down the hall, "Oh my god, your closet is so organised, it’s actually stressful."

"Don’t touch anything!" you call back.

"I’m not touching—I’m just looking!"

"Same thing!"

Lily appears beside you again, still grinning. "No, really, you guys are so cute," she says, nudging your arm. "I’ve seen you two at shift change, but never like that."

"Like what?" you ask, taking a sip.

"Domestic," she says immediately. "It’s weird. In a good way. But also—" she scrunches her nose, "—barf."

"They’re 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.

"Oh—wait," Lily suddenly says, her whole expression shifting as something clicks. She turns to you, eyes wide. "I’m so sorry about inviting Smith, I didn’t know—"

"It’s fine," you cut in easily, waving a hand like it’s nothing. And you mean it. She couldn't have known. "Seriously. Don’t worry about it."

Parker snorts, not even looking up as she pours another drink. "Yeah, we’ll just make sure she sees exactly who she’s 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.

Olivia’s words echo in your mind: Flirt more. Try harder. See what happens. You have… kind of. But nothing bold. Nothing risky.

Tonight? Tonight you’re going to push it. And if it blows up—there’s 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 everyone’s drinks whether they ask or not. Mel lingers just at the edge of everything, but she’s 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. "Who—who, 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. "I’m doing her hair next," she declares.

You finish Mel’s eyeliner, leaning back to assess your work. "Okay. Now don’t 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?"

"You’re so picky," you mutter.

"Sit," she orders, pointing at the spot she just left.

You roll your eyes—but 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 you—and the look she gives you makes it very clear this is not a discussion. "Abbot will have a heart attack."

You raise a brow—but you’re already reaching for it. You don’t bother turning away as you change. Parker doesn’t 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 what’s 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. "Let’s do shots before we leave."

Parker grins, already pushing off the bed. "Now you’re 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 don’t 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 bartender—but it all blurs a little as you step closer to him.

"Hi," you say. You don’t overthink it—you 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 instantly—a 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 look…" he starts, then pauses, swallowing once. "You look gorgeous."

There’s something in the way he says it—something 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.

"Wait—no—" Lily protests, laughing as she’s dragged away anyway.

Parker doesn’t even hesitate. "We’re going," she says, pointing at you and Mel like there’s no alternative.

Mel hesitates, clearly unsure. "I don’t—"

"You do now," Parker calls, already moving. Mel looks at you like she’s 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. "That’s a shame," you murmur. Your gaze flicks up to his. "I think you’d 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 might’ve said more—leaned in just a little further, pushed it one step further past safe—

—but Parker’s hand closes around your arm, pulling you with her before you can. And just like that, you’re gone into the crowd—though 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 element—hands in the air, singing along to every word, whether she knows them or not. Parker’s matching her energy, spinning Lily into her until they’re 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 enough—the music, the drinks, the way the night feels like it’s 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 that—songs 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, you’ve got a cold glass in your hand. You take a long sip, closing your eyes for just a second.

God, that’s better.

You’re just starting to settle, letting the room sway lightly around you, when a voice cuts in beside you. "Hey—"

You don’t 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 you’re not interested.

He doesn’t take the hint. "I’m Trent," he goes on, shifting closer like that alone will make this work. "You’ve got some moves, but I think we could make some great moves together—if you know what I mean."

You let out a soft, unimpressed breath. "I’m 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 doesn’t 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 that’s supposed to help. "Your husband can’t please you like I—"

"You sure about that?" Jack’s voice cuts through like a blade. You feel him before you see him—solid 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 he’s all sharp lines and tension—shoulders 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 second—ego flaring—but then he really looks at Jack. At the way he’s standing. The way his gaze doesn’t waver. The kind of anger that doesn’t need volume to be threatening. It drains out of him just as fast. "Yeah—yeah, man, whatever," he mutters, backing off, hands half-raised like he wants no part of it anymore. He disappears into the crowd.

Jack doesn’t move until he’s gone. "Asshole," he murmurs, then he turns to you. His hands land on your hips, spinning your chair so you’re facing him fully. "You okay?" he asks. His voice is still low—but 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 he’s making sure you’re actually fine. Your breath stutters just slightly as heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you can’t fully control. You feel it everywhere—warm, electric, pooling low, your pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.

You’re 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 moment’s notice. Your eyes betray you—you 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 doesn’t 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 you’re doing. Shen’s already there, lining up a shot with calm precision, like the chaos of the bar doesn’t touch him at all.

"You play?" he asks without looking up.

"Define play," you reply, grabbing a cue from the rack. Truthfully, you don’t care about the game—not 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." Jack’s 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 don’t 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 it’s your turn, deliberately setting up another questionable shot. There’s a small pause, then—

"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 else—his 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. "You’re 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 fades—the 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. He’s already looking at you. There’s something hotter there now. Something that matches exactly what’s been burning under your skin all night.

It hits you all at once, sharp and unmistakable. Oh.

This isn’t one-sided. This isn’t you imagining things or pushing boundaries just to see what happens.

He’s… 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 you—and every time he steps in again, a little closer, a little bolder—it has nothing to do with pool anymore.

It actually feels possible now—and that changes everything.

Shen’s 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.

"I’m 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 you’re in the bathroom, door locked behind you, you exhale hard—then immediately press a hand to your mouth, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out anyway.

"Okay—okay," you whisper to yourself, pacing once in the tiny stall. Your head is light—spinning, 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.

You’re 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 don’t really see how they fit," Smith continues, giggling softly. "I mean, I’ve 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, you’re already walking. You don’t 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 isn’t a quick, calculated peck. It’s not something you can pass off or laugh away.

It’s immediate—sharp and demanding. Your lips press to his with a purpose you can’t 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 there’s only this. Only the two of you, lost in the heat and closeness that’s been simmering all night. The alcohol doesn’t dull it—it 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 doesn’t 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 his— he’s looking at you. Focused. Pupils blown.

His gaze drops to your mouth, like he’s replaying it, then back to your eyes.

"Yeah?" he says quietly, but he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t 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. There’s 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 it—the look he gives you—doesn’t suggest he buys it. Not entirely. He looks at you like he's considering doing it again.

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 shift—that 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 bad—but 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've—Fuck!" 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 better—" The fitted corner flies free.

"Hey—hey, 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 disgusting—I'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. "No—"

"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'm—"

Jack points at you immediately with the fork he’s holding. "Don’t say it."

You blink, brows furrowing.

He continues, "You have nothing to be sorry about."

Your mouth opens, anyway. "I—"

"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 be—it'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 don’t 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. "What’s in the other one?"

Jack picks it up, turning it over in his hands. "No idea. That one’s 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."

Jack’s 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 not—" 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… Olivia’s coming to town, and I told her she could stay here, but then I realised we don’t actually have a guest bed—" You lift the metal leg slightly, as if it explains everything. "—which 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 it’s weird, I can tell her to get a hotel. That's totally fine. I just— 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. "I’m 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. "You’ll 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 this—that 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 around—until 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. You’re both laughing at something on your phone—shoulders 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 you’re open like a book, Olivia feels… sharper.

Jack prides himself on reading people. It’s part of the job. Years in the ER teach you to catch the smallest cues—tension in a jaw, the shift of someone’s breathing, the flicker of pain someone’s trying to hide.

With you, it’s second nature. With Olivia? He’s getting nothing. Or worse, he's getting the uncomfortable sense that she’s 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 habit—just 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 they’ve already figured something out. The moment he notices, she smiles like nothing's happened and turns back to you.

Dinner passes quickly—just 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.

"It’s a noble thing you’re 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 would’ve 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. "That’s it?"

"That’s it."

She hums softly, like she’s 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 doesn’t get into trouble. Or something worse."

Olivia grins, her smile is warm now—more playful than investigative. "I’ve known her since middle school. It can’t get worse than when she once microwaved ramen without water."

Jack’s 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. "You’re 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 wouldn’t 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." Olivia’s 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 you’re hiding."

Jack stiffens.

She straightens again, smiling brightly. "But don’t worry," she adds lightly. "I’m fun, not cruel. I'll keep it to myself." She glances into his eyes, shrugging. "…For 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 she’s smiling at you like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t 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.

"So…" 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 this—" 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. "…Low blow."

"Effective, though."

"…Fine. 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 familiar—checking in, making sure you’re 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 house—he'd offered himself—wine 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'—that 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… uh—what's his name—Matt? Miles?"

"Martin," she supplies. "And he seemed normal!"

"You told me he brought his mother to the restaurant."

She sits up straight. "I didn’t 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. "There’s nothing to say. Nothing's happened."

Olivia slowly lowers her wine glass. "…Girl."

You groan. "No, seriously," you say, shaking your head. "He doesn’t see me like that."

"Girl."

"I’m 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 can’t count how many times I caught him staring at you these last few days."

You blink. "What?"

"Kitchen, hallway, living room—it doesn't matter where. There was also that time when you were taking off your sweatshirt and he just—" she mimics someone freezing mid-motion "—completely 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. "He’s 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, you’re reading into it."

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

"You two are more married than half the couples I work with," she states.

You snort, "Please."

"I’m serious." Olivia scoots closer across the couch, grabbing your hand. Her voice softens just slightly, "I’m 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 isn’t?" you say quietly. The room feels a little smaller, walls closing in. "What if I’m just… seeing things because I want to?"

Olivia doesn’t interrupt this time.

"What if I’m just setting myself up for heartbreak?" you add.

She studies you for a moment, then she tilts her head. "Aren’t you already doing that?"

"…What?"

"You’re 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, you’re 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 don’t 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 can’t hurt," she adds with a small shrug.

Your stomach flips. "…Yeah," you murmur. "Maybe not."

You’re 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 it’s 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 doesn’t take things too seriously and will laugh at my dark humour.

You shrug. "That’s not that bad."

She scrolls down. "His first prompt answer is ‘my most controversial opinion: women shouldn’t vote.’"

You nearly choke on your wine. "Oh my god. I take it back."

"I’m 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 not—not truly. "Well, at least you’re getting anecdotes out of it."

Olivia sighs dramatically and reaches for her purse on the coffee table, rummaging through it for her lip balm. "Oh—wait."

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. "It’s 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."

Olivia’s 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."

Jack’s 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. You’re mid-giggle at something Olivia said, your head thrown back, and Jack can’t 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 doesn’t. 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 don’t 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 evening—how 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; he’s 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 trials—hell, after being doomed to stay in this marriage.

Your giggles eventually die down, and Olivia yawns loudly. "I’m 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 it’s fine—he’s fine.

He always knew this part wouldn’t 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. "Okay…" you say quietly, voice small. "…Olivia won’t let me in."

Jack can’t 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. He’s 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 can’t 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 you’re still right behind him. Eventually, you press your fingers lightly against the back of his shirt so he’ll 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.

She’s decked out head to toe in baseball gear—team cap, oversized jersey, even eye black smudged under her eyes. She has absolutely no idea what’s going on, but she's more than happy to play the part.

You, on the other hand, are wearing one of Jack’s old baseball shirts. It’s 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 little—

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 doesn’t have to shout over the crowd. "Okay," he says quietly. "So basically—" He gestures toward the field. "That guy’s the starting pitcher. If he does well tonight, it probably decides the series."

You nod like you understand. "What’s 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 they’re excited to share something they love with someone they lo—

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. "I’m gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Jack straightens beside you immediately. "I’ll 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 don’t 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 Jack’s hand briefly finds the small of your back, guiding you out of the way.

"How much money do you think it’d cost to bat once?" you ask as you walk.

"More than it’s worth," Jack says, falling into step beside you. "You actually have to hit the ball."

You lean toward him, nudging his shoulder. "Hey! You don’t know if I’m good."

He just levels you with a look, brow raised, "I had to explain the rules. That’s enough to know you’ll 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 what’s happening in that game."

Jack grins. "I figured." A group of fans pushes past, and he shifts slightly closer again so they don’t 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 doesn’t 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. "I’m 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. "It’s not easy."

Olivia glances sideways at him. "Tell me about it."

"We’re in the same boat then," Robby says. "You’d think two supposedly intelligent adults could figure this out."

Olivia gestures dramatically toward the empty seats beside them. "It’s 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.

Olivia’s expression resets instantly. "Oh!" She waves a hand vaguely. "Robby was just telling me a work story."

Robby nods immediately, jumping in. "Yeah—uh, 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. "Oh—yikes."

"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 after—you'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 cam’s 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?"

Olivia’s grin is audible in her voice. "Just so you’re prepared."

You snort quietly. "There are thousands of people here. We’re 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 first—grey-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 girl’s cheek, and she hides her face while the crowd awws.

You’re smiling as you watch. The camera keeps moving and suddenly—it stops.

Your face appears on the massive screen. Right next to Jack’s. For a full second, you just stare. Your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing. The stadium erupts in cheers, egging you on.

"Oh my god," Olivia breathes beside you.

You’re still staring up at the screen in disbelief when Olivia nudges your shoulder sharply. Instinct kicks in. You turn toward Jack. He’s already looking at you.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The noise of the stadium fades behind the awareness of how close you’re sitting—his 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 he’s 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, Jack’s 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 you’re 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.

Jack’s 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 you’re 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 doesn’t 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. He’s 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 he’s about to.

He doesn’t.

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 uninvited—maybe she’s right.

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 earlier—made it clear that her assumption that you fucked your way into an attending position was so completely off base it was laughable. You should’ve told her how misogynistic it was—how fucking insulting it was after everything you’ve 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 it’s 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.

You’re not usually up before Jack, and under normal circumstances, you’d 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 step—you probably overdid it on the yoga yesterday—weaving past houses, people coming home from work, and others heading back from lunch. The smell of coffee drifts from the corner café you've just left, and someone’s 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! Didn’t think you were up yet," Olivia says, her voice bright and slightly muffled like she's walking somewhere.

"Couldn’t sleep," you reply, shifting the phone against your ear as you round the corner. "Is this a good time?"

"Yeah, definitely. I’m just grabbing lunch." She pauses. "But… you sound weird. What’s 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?"

"Long version," Olivia says instantly. "Obviously."

You let loose, spending a good five minutes venting all your frustrations—how annoyed you are, how Smith kept crossing lines, and how you wish you'd handled it differently. Olivia doesn’t interrupt. Just the occasional soft mm-hmm that tells you she’s listening. Finally, you sigh, exhaling harshly.

"…Sorry," you mutter, "I didn’t 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. "Anyway—enough about me. What’s this exciting news?"

"Oh!" Her whole tone lifts. You can almost hear her grin through the phone. "I’m coming to Pittsburgh next week for a conference."

Your eyes widen mid-step. "Wait—what?" A grin breaks across your face before you can stop it. "You’re actually coming here?"

"Yes!" she laughs.

"You have to stay with us," you blurt. "I mean it. I’m sure Jack won’t 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, it’s been too long. Ever since you moved for residency, seeing each other in person has become rare—holidays if you’re 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 can’t 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.

You’re almost at Jack’s 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 mother’s 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 mother’s 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. "What’s your name?"

"Lulu."

"Well, Lulu," you say, "that's a great name."

She beams.

"Louisa, technically, but Lulu's easier," her mother adds. "Sorry—hi. I don’t think we’ve met before, but I think we’re neighbours?"

She gestures toward the blue house next to Jack’s place. "We just moved in yesterday," she says. "I’m 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 you’re ever getting rid of furniture or anything, we’d happily take it."

"Sure," you promise.

"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." She glances over toward Jack’s house. "So you live with... Jack?"

"Yeah, he's my—" you hesitate for a split second, contemplating how to introduce Jack. Friend? Colleague? "My husband."

"Oh, that’s 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 mother’s 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 there’s no way we’ll 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 don’t have to—"

"It’s 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. Moving’s been chaotic—it’s nice to know at least one neighbour. We’ll probably be that house for a while. Boxes everywhere, toddler meltdowns, the works. I hope we’re 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. Oh—right, you left the book in the bedroom the other day. Shoot. You’ll just sneak in—two seconds in, two seconds out—without waking him. You ease the door open slowly, the hinges barely making a sound.

And then you freeze.

Jack is not asleep. He’s 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 doesn’t 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? Oh—"

Your brain scrambles wildly for something, anything, that isn’t '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 weren’t just caught ogling him. "Figured you might need help finding your clothes."

"Oh?"

"Don’t 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 didn’t realise men your age could still—"

"Still what?" Jack raises an eyebrow.

"Build muscle like that," you continue and shrug. "I’m impressed, that’s 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."

"Where’s 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 you’re trying not to notice is impossible to ignore.

"Oh, now you’re 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 won’t.

Jack's been watching you all day. Nothing about you screams that he needs to, but there's something off about the way you’re 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 don’t reach your eyes. Your laughter is softer and delayed. It's not noticeable to others, but he sees it.

You’re trying to hide it—he can tell that much. Smiling, nodding along while Lena talks to you at the nurse’s station, like everything’s 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 you’re tired. Like you're hurting.

Jack’s brow furrows.

You’re still sharp, still working cases like nothing’s 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 one’s looking, the way your tone isn't as warm as it usually is—he doesn’t 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 HR’s desk. Not because of the fake husband thing, but because he’s the attending in this ER and doesn’t tolerate bullshit in his department.

No one needs to know it bothers him even more because it's about you.

But you’d told him to leave it alone, said you had it handled. So he has, even if he doesn’t like it. He will take care of it if it continues, though. No matter what you say.

But right now he’s more focused on the way you’re 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 say—you 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?"

Jack’s 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 meant—"

"I'm already here too much—After 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 thought—"

"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 doesn’t even notice the embarrassment colouring her face. He’s too busy watching you push yourself upright, forcing another smile at something Lena says.

Yeah. Something’s 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.

"Harper—68, 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. What’s your differential?"

Smith taps her tablet. "I’m 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 there’s something rehearsed about it. You can tell she’s trying—too hard—to 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. Let’s 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. "She’ll 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. We’ll 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 period—" You lift your head to look at her. "—which does explain why I've been in such a shitty mood all day—but it also couldn't have come at a worse time."

Parker grimaces, nodding knowingly. She knows all too well what it’s 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. "I’d 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. I’m pretty sure I muttered something under my breath that would’ve gotten me written up."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You? Written up? Impossible." Then her expression softens. "But seriously… you don’t have to deal with it alone. You’ve 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 don’t. 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 he’s making sure you’re 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.

Jack’s done after you, slowed down by hand-off, so by the time he’s at the locker, grabbing his bag, you’re 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 he’s been noticing all night.

He’s been trying not to hover, trying to respect the fact that you clearly didn’t want to talk about whatever was going on. Every time he asked if you were okay, you’d brushed it off with that easy smile. Just tired, Jack.

He didn’t 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 you’re—"

"Abbot!" Ellis’s 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. "Parker—"

But Ellis just talks louder. "I’m serious," she says. "Take her home, tuck her into bed, and stop somewhere on the way for chocolate."

Jack frowns. "…Chocolate?"

Ellis wiggles her eyebrows. "Some cuddling. Heat helps. I've even heard that fu—"

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. "…You’re 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 that’s 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 didn’t you just say that?"

You glare at him tiredly. "Because I’m not twelve, Jack. I didn’t 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 you’re about to collapse, I’m 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 to—"

"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 he’d 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 instinctively—still 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 shouldn’t 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.

"You’re 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. "Just…cramps."

Jack’s gaze softens. "Do you want me to get your heating pad?"

You shake your head, frowning. "I can’t find it. Must’ve left it at my old place."

He hesitates, chewing on his lower lip. "I can…use my hand? It's not the same, but it might help a little?"

Normally, you would have hesitated, but you’re 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 you’re 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."

Jack’s 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.

Jack wakes up alone, and for a brief, fractured second, his heart nearly stops.

Panic claws up his spine, sharp and irrational. There’s a dizzying thought that he’s lost time somehow—that weeks or months have slipped past him unnoticed, that he’s woken up in a version of his life where you aren’t 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.

You’re 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 aren’t within reach. He can’t 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 you’re already his in all the ways that matter. That you’ve chosen him. That you’re staying.

He hates that he’s 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.

You’re in the middle of the room on a yoga mat, sunlight spilling across your back. You’re bent into a stretch—hips lifted, hands pressing into the mat, leggings hugging your every curve.

It’s innocent. It’s 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.

“Oh, hey,” 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 again—awkward, hopelessly smitten, painfully obvious—trying to hide his lower half behind the counter.

“Hey,” he manages, attempting to sound casual but probably missing the mark entirely. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, the sound dragging as you change position. His cock twitches in his shorts, and he grips the counter harder than necessary. “You?”

“Mm.” 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. “Want some?”

“Yes, please.”

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.

“Any plans today?” he asks, because if he doesn’t talk, he might just stare.

“Just some studying before work.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need help.” He sets two mugs on the counter, fingers steady even if the rest of him isn’t. “We could cook dinner together later? If you're up for it? We can make enough so you can bring it with you.”

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. “Sure.”

He sits down just as you stand up, tugging his shirt down to cover his lap. He hopes you can’t see how easily you affect him—not just physically, but entirely. He doesn’t want you to know how much space you occupy in his thoughts or how often he lies awake dreaming about a future he’s 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. “You’re being weird,” you say lightly.

His pulse spikes. “Am not.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him for half a beat too long. His stomach flips under the scrutiny—terrified you’ll see everything, desperate that you will.

“Uh-huh,” you hum, but there’s 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 thinking—"

After you’ve 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, warmer—a sign that spring is here to stay. There’s 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.

“Think you can handle cutting the onion?” he asks, leaning casually against the counter as if he isn’t absolutely baiting you.

You pause mid-reach for the onions, slowly turning to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, playing innocent. “Just checking.”

Your eyes narrow. “What makes you doubt my onion-cutting skills?”

“Maybe the fact that you cry a river every single time?” Jack grins as he bumps your shoulder and squeezes past to grab the pasta from the cupboard.

“I do not,” 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. “I have a refined tear-duct system. It’s highly resilient.”

“Do too,” he counters easily, setting the pasta down beside the stove. “Last time you were blinking so hard I thought you were sending Morse code.”

You scoff, peeling an onion with exaggerated vigour. “It’s not like you’re immune either. I heard you sniffling the other day.”

Jack freezes mid-step. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you insist, glancing back at him. “I heard it from the bedroom.”

“I had a cold.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

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. “Like this,” he murmurs, adjusting your grip. His hand covers yours, warm and steady. “You’re holding it like you’re about to duel someone.”

Your breath catches for a moment before you recover. “Maybe I am. Maybe the onion has insulted me.”

“It probably did. Onions can be quite the instigators. But you also don’t have the best track record here, Trouble.”

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 doesn’t.

“See?” he says quietly. “No tears yet.”

“That’s because I’m strong.”

“That’s because I’m supervising.”

“You can’t stop tears with fancy cutting techniques.” You nudge him with your hip; he shoves back, laughing, and the knife wobbles dangerously.

“Careful,” he warns, though he’s grinning. “I’m attached to those fingers.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “Why’s that?”

“They’re handy. For stirring, chopping, and pointing dramatically when you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“You thought coriander and parsley were the same thing.”

“They look the same!” you mutter.

“They absolutely do not.”

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, “So, about the crying…”

He groans softly. “We’re not going back there.”

“Oh, but we are. I distinctly heard sniffling.”

“You imagined it,” he nudges your shoulder again.

“I did not. It was very dramatic.” Rolling your eyes, you lean your shoulder into his. “I’ve got a new nickname for you.”

“Oh no.”

“Sniffles.”

He pulls back just enough to stare at you, affronted. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes! Sniffles!

“You are not calling me that.”

“I think it’s cute.”

He smirks, leaning in to catch your eye. “You think I’m cute?”

You nearly drop the knife. “That’s not what I said!”

“Sure sounded like it.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he repeats softly, thumb brushing against your side before he finally steps away, “you’re still here.” This time, there’s 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.

“Are you crying?” he asks immediately, far too pleased with himself.

“No,” you snap.

“Sure.”

“Just shut up and boil the pasta, Sniffles.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head as he turns to the stove, but he’s smiling the whole time, and when he reaches for the pasta, his arm brushes yours again like it’s 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. “Who could that be?” 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 you’ve processed his face.

“Hey—” you begin.

He barges right in.

“Sure,” you mutter, pressing yourself against the wall to avoid getting knocked over, “come right in, why don’t you?”

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 you’re a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

You blink. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m here to watch the game,” he says, brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

Your head tilts to the side. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No?” He genuinely looks confused. “Why would I be—” His eyes narrow slightly.

You cross your arms. “Jack didn’t tell you?” you ask.

Robby’s confusion deepens, and it becomes clear that Jack did not tell him anything.

From the bathroom, Jack’s voice carries out, “Tell who what?”

He steps into the living room mid-sentence, towel in hand, and freezes when he sees the imposing silhouette blocking the light. “Robby?”

“Jack,” Robby replies in an unnervingly calm tone. There’s a whole conversation happening in the silence that ensues. Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, Jack’s 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. Robby’s grin only widens.

You take one look at the silent exchange and decide you want no part of it. “I’m just gonna grab my food and leave you guys to watch the game,” 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.

“No, I can still drive you,” Jack says quickly, already stepping toward you.

Robby makes a small, exaggerated cough behind him. “Drive you?”

Jack doesn’t even glance back. “Shut up.”

You slip a container into your bag before heading back to the hallway. “It’s fine. I can walk.”

“No,” Jack insists, his tone firmer this time. He follows you, lowering his voice. “I don’t want you walking alone.”

From the living room, Robby calls out as he notices your trinkets scattered around. “Did you get new things, man?”

Jack closes his eyes for a moment.

“Did you?” Robby continues, now leaning against the doorway, watching you two like it’s more entertaining than the pregame show. “Or is this just another ploy to fool HR?”

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. “Jack can explain his secrets.”

Robby lets out a low whistle. “Secrets, huh. Wow.”

Jack finally turns around. “You done?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” Robby replies with a grin. "Didn’t know I was interrupting something.”

Jack’s ears redden. He motions for Robby to return to the living room, a quick shooing motion that Robby actually abides by.  

You try very hard not to smile. “It’s really fine,” you say gently, turning to Jack. “I don’t mind walking. It’s nice out.”

He still looks unconvinced, his jaw tightening as his eyes flick to the door, calculating the distance, the time, the risk.

“The game can wait,” he says quietly.

“Honestly,” you add softly, stepping closer so Robby can’t hear as clearly. “Go have fun. I’ll be fine."

His brows crinkle with worry anyway.

Without thinking, you reach out to smooth the wrinkle between them with your thumb. “You can still come pick me up in the morning,” you say, trying to ease the last of Jack’s hesitation. “Bright and early.”

He studies your face for a second longer than necessary. "Text me when you’re there,” he says, acquiescing.

“Of course.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. It feels strange suddenly—leaving 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. “I’ll see you later.”

His hand instinctively comes up, fingertips brushing against yours before you pull away. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Later.”

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.

There’s exactly half a second of silence. Then—

“Dude.”

Jack lets out a slow breath.

“You’re living together?” Robby presses, his voice climbing an octave. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“We don’t—”

“You so do.”

“It’s 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.

“Uh-huh.” Robby studies his friend closely, noting how Jack’s gaze is still locked on the hallway. “Temporary.”

Jack drags a hand down his face and pulls out his phone, already waiting for your text.

Robby claps him on the shoulder. “You’re done for, man.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Just watch the game.”

“Oh, I am watching,” Robby replies, leaning back with an arm slung over the couch, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Totally focused. Very much so.”

Jack groans and covers his face with his hand. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Me? No way,” 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."

Jack’s jaw tightens. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. You don’t like him; he knows it. You’re 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.” 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 he’s under a microscope. “So… how’s she finding it? Living in your spare room?”

Caught off guard, Jack blinks. “Uh… well…” He scratches the back of his neck as he searches for a neutral response. “She’s… settled in fine.”

Robby raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Mhm. Okay."

Jack shifts on the couch, aware that Robby isn’t just letting it go. “I mean, the spare room’s decent. Lots of space.”

Robby hums thoughtfully, tilting his head, repeating Jack's words. “Lots of space, huh?” He leans forward slightly, peering toward Jack. “So she’s… uh, sleeping there?”

Jack stares back, “Did you suddenly lose your hearing?”

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. “Actually… she… doesn’t sleep there.”

Robby blinks, then smirks. “Ah. Didn’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Robby sets his beer on the coffee table and leans back, clearly enjoying the moment. “I mean… I went to the bathroom earlier, you know, just taking a piss, and the spare room was wide open—and there’s… nothing. No bed. Just boxes. Pretty minimal.”

Jack feels his face heat.

"So where exactly does she sleep? Don't tell me you made her sleep on the couch.”

Jack groans and leans deeper into the couch cushions. “No, of course not. She sleeps... in my bed… obviously.” Jack doesn’t say that most nights you're curled up on his chest. Robby doesn't need more ammo.

Robby whistles low. “That explains a lot.” He props an elbow on the back of the couch, resting his chin in his hand, his eyes glimmering with mischief. “Sharing a bed… living together… and you still don't believe she likes you, huh?”

Jack huffs, running a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassment, but Robby’s gaze is too sharp. “Shut up. Just… shut up. Watch the game.”

Robby chuckles, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, man."

Ignoring him, Jack stares at the TV, knowing he’s lost this round. Robby’s smirk stays firmly planted on his face. Jack glances at his phone again, just to reread your 'I’m 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.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Dana calls without looking up from her work.

“Missing me already?” you shoot back with a smile.

“Like a rash,” she replies dryly, finally peering over her glasses at you. “Hey, sweets,” 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.

“Hey, how’s your day been?” you ask. This small moment together is worth being here early.

“Same circus, different clowns," she replies. “Two codes, but we got them back.”

You sit up a little straighter. “Both?”

“Yep,” she confirms. “The second one was chaos. You would’ve loved it.”

You grin. “I do love a good disaster.”

“I know you do, which is why I can’t wrap my head around why you moved to the night shift.” She spins around to face you fully now. “Ever think about coming back to days? We all miss you.”

You offer her an apologetic smile, but she rolls her eyes in response. “Don’t you dare give me that look,” she warns.

“What look?”

“That look.”

You busy your hands before your face gives you away. "I don't have a look."

“You do,” she corrects. “Doesn't matter how much I ask anyway, not as long as Jack's holding down nights. Where he is, you'll be.”

The corner of your mouth betrays you before you can stop it, a smile you can't suppress at the mention of him.

“I didn’t move for him,” you say, a little too quickly. “Nights suit me.” They do. The pace. The autonomy. The way it forces you to trust your instincts. But you’d be lying if you said it didn’t matter that he’s there.

Dana hums knowingly, glasses sliding down her nose. “Mhm. How are things between you two?”

You shift in your chair, suddenly aware of how intently she’s observing you. Dana has always had an uncanny ability to see right through you, and you can’t let anything slip now.

“We’re good,” you reply. “Busy. My exam is right around the corner, so I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. But Jack is... great at keeping me grounded.” 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. “You two balance each other well."

“You mean I now have someone to stop me from picking fights with cardiology?”

“Exactly.” She nods, turning back to her computer, prepping for the shift change, but there’s a lingering warmth in her demeanour. Her approval means more than you’d like to admit.

“Trouble,” a well-known voice sings. You don’t even need to look to know who it is. Princess steps into your line of sight, bumping her hip against your shoulder.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Good. Just missing my favourite nurse,” you pout dramatically. “Wanna join me on the night shift?”

She snorts. “Not in a million years. I love sunlight and my sanity too much.”

“Coward.”

“Please, I’ve worked with you for years. I've earned the right to protect my peace.”

“And what about me?” Perlah chimes in from your other side, feigning offence, as she leans over the counter. “I see how it is.”

“My favourite nurses,” you amend quickly, holding up both hands. “A very elite club, just so you know.”

Perlah grins. “That’s better.”

“Come join the dark side,” you add, grin widening.

“Hard pass,” 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. It’s subtle at first. Princess’s smile drops a fraction. Perlah’s eyes narrow.

You follow their gaze to two fresh-faced med students, just scrubbed and clearly very eager.

“The new med students are joining the night shift today,” Perlah says carefully.

“And?” you prompt, sensing the tone.

“Young and Smith,” Princess supplies, nodding toward the man. “Young’s fine—nervous, polite, and actually listens to feedback.”

“And Smith?” you ask, eyes flitting over to the woman.

They exchange a look.

“Gunner,” Perlah states flatly. "Trying her best to get a residency spot here."

Ah. You exhale slowly. “How bad is she?”

Princess tilts her head. “On day one, she corrected an attending.”

“That's confident," you say, raising your eyebrows.

Perlah continues, “Keeps name-dropping research. Asked how quickly she could get into procedures.”

Princess crosses her arms. “Didn’t introduce herself to half of us nurses or trust our judgments.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Okay, then we educate. She’ll learn real quick that nurses keep this place standing.”

Dana looks over at you, clearly having heard everything. “Alright. Go collect your children. Teach them some manners.”

You wonder, just for a moment, whether Jack is having fun with Robby—whether he’s already halfway through a beer, whether he’d laugh at that. Then you push yourself up from the chair, brush off imaginary lint, and shake the thoughts away.

“Don’t forget to miss me while I’m gone.”

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 aren’t directed at her. She finishes Shen’s sentences and casually references studies that nobody in the room asked about. It’s not overly troubling—yet. Just a bit abrasive around the edges.

You end up with her for minor cases while Shen pulls Young into a trauma.

Lucky you.

“Hello, Mrs. Jones,” you greet warmly as you step into the room, Smith at your shoulder. “I’m your doctor tonight, one of the residents on duty."

She’s perched on the bed, a towel wrapped around her hand, blood seeping through in uneven patches.

“This is Smith, one of our medical students,” you add, nodding for her to introduce herself.

Smith steps forward with confidence. “Hi, Mrs. Jones. I’ll be helping take care of you today.”

Mrs Jones' smile is easy, despite the pain. “Nice to meet you, dears.”

You log onto the computer while Smith starts to gently unwrap the towel.

“That looks like a pretty deep cut,” she observes as she examines it. “How did this happen?”

“Oh, I was cooking dinner for my husband and the knife slipped,” Mrs. Jones laughs lightly. “Twenty years, and I still can’t chop onions properly!”

“Twenty years?” you echo from behind the computer, glancing over with a grin. “That’s quite an achievement!”

“It feels like five,” she beams back.

Smith carefully irrigates the wound. “That’s wonderful. Not many marriages last that long anymore.”

Mrs. Jones nods, adding, “That’s because people give up too easily,” with a playful shrug. She then notices your hand as you turn toward the bed.

“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “Are you married?”

You glance down at the simple rubber band. “Yeah. I’m a newlywed.” The word still feels strange in your mouth.

“Oh, how lovely,” she sighs, looking warmly at you. “You have that glow. What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor, too.”

Smith’s tone shifts slightly. “An attending, right? Dr. Abbot?” She doesn’t ask it like a question, but more like a confirmation.

“Yes,” you reply evenly.

“How sweet. You must understand each other so well. My husband and I met at work—I was his secretary,” Mrs. Jones reminisces fondly. “He’s a CEO and is about to retire, so I wanted to prepare his favourite dinner.”

Smith pauses for a moment during the irrigation. “A CEO? That’s impressive.”

“He works very hard,” she replies with pride.

Smith continues lightly, “Well, it must be nice having a husband who can take care of you.”

The comment lingers awkwardly in the air.

Mrs. Jones gives a polite smile but frowns just a bit. “Oh, I’ve always taken care of myself, too.”

“Of course,” Smith quickly corrects herself. “I just mean—it’s reassuring, you know? Having someone higher up on your side.” Her eyes dart briefly to you, to your badge, then to your ring.

You keep your expression steady, but your jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “We take care of each other in different ways,” you say lightly, smiling at Mrs Jones. "Alright, let’s get some lidocaine in there before we close this up. I'll do the first stitch. Smith, you can do the rest."

“We could probably get away with three sutures,” Smith says, glancing down.

“We close based on tension and alignment, not convenience.”

"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. You’re already halfway to the hub when Smith falls into step beside you.

“So,” she says lightly, almost too casually, “is Dr. Shen single?”

You blink, unsure if you heard her correctly. The fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows under her eyes, but her expression is perfectly serious.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Dr. Shen,” she repeats. “Or… any of the attendings, really.”

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.

“Why?” you ask slowly.

She shrugs, adjusting her stethoscope. “I was just thinking about doing what you did.” Her eyes flick briefly to your ring.

“What I did?” You repeat, glancing up at the board. The names blur together.

“Yeah.” She lowers her voice, as if she’s sharing a clever study tip. “Having a relationship with an attending here could seriously boost my chances of landing a residency. Medicine’s political,” she adds. “Might as well play it properly.”

For a moment, you simply stare at her. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, it worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?” 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. “That’s—”

She doesn’t seem to register your reaction. “It’s strategic,” she continues, unfazed. “Programs like people, they already trust. If you’re close with someone influential—”

“Strategic?” you repeat, your voice sharpening. “You think I—” 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. “You think I’m here because I’m sleeping with an attending?”

Smith shrugs her shoulders noncommittally. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t hurt. So, is Shen single?"

“That’s not how you get a residency.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Right. Different rules for different people. I get it.”

For a heartbeat, you consider unloading on her—telling 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, Lena’s voice calls out across the department. “Trauma incoming! ETA two minutes!”

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, she’ll see exactly why you’re here.

Time ticks by, and each comment from Smith comes off as harmless and polite—a 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 haven’t earned your place here on your own, that your impending attending job offer isn’t 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. “Just a small pinch,” you tell him reassuringly. “Almost done."

He nods, visibly relaxing under your calm, steady presence. “You’re… very skilled,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I feel like I’m in good hands.”

You look up and return his smile warmly. “Thank you. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable and clean your wound so you can get out of here.”

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. “You can trust her,” she says smoothly, “She’s… soon to be an attending.”

To the patient, her words seem like praise, a note of admiration. He beams at you. “That’s incredible! Congratulations.”

You don’t 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 isn’t pride; it’s judgment edged with resentment, a quiet suggestion that you haven’t earned your place—and that you’re standing in the way of hers.

Bridget notices, too, a small glance your way, confirming you’re not imagining it. It’s not the first remark she's heard since you asked her to stay close, just to be sure Smith wasn’t crossing a line. Now, you're more than certain.

You keep your expression neutral and your voice steady as you stand up.  “Thank you. Smith, the floor is all yours.”

As she passes you to reach the patient, you catch a soft murmur under her breath, just audible enough to register in your mind. “Must be nice having connections.”

“Smith,” you say evenly, voice calm but firm. That's it. “A word, please.” 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. “Sure,” she replies carefully as you close the door behind you, stepping a few paces away.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “I’ve kept my focus on the patients, letting your comments slide. That ends now. I won’t tolerate disrespect toward me or my work.”

Her smirk falters, replaced by a polite but defensive posture. “I… I wasn’t being disrespectful. I was just making observations.”

“Observations?” you echo, maintaining a calm yet pointed tone. “Observations about my marriage to Jack? My incoming attending offer? How I got my spot here?”

She opens her mouth, but hesitates.

“Let me be very clear,” you continue. “Jack and I only recently got together. I’d already earned my reputation long before that, and my attending offer is the result of my work alone.”

For a moment, her eyes flick to the floor, and then back up. “I… I see.”

“Good,” you say. “Because if there’s even a hint of you or anyone else implying otherwise, I won’t stand for it. I’ve earned my spot here. It’s my skills, my work, my hours—that’s what got me this far, not who I’m married to.”

She opens her mouth again, but then closes it, realising there’s nothing more to say. The smirk is gone, replaced by a stiff nod. “Understood.” 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, Smith’s 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.

“You’re doing great,” he says simply. “Every patient you've worked with tonight? Your assessments were thorough, and your procedures were spot on. You’ve handled everything exactly as you should.”

You try to nod, but the knot in your stomach refuses to loosen. “I… I know,” you murmur. “It’s 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 if—”

Shen shifts slightly, tilting his head, showing he’s listening without interrupting. “Bridget mentioned that she was crossing the line,” he admits. “I didn’t 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 wasn’t acceptable.”

You glance up at him.

“You’ve earned your place here. Don’t let Smith, or anyone else, shake that. I also recommended you for the attending position because I’ve seen your work. I’ve got your back.” Shen smirks. “And if she tries again, I’ll… let’s just say, I’ve got a few creative ways to make interns regret their life choices.”

You take a slow, deep breath, letting his words wash away the doubts that have been creeping in all night. It’s a quiet reassurance, yet enough to remind you: you are skilled. You belong here. Jack’s name doesn’t define your worth.

Shen leans back a bit, easing the tension in his posture. “Besides, if Smith thought she could push you around tonight, she clearly misjudged you." He grins at you. "Still, it's probably good that Abbot wasn’t around. That wouldn’t have ended well.”

You can’t help the small, tight smile that finally surfaces. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Definitely not.”

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. Jack’s car idles out front. He leans casually against the hood, a thermocup in his hand, steam rising in thin curls.

“Hey,” 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 doesn’t miss the subtle tension—the faint set of your jaw, the way your fingers wrap around your bag just a little too tightly.

“Someone said something,” he says quietly, almost more to himself than to you, leaning on the door.

You shake your head lightly. “Just an intern pushing boundaries,” you murmur, shrugging, voice calm. “But I got it covered.”

He studies you, frowning. “Hm,” he says, not pressing, just letting the pause linger. “You sure?"

You glance at the thermocup, the warmth seeping into your hands, and nod at him. “I’m fine. Really. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Jack’s gaze lingers a moment longer, sharp and intuitive, then he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Alright,” he says slowly, still worried, but deferring. “Just… if it pops back up, I want to know. Okay?” He wordlessly switches the music to something softer.

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You survive the evening with Robby?”

Jack laughs quietly as he starts the car. “Barely,” he admits, glancing at you. “That guy’s like a walking commentary on my life… and apparently yours too.”

You chuckle, feeling the last of the night’s tension slip away. “Did he actually watch the game, or just annoy you?”

“Half of him watched,” Jack replies, eyes on the road, “the other half kept commenting on every play and asking questions about… well… everything.” 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 Jack’s 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.

Living with Jack is infinitely easier than you ever imagined it would be. You knew he would make a good roommate—he’s thoughtful and respectful—but 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 it’s 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. You’ve had a bad shift? He’s 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, you’ll 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 doesn’t 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 you’re almost out of that ridiculously expensive conditioner—the one you only splurge on when you’re feeling indulgent—and three days later it’s in the shower caddy. Same brand, same scent. He doesn’t say anything about it. You don’t either. You just stand there under the water, fingers wrapped around the bottle, heart beating messily.

It’s 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 they’ve always been there. And he’s careful about it. That’s the part that gets you. He doesn’t act like you owe him anything. If you thank him, he just shrugs it off, saying, “I was at the store anyway.”

You have to assume that this is just what Jack does—things he would do for others, too. This is simply life when there’s 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. He’d act this way for anyone he shared a home with. It doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t. If he had feelings for you, real feelings, he wouldn’t 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.

It’s so easy living with Jack that it's hard. Each time you find yourselves moving around each other like this, as if it’s been the routine for years, your chest tightens. This wasn’t meant to feel so natural. It wasn't meant to feel like home.

The bed situation doesn’t help. Delays keep piling up—shipping errors and warehouse issues. One email after another that sounds vaguely apologetic but not nearly enough. When it finally arrives, you’re almost giddy (and sad, but you don't linger on that). This is it. This is your way of establishing a boundary—a much-needed one if you’re gonna survive this.

You’re 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 chaos—the half-built frame, and the screwdriver clutched too tightly in your hand. He takes off his running shoes without a word.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.

“It's missing two legs,” 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. “I can't believe this keeps happening.”

He takes a look, counts the pieces. “We can call them for replacements.”

“Which are gonna be here in three to five business weeks,” 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. “I don’t mind sharing,” he says softly, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve gotten used to you stealing the duvet, anyway.” His tone is light.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not the point.”

He smiles. “It’s kind of the point.”

And maybe for him, it’s sweet. Maybe for him, it’s 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, it’s a crisis. Three more weeks in his bed feels like playing with fire. Most mornings, you wake up wrapped in his arms—not 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 don’t 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 don’t wake up already intertwined. Where your heart doesn’t trip over itself before you’re even fully conscious. Where domesticity doesn’t sneak up on you in the shape of shared blankets and cuddles.

Because this—this quiet, effortless merging of lives—is more intimate than anything loud or dramatic. It’s folding his laundry without thinking and knowing which shirts he wants air-dried. It’s him automatically setting aside the corner piece of lasagna because he knows you like the crispy edge. It’s 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.

It’s terrifying how easy it is. How natural. How dangerously close to permanent it feels. And the worst part is you can’t tell if he feels it too or if he’s 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. You’re 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 you’re reading.

But you’re 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 can’t help but admire him—the 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 you’re 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.

“Thought you might need a refill,” he says, sliding a steaming mug across the table, just the way you like it.

“Thanks,” 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.

“Need help?” 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 don’t dare look down.

“No, I’ve got it,” 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. It’s just the two of you in this space.

You glance up at him after not hearing his pen for a while. He’s focused on the crossword, his jaw tight with concentration. But his pencil hovers over a word he’s been stuck on for ages.

“Yearning,” 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 he’s about to step over to a computer, he feels it—the 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 she’s holding back a comment. Further down the hub, Shen leans against the counter, taking a deliberately casual sip of his coffee. Lena, however, isn’t hiding her interest at all. She’s openly watching him with raised eyebrows, a slow grin spreading across her face.

Jack exhales sharply through his nose. “Whatever it is,” he mutters, turning toward the computer, “I’m not interested.”

“Oof,” Lena replies, clearly amused. “Someone’s feeling feisty tonight.”

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 Jack’s 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 he’d caught your eyes closing multiple times during it.

That could have been your evening together tomorrow, and that’s what’s 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 clock—you're moving out again soon, and he's not taking advantage of you being there enough.

It’s getting a little scary how quickly he’s 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, he’d felt something dangerously close to relief.

He’s taking what he can get. Because every night you’re 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t move away either.

He’s trying to figure out how he’s supposed to convince you to drop the whole separate-bed idea without sounding like a lunatic, without breaking whatever fragile rules you’ve both built around this fake marriage.

Because that’s 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 wouldn’t be trying so hard to get your own bed.

You weren’t supposed to feel like home. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the middle of the Pitt, pretending he’s annoyed his coworkers are goofing off, when deep down he’s just frustrated about not being able to spend his day off with you tomorrow.

It’s only when he swipes his badge at the counter and a name flashes across the screen that’s 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.

“Hey, Trouble,” Ellis calls out. “Looking good tonight.”

Shen leans over the counter, pointing his cup at Jack’s head. “Yeah! Did you change your hairstyle or something?”

“Very funny,” Jack replies dryly, pinning his badge back onto his shirt. Well, your badge.

He doesn’t 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, he’d 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.

“I don’t,” 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 react—how you smile, laugh, and frown at scenes.

He left later than he’d 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 he’s standing in the Pitt holding your badge instead of his.

“Well,” Lena says, folding her arms and flashing a knowing grin. “Looks like you need to call the missus. You won’t make it through the shift without your badge.”

A chorus of exaggerated “oooohs” 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 you’re 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 head—softer than he intends. Slower. He hopes you don't think he's overdoing it. You don’t 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 don’t 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 you’re concentrating too hard for something so simple. Then you clip his badge back onto him, your knuckles grazing his sternum softly.

“Here you go,” you murmur softly now, smoothing the fabric of his scrub top afterwards—an 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.

“…and something to get you through the shift,” 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 hadn’t 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.

“Thought you might be starving,” you say lightly. “I know you didn’t bring anything to eat.” You give him a pointed look, and he’s aware of the hypocrisy—how he’d 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. “You… made this?” he asks, and it comes out quieter than he means it to.

You shrug, a little bashful now. “It’s just fried rice. Nothing special.”

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 didn’t 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.

“You didn’t have to,” 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. “I wanted to.”

That one sentence, simple, unassuming, strikes him harder than anything else. His throat tightens. He can’t remember the last time someone had done something so quietly, so deliberately for him. His usual defences—his control, even the careful lines he draws (or tries to draw) around his feelings for you—start 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 you’re trying not to smile too hard. Close enough that if he tilted his head an inch, he could kiss you.

He doesn’t, even if he desperately wants to.  

“I… I really appreciate it,” 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."

“I know,” he replies instantly, his gaze locked on you. It’s the most genuine thing he’s said all day. You can’t 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.

“Husband privileges,” 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. It’s a dull, deep pain that starts at the end of the bone and spreads up into his thigh—phantom nerves misfiring, scar tissue pulling tight after a long shift. All he wants is to sit down.

What he doesn’t expect is the lamp still being on. You’re curled up on the couch, your hands lost in the oversized sleeves of your hoodie. You blink slowly when you hear him come in.

“You’re still up?” he asks, voice softening.

You rub at your eyes, words coming out mumbled. “Was waiting f'you. You want something to eat?”

His heart does something it shouldn’t when it hears that. Like that means something, it absolutely does not.

“Nah, I’m not hungry.” He pauses for a second. “I’m gonna go shower.” He tries to downplay his movements—shifting 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, you’ve 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. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, easing himself down onto the mattress. “Leg’s just acting up today.”

He keeps his voice level, trying not to let you see how much it’s bothering him.

“Anything I can do?” you ask, genuinely concerned.

He instinctively shakes his head. “No, sweetheart,” 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. “Let me.”

Before he can resist, you gently take the bottle from his hand. There’s no pity in your face. No flinching. Just focus. You warm the lotion between your palms first.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” you say, serious in a way that makes his chest tighten. He almost says he’s fine, almost insists, but you’re 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.

“Is the pressure okay?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” 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 didn’t 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. “Here?” you ask quietly.

“Little to the left,” he breathes.

You adjust immediately. The intimacy of it nearly undoes him. You’ve 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 you’ve 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.

“You read up on that,” he realises quietly.

You shrug, keeping your gaze down. “Thought if it’s gonna hurt you, I might as well know how to help.”

That’s when his throat tightens. You didn’t have to learn this. His hand moves without thinking, settling over your wrist, not to stop you—just to feel you there.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look up, and in this moment, there’s no performance, no audience, no sterile hospital corridor—just the gentle glow of the lamp and the calming rhythm of your hands against his skin.

“You really don’t have to take care of me like this,” he adds.

Your expression softens. “I know," you say, and then look down, shrugging. "…It's what friends do, right?" Your mouth opens like you’re about to say something else. Just long enough that he almost thinks—but then you nod.

He forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and nods in return. “Right,” he says. “Friends.”

You continue the massage, as if the shift in the air never happened. He remains still, aware that in a few minutes you’ll wipe your hands on the towel waiting on his side of the bed. He knows you’ll turn off the lamp before he can reach it. He knows you’ll curl up on your side of the mattress first. And somewhere around ten a.m., as always, you’ll 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 he’s feeling is just what a friend feels. He’ll pretend like his every move doesn’t carry more weight than you'd ever know, if that's what you want. He'll take friends any day.

Friends are better than nothing.

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. There’s 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 different—clean, 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 insulation—the 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 wouldn’t 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 you—soap and something distinctly him—warm, 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 don’t have to brace against the cold.

Just a minute, you tell yourself—just 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, you’re 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 his—

"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 doesn’t 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 once—at the rumpled sheets, at the shape of him, at the warmth you've just abandoned—and 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 tired—God, no—but 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 doesn’t ache from clenching through half-remembered nightmares. No headache. No frantic inventory of injuries. No spike of adrenaline convinces him he’s late for something terrible.

He breathes in. The room smells faintly like detergent and something warmer beneath it—your 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 doesn’t.

“Well,” he mutters to the ceiling, voice rough with disuse, “that’s new.”

Eventually, he swings his legs out of bed, finds his crutches and follows the smell that’s 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.

You’re there. He knew you would be, but he didn’t expect it to feel this way.  

You’re 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 you’ve always lived here.

The pan on the stove hisses softly as you stir something—eggs, by the look of it. Toast sits on a plate beside the stove, already buttered. Two mugs wait on the counter. Two.

Jack’s chest tightens, not unpleasantly, but enough to make him pause.

You glance over your shoulder, catching him frozen in the doorway. “Morning,” you say casually, as if it’s 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 he’d like, still trying to make sense of what he's seeing, and not let it consume him. As he nears you, you’re already adjusting your stance to give him room without making a thing of it.

“Perfect timing, huh,” he says, arching a brow as he reaches for the mugs, just as you do the same. There’s 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.

“Mmm,” 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. There’s a playful spark in your eyes when you glance up at him—teasing, 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.

“You’re up early,” he says, mostly because silence feels louder than it should.

“You snore," you say immediately with a teasing tug of your lips.

He scoffs as he takes another bite of food. “I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do.” You don’t even look sorry, just sip your coffee like you’ve haven't said something offensive.

He studies you over the rim of his mug, holding your gaze a second longer than necessary. “Well,” he says lightly, “you talk in your sleep.”

“I know,” you mumble, coffee cup hiding half your face as you take a sip. “Olivia once filmed me singing—well, attempting to sing—the entire chorus of Believe by Cher.”

He laughs, real and warm, before he can stop himself. “I look forward to hearing that.”

You glance at him, a grin already forming. “That’ll cost you. Ten bucks a night.”

“Ten?” He scoffs, shaking his head, pretending to be outraged. “I don’t think I can afford that.” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Discount for friends and family?”

“For my husband,” you say sweetly, eyes glinting at him, “I’d consider knocking a dollar or two off.”

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.

“That’s awfully kind,” he deadpans, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Really generous of you.”

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. “I’ll get those later,” he says.

“I’m capable,” you reply dryly. “Despite what your tone suggests.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Didn’t say you weren’t. Just saying you don't have to."

You glance around the space—your 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." You’d 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 doesn’t argue, just stares at you for a second and then nods. He grabs his keys and adjusts his watch. “I’m going for a run. Don’t—” He gestures vaguely at the house. “—burn it down.”

“No promises,” you say. “If it goes up in flames, I’ll blame faulty insulation.”

He snorts, then hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Instead, he says, “Back in a bit.”

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, there’s an odd sense of displacement, like you’re borrowing someone else’s 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 it’s 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.

“You went running and grocery shopping?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “You always this efficient?” You barely even have the energy to go running, let alone that and shopping at the same time.

“Multitasking,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a skill.”

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 you’ve stumbled into a version of life that runs suspiciously smoothly.

“You studying?” he asks, glancing at your notes.

Your eyes snap back down. “Unfortunately.”

He hums, washing his hands. “Boards coming up.”

You grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

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 attention—close enough to feel, distant enough to pretend it’s 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. “Okay. Hypotension, tachycardia, abdominal pain post-MVC. First step.”

You don’t even look up, trying not to let him see how flustered you are. “Primary survey.”

“Good. Elderly patient, on warfarin, ground-level fall, altered mental status.”

“CT head. Immediately.”

He arches a brow, faintly impressed. “You’re not even pretending to struggle.”

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.

“Anion gap metabolic acidosis,” he continues. “Most common causes.”

You finally look up, smiling despite yourself. “You’re quizzing me over lunch now?”

“Gotta 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 expression—pride, maybe (you hope), carefully masked behind his usual dryness. “Good,” 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. It’s easy, the way you move around each other—passing 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. You’re scrolling through the photos Olivia sent you, selecting which ones to attach. They look amazing and incredibly real—so 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 there’s a ping from your phone.

1 new message from Parker. 50 photos attached.

PARKER: Hey, we heard you were sad you didn’t 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 hub—you half-turned toward Jack, shoulders nearly touching. The next is a hallway shot, where you’re 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 isn’t just proximity. It’s the way he looks at you in every single one. Like he’s memorising you. Like he’s already chosen you.

You shake your head, thumb hovering as if you can physically swipe the thought away.

No. That’s not what that is. It's just Jack being Jack.

You scroll faster, heart thudding harder with each photo. Months’ worth of moments you hadn’t known were being documented. Stolen glances. Lingering smiles.

You feel exposed. Caught in something you didn’t 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.

“Jack,” you call, voice sharper than you intend as you reach the end of the thread, a shot of embarrassment rushing through your body.

“Yeah?” he calls back, cracking the bedroom door open.

“Do you know anything about these photos I’ve just received?”

There’s a pause, then footsteps. Jack emerges from the bedroom, already changed into scrubs, a long-sleeved shirt under it.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says. “I asked Robby if he could find any photos of us for HR, and I'm guessing he managed to.”

“Well,” you say, lifting your phone, “I 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?”

Jack shakes his head. “I 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 could’ve 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. “How many did you get?”

You glance down at the screen again. “Fifty.”

“Shit,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do they even have that many of us without us noticing?”

You hum thoughtfully, locking your phone and setting it face down on the couch. “Guess we work with stalkers.”

Jack snorts despite himself. “Apparently.”

The embarrassment is still there—warm and buzzing under your skin—but you step neatly around it, choosing humour instead. It's easier to joke. Easier to pretend it’s 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,” he announces.

“Yeah,” you say, from your seat on the couch, sending him a smile. “I’ve got this covered.”

He pauses at the door, leaning casually against the frame. “Make yourself at home,” he says. “TV, books, snacks—whatever you need. Eat something real for dinner. Don’t go dying on me before I get back."

You smile faintly, shaking your head. “I’ll do my best.”

He offers you a brief, crooked smile, and then he’s 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. There’s 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 day—books, clothes, little touches Jack insisted on you pulling out despite knowing you’d 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 fridge—funny ones you collected over the years, a few that spell out inside jokes you know he’ll groan at.

Even as you settle in, there’s the faint, weird ache of temporality. This isn’t your home. You won’t 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.

You’re 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 meal—half 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 morning—it 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 straightforward—vitals stable, labs pending—and yet he can’t 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 it’s 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.

“You’re not fine," Ellis chimes in as she spins around in her chair further back to look at them. "You’ve been off your game since you walked in.”

Of course, Ellis had to be here, too, putting her two cents in. He exhales through his nose. “Long night.”

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?

Jack’s jaw tightens. “We didn’t. That's not—we're fine.”

Ellis grins, picking up the subtext. “But you are thinking about her.”

He gives them a flat look. “I’m working.”

“Mmm,” Lena hums. “That’s not a denial.”

She exchanges another look with Ellis—wordless and conspiratorial.

Ellis leans closer. “Is this one of those married-people things? You spend too much time together and then suddenly one of you isn’t around, and your brain short-circuits?”

Jack turns back to the screen, determined to escape the conversation before they figure out what's really going on inside his mind. “Can we please focus?”

Lena laughs softly. “Adorable.”

He ignores them. Tries to, anyway.

But the distraction lingers—not 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 you’d 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 doesn’t dread the quiet waiting for him on the other side.

Not when he knows you're waiting for him at home.

Jack’s 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 wouldn’t 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 exhales—a long, low sigh—and the tension in his shoulders softens when he sees you. Of course. The bed hadn’t arrived, and you didn’t 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 he’d 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.

“Go back to sleep,” 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, “Thanks.”

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 intent—find something quick to eat so he can go to sleep. His eyes drift to the fridge, and he pauses. Magnets—colourful, mismatched, some ridiculous little sayings you love placed on the steel. He feels something warm unfurl in his chest, a pang of affection he doesn’t 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. You’re 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 that’s 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 in—the 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 he’s longed for for a long time.

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 it—how somehow you’ve been at this for hours and still have only two boxes properly packed, three more sitting open and half-full like they’ve given up before you have.

You didn’t think you owned this much. You know you didn’t shop that much after moving into this room. Work, sleep, repeat—that’s been your life. And yet your closet is betraying you. Dresses you don’t remember buying. Shirts you swear you’ve never worn. Jeans shoved into corners like they’ve been hiding from you on purpose.

At some point between the second and third box, you’ve lost a sock. Just one. It’s vanished. Slipped off your foot in the thrill of it all. You’re hopping around one-footed now, the other still stubbornly socked, every step an exercise in irritation. There’s tape stuck to the back of your shirt—probably from when you tried to wrestle the dispenser one-handed—and you can feel it, but you absolutely cannot be bothered to deal with it.

Organisation has officially died. Now you’re just shoving things into boxes—clothes, cords, books, random unidentifiable objects—and 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 don’t even own that much. Which somehow makes this more humiliating. You’ve already decided to abandon most of your kitchen stuff. You’d 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 it—still stuck on the missing sock, the tape, the mess, the boxes, the fact that your entire life is in pieces on the floor—

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.

“Hi,” she chirps, her voice warm, bright, and extremely performative. “You must be the husband.”

Your jaw tightens involuntarily at the sound.

Jack’s voice follows a second later. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

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). He’s 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 don’t let fake wives move alone.

Talia beams at him like she’s just been handed a prize. “Oh my god,” she says, dragging the words out. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. You’ve been such a mystery. I wasn't told you were this handsome.”

Jack smiles politely, but his eyebrows rise slightly at her forwardness.

Talia laughs—too loud, too drawn out—and steps closer to him, invading his space with an ease that sends a ripple of discomfort over your skin.

“Well,” she says, tilting her head and letting her eyes drag over him openly, “if I’d known you looked like this, I would’ve insisted you come over sooner.”

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 fake—temporary. 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 Jack’s sleeve, and tug gently.

“Hey,” you say, sharper than you mean to. “Thank you for coming.”

Jack glances down at where you’re holding him, then back up at your face. Something unreadable flickers there—maybe amusement—before he nods. “Of course,” he says. “Lead the way.”

Talia pouts, completely undeterred by your intervention. “Such a shame. I was hoping to steal him for a tour.”

You force a smile that feels brittle. “He’s been here before.”

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. You’re 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. “You weren’t exaggerating,” he says mildly.

You drop his sleeve, embarrassed heat creeping up your neck. “I told you not to come.”

“You told me you were fine,” he replies, already reaching for a box. “Which is never true.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “I didn’t want you dealing with… that.”

“Your roommate?” he asks lightly.

“Yes,” you say immediately, then pause. “…No. I mean. Maybe. She’s just—she does that.”

Jack hums, folding the bottom of a box easily. “Flirts with married men?”

“Yes,” 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. “Well,” he says evenly, “I’m not interested in that.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You swallow hard, your heart stuttering in your chest.

He continues, " I don’t want that kind of attention. From her. Or… anyone else.”

You stare at him. He stares at you. There’s a beat of silence you’re 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'?

“Uh… just put whatever you want in whichever box,” you say quickly, desperately trying to deflect the sudden warmth spreading through you. “I’ve given up on organisation.”

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 Talia’s voice pierces through the thin wood. “Just wanted to remind you that you agreed to let me keep your bed in exchange for breaking your lease early.”

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.

“It’s not! It’s a good bed,” you argue, mostly for the sake of argument, knowing he’s 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. He’s 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 it’s nothing. Like this is just another Saturday chore wedged between laundry and groceries.

Except it isn’t. It’s everything.

These are your boxes. Your books, your mugs, your pictures—your life crossing the threshold of his front door. The weight of them sits differently in his chest than it does in his arms. He’d pictured more somehow. More clutter, more chaos. Instead, there’s restraint here. Evidence of someone who learned early how to keep their footprint small.

He doesn’t 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.

“Okay,” he says. “This is yours.”

You hover near the doorway, box still in your arms. “We don’t need to unpack my stuff,” you say quickly. “I can just keep everything in boxes in the office. It’s fine.”

Jack frowns immediately. “Absolutely not.” He crosses the room and takes the box from you before you can argue. “You’re living here, too. You don’t put your life in storage. I don't mind—you probably have prettier things than I do anyway.”

He points at the shelf as if declaring the matter settled. Then, worried he’s said too much, he turns and heads back out to the car. When he comes back in with more boxes, you’ve started lining your books up. He watches for half a second too long—your hands, the unfamiliar titles, the way you hesitate before choosing where something belongs.

He taps the top of another box lightly. “Can I?”

“Uh—yeah. Sure,” you say, then point a finger at him. “But if you see anything embarrassing, I’m denying ownership.”

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen your locker,” he retorts. “The bar is low.”

You gasp, affronted. “Rude. I'll have you know that my stickers are very cool.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that sneaks out before he can stop it, and kneels to help you open boxes. It’s 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 other’s actions—just 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 expected—different sizes, chipped rims, one with a faded joke he doesn’t quite get. He opens a cabinet, pauses, then shifts his own things aside to make room. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just… adjusts. He likes the sight of them there more than he should.

You’re 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.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He glances over atyou, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—not at your question, but at the fact that you noticed. “Yeah,” he replies. “Just readjusting.”

“Too many boxes?” you tease lightly, but you can’t hide the glimmer of worry in your eyes.

“Please.” He snorts softly. “I’ve done procedures after standing fourteen hours straight.” He pauses for a moment, then adds softly, “But thanks for asking.”

He pushes back to his feet with an ease that’s practised and confident. He reaches for the next box.

And then he freezes.

Inside are framed photos. Your photos. Not just things—but 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.

“This should go…” He clears his throat, words coming out cautiously, almost shyly. “…somewhere you’ll see it.”

You glance over, smiling when you see it. “Yeah. Maybe... the windowsill?”

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 wasn’t checking.

He takes in the room—the 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.

“So,” you say, brushing your palms against your legs as you stand. “This is really happening.”

“It is,” he confirms, his tone steady yet soft.

“You sure you’re ready to live with…” You gesture vaguely at the clutter, at everything that makes you, well, you. “…all this?”

He steps closer, voice lowering. “You’re not that demanding, Trouble.” Then, because vulnerability makes him want to deflect immediately, he adds, “Except your coffee situation. You’re gonna have to learn how to use my machine eventually.”

You shrug, a teasing lilt to your voice. “Eh. I’ve got you around for that.”

He huffs a laugh and nudges your shoulder with his. It’s 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.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He looks up. “For what?”

“For helping me move.” 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. There’s something earnest there. Gratefulness. You really have to stop feeling like you owe him.

“Anytime,” 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 they’re alive.

He swallows.

He’s cleared more than half the closet for you. Didn’t even think twice about it. His things are pressed closer together now, crowded, and he feels oddly satisfied about it. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.

He sets the box down and starts unloading it methodically. Sweater by sweater. Folding, hanging, spacing them carefully so the knits don’t stretch. He recognises a few—ones he’s 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.

He’s nearly done with the box when he sees it. A flash of fabric that doesn’t belong with wool and cotton. He pauses to focus, his heart thudding a little harder. It’s 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 thong—clearly, unmistakably, intimate. Something that’s been pressed against your skin. Something you chose.

Jack’s breath hitches.

His eyes flick immediately to the bedroom door, pulse loud in his ears. You’re still in the kitchen. He can hear you—humming, the faint clink of ceramic—but 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 uninvited—your hips, the curve of you, the knowledge that this exists at all—and 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 something—anything—when he’s 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. You’re trusting him. You’re 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 life—wants 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 room—your living room now, even if your brain still hasn’t caught up to that—you feel utterly spent.

You sink into the couch and let your head tip back against the cushion.

“I’ll deal with the rest of the boxes some other time,” you announce to the ceiling and Jack. “Future Me can fight Past Me about it.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh from across the room. He’s standing near the window, arms crossed, surveying the chaos like he’s mentally triaging it. He glances at the clock on the wall, then back at you—really looks this time. The slumped posture. The unfocused stare. The way you haven’t moved in a solid minute.

“Okay,” he says gently. “That’s enough for today.”

You crack one eye open. “You’re agreeing with me suspiciously fast.”

“That’s how you know it’s serious.” He nods once, decision made. “Let’s eat dinner.”

“Takeout,” you say, siding with convenience immediately. “Something greasy. Something that comes in a bag.”

He hesitates for just a moment, and you notice it—the subtle shift in his jaw, the quick flick of his gaze toward the kitchen, and back to you, as if weighing some internal debate. “No. We should eat real food. After the day we had.”

“You want us to cook?” you ask, incredulous and a little amused. How is this man never as tired as you are?

“I want you—” he corrects quietly, already turning toward the kitchen, “to stay exactly where you are.”

You blink. “…Oh.”

He pauses, glances back at you like he’s worried he’s overstepped. “I mean—if that’s okay. You look wiped.”

“I am wiped,” you admit. “This couch has claimed me.”

“Good,” he says, nodding once like that settles it. “Then I’ll cook.”

You watch him move into the kitchen, opening drawers without hesitation, pulling out a pan, checking the fridge. There’s something almost hypnotic about it—how natural he looks there. Comfortable. Like this space knows him. Like you’re just… being folded into it.

“What are you making?” you ask.

“Food,” he replies.

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s a trust me," he counters, glancing over his shoulder.

You squint, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Hmm.”

He lifts his brow, giving you an option. “You can still order takeout if you want.”

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 he’s trying to take care of things without making a big deal out of it.

“…No,” you say finally. “I trust you.”

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 cooking—the 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 you’re borrowing from a life you’re sure you’re not allowed to imagine. Something you can't imagine for too long without the ache sharpening.

“You sure you don’t want help?” you call out.

“Nope,” he replies without hesitation. Then, in a softer tone, he adds, “Rest.”

You roll onto your side, cheek pressed into the cushion. "You’re very bossy,” you tease, the corners of your mouth lifting in a smile.

“You know, you say that a lot.”

“Well, it's the truth. You are very bossy,” 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. “Ugh,” you mutter under your breath.

Jack somehow hears it and laughs quietly from the kitchen. “You’re not even in here.”

“They’re aggressive," you defend, wiping away the tears.

When dinner’s ready, he brings a bowl over and sets it carefully on the coffee table in front of you.

“Here,” he says. “Eat.”

You sit up, take one bite—and immediately freeze. “Oh my God,” you moan. “Jack.”

He stiffens just a little. “That good?”

“This is actually good,” you say, eyes wide. “Like disturbingly good.”

He exhales, a deep breath of relief escaping him, and settles down beside you with his own plate in hand. “I keep telling you I can cook.”

“I thought you meant like… theoretically.”

“Wow,” 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.

“This,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of jinxing it. “This is nice.”

You glance at him, setting down your glass. “Dinner?”

He looks at you instead of the TV. “No. You. Here.”

The ache sharpens in your stomach. “Yeah,” you say softly. “It's nice.”

When you’re 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 you’re 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.

You’re moving through your bedtime routine in a hazy blur—applying skincare, brushing your teeth, pulling on your softest pyjamas. The kind of routine that’s 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, photos—and suddenly it’s late, and there’s 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 Jack’s shadow fills the doorway to the living room.

“What are you doing?” he asks, concern etched across his features.

Caught off guard, you momentarily stare at the couch as if it might offer an explanation. “Uh… improvising,” you reply. “No bed yet. So, I'll sleep on the couch.” You attempt a small, nervous smile, but it comes out stiff. "Which is fine. Honestly."

“No.” He crosses the room in two strides and takes the blanket from your hands. “I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed.”

You freeze. “…No, Jack. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He frowns, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’ve slept there before. Is it not a good bed?”

“I—yes, it’s a good bed. That’s not—”

“—Then you can sleep there tonight.” He cuts in, his tone flat and final.

“No, you helped me move today, even cooked for me, you deserve the bed,” you protest. “And I saw you roll out your shoulders when you had to sleep here last time. I’m younger than you. I can take it.” You grin, trying to sound lighthearted, tugging at the blanket again.

He keeps a tight hold of it, refusing to let it go. “This is my home. I’m 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 we’ll… uh… We'll share?”

His eyebrows shoot up at the proposal.

You force a laugh, nodding vigorously like you'd intended to say that. “It’s not like we haven’t done that before.” Your stomach flips over the memory, the one time you were sick, and he didn’t complain when you curled up next to him. That had been different. That had been him taking care of you. This time… this time, it’s not a necessity.

Jack takes a moment, tilting his head as he studies you. His expression softens. “You’re serious?”

You nod quickly, your heart racing. “Yes. Totally serious. And I promise I'll order a new bed tomorrow.”

Finally, he relents, letting go of the blanket and placing it on the couch. He gestures toward the bedroom. “Okay, as long as you don’t hog the duvet.”

"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. He’s close, but not too close, just enough that you’re 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."

“They’re still doing that?” Your eyes widen. “I thought it’d died down by now.”

“Unfortunately not,” he says. “I’ll tell them to save it until they can see you—that you really appreciate it.”

You laugh, but it comes out slightly clipped, betraying how nervous you feel lying here beside him. “Oh, that’s considerate of you. Or manipulative. Hard to tell sometimes.”

“Why not both?” he says dryly.

You shift slightly, and your shoulder brushes his. Heat shoots up your arm. He doesn’t move. He just shifts enough, so you’re 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. There’s 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 doesn’t 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. You’re aware of him, but it doesn’t 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 this—this closeness, this soft domesticity, this easy companionship—is exactly the kind of danger you wouldn’t mind falling into.

But also that you really shouldn't. You have to remember that.

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 god—"

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. “Hey,” Olivia’s voice comes through, alert and focused. “What’s going on?”

You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. “I’m completely fucked. Like—capital F. Totally. They’re going to know.”

“Know what?” 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. “Slow down.”

“I’m going to lose my job,” you rush out. “I’m going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthless—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she interrupts firmly. “Pause. Breathe. Talk to me.”

You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everything—how you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that aren’t really photos, the texts that scream ‘we’re just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.

There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. “Babe,” she says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you forget what I do for a living?”

“What?” you say weakly.

“I literally work in tech,” she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I can fix the metadata.”

You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. “You—what?”

“I can fix it for you,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring. “I’ll handle the timestamps, the locations—everything. ”

“Wait,” you interrupt, your mind racing. “You can actually do that?”

She laughs. “Please. This is child’s play.”

Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. “You’ve just saved my life.”

“I know,” Olivia replies smugly. “Now relax. We’ve got work to do.” She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. “Okay. Here’s the thing, though.”

Your stomach tightens again. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Because you’re gonna need to give me something to work with,” she says. “Different locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, it’s going to take forever, and we don’t have forever.”

You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. “Different locations,” you repeat faintly. “Different outfits.”

“Yes,” she confirms patiently. “It can’t look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious.”

“This is insane,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “This is actually unhinged.” A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. “I’m going to have to coordinate this with Jack.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Olivia’s voice breaks through. “Oh,” she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. “You haven't discussed this yet?”

“No,” you admit. "I only just realised now."

“Well,” she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, “I'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?"

“Maybe,” Olivia agrees. “But you’ll still be employed.”

“Barely,” you mutter. “So what about the texts?”

"I’ll handle that,” she says. "We’ll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romance—"

You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. “And emails?”

She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. “Come on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favour—they’ll show that you were trying to keep it discreet.”

"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 can’t 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.

“Hey,” he says, his tone gentle. He’s already preparing himself for whatever’s weighing on your mind. “You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You startle slightly, like you didn’t realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. “We forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jack’s stomach drops. He lets his mind rewind—HR’s email, the checklist, the casual way you’d both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. “Oh shit,” he mutters.

“I looked through my photos…” you say hesitantly.

"And?” he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.

“Nothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but it’s not enough.” You wince, then rush to add, “I’ve got it covered. Mostly. But it means we’ll 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 eyes—problem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.

“Won’t they be able to tell they were taken the same day?” he asks.

Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. “Wow. Aren’t you up with the times, old man?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that old.”

You give him a look that says otherwise.

He huffs, shaking his head. “I’m just saying. I know metadata exists.”

You glance at him. “...So does Olivia.”

He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. “You told her?”

You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. “She works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work.”

“I thought we promised not to tell anyone,” he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.

You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. “Like you promised not to tell Robby?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fair point.”

A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.

“So,” he says, glancing at you again, “Olivia can actually help us?”

“She can,” you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. “But we’ll need to give her something to work with.”

He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. “Define ‘something.'"

“Variety,” you say. “Different locations. Different vibes. We can’t look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon.”

He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. “This is ridiculous.”

"Completely,” 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. “When does Olivia need them?”

“As soon as possible,” you say. “I’ve already sent her some texts.”

He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anyway—to help you move—so he's free. “Okay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?”

“Dinner?” you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.

“For realism,” he says easily, even though it stirs in his chest—a warmth he can’t afford to let grow. “People in relationships eat food.”

You laugh, and it’s 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.

“Right,” you say, your voice lighter. “Of course they do.”

He glances at the clock on the dashboard. “We should probably head in. We’ll start with coffee.”

“Okay,” you say, drawing in a steadying breath. “Coffee tomorrow.”

He hesitates, then smiles at you—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. “Hey. We’ll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just… documentation.”

“Documentation,” you repeat faintly.

“Exactly,” he says. “Very romantic.”

You laugh again, quieter this time.

And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinks—not for the first time—that if this is what fake looks like, he’s 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.

“You go find us a table,” he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. “I’ll order for us.”

Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. “I’ll just—”

“Tea. Herbal. A dash of honey,” 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. “Go sit.”

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 they’ve been up forever, too. The place is cosy—soft 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. It’s not. It’s 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. “Okay,” you say. “Let’s get this over with.”

Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Ha,” 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 there’s 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. “You’re not sending that one, are you?”

“I might,” you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely won’t delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.

Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so it’s 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. It’s nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesn’t look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration you’re stable, supported, settled.

“It’s not good enough,” you murmur.

Jack leans in to look. “Too tired?”

“Too… professional,” you reply, disheartened.

“Do you want me to take it for you?” The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. She’s 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.

“Yes,” you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. “Please.”

She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You guys work at the hospital?”

“What gave it away?” you say dryly. “The dead eyes?”

She laughs. “That and the scrubs. Okay—move closer.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way you’re 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.

“Perfect, very cute.” the woman says. “Hold that.”

You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like the early morning light isn’t 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. Tired—but real.

You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isn’t real. And you really, really hope you’re 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 yet—his arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. That’s 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 you’ve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. You’re dragging a massive bag behind you—bigger than necessary, clearly—and Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “Of course you would.”

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 you’re greeting someone you haven’t 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.

He’s absurdly fond of you for it.

You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. “Okay,” you announce, breathless. “Before you say anything—I know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re moving in already?”

“It’s called being prepared,” you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. “Also, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes.”

He snorts despite himself. “Yeah, I can see that.”

You shove the bag in the backseat. “Careful. There’s a system in there.”

“I’m terrified,” he says.

You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.

“Ready?” he asks, carefully casual.

You grin. “Born ready. Exhausted, but ready.”

You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you don’t see how much that affects him.

The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.

“So,” you say, too bright after a few minutes. “I made a list.”

Jack exhales through his nose. “I knew it.”

“Outfits. Places,” you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You say that now,” you reply. “But when HR is convinced we’re soulmates, you’ll thank me.”

He hums. “Bold assumption.”

“You are welcome,” 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. It’s heavier than expected.

He winces. “You pack bricks in here?”

“Layers,” you correct. “Texture. Narrative depth.”

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 you’ve done this a hundred times.

Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. “Uh—kitchen first?”

You’re 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.

“You got coffee?” you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.

Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. “You could just ask me to make you a cup, you know.” His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like he’s trying to sound annoyed but failing.

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” you shoot back, holding out the mugs.

He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think it’s just because you still don’t know how to use this beauty.” His hand lands on the machine’s top with a gentle pat, like it’s a living thing.

You scoff, tilting your head. “Not my fault, you own the most fancy-pancy machine in the world.”

Jack doesn’t 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.

“Okay,” you say, lifting your phone. “Casual. Like we’re just… standing here. Used to doing this.”

“Yeah,” 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. “Maybe one more. But—uh—different angle.” 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 doesn’t move away.

You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changed—yours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like it’s 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. “So... we need something affectionate."

His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"

“Yes,” you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.

His gaze drops again. “I can— I mean, if you want. Only if you’re okay with it.”

“Yes,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. “I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s just for the photo, right?”

“Right,” he says. “Just the photo.”

Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.

You take a breath and add, quieter, “If it’s weird, we can stop.”

“It’s not weird,” he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, “I’m just… trying very hard not to do something you wouldn’t like.”

That makes your chest tighten. “I’ll tell you,” you promise. “If it’s too much.”

He nods once, as if steeling himself for what’s to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now. “I’m going to put my arms around you.”

You can’t help but snort despite the situation. “That’s very reassuring.”

“Sorry. Bad habit,” he replies, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. “I narrate under pressure.”

His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chest—not tight, not possessive. Careful. Like he’s 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.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. Then, because you’re also nervous, you add lightly, “You’re doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate.”

He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. “High praise.”

You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authentic—his arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that you’re leaning into him.

Snap.

For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jack’s arms remain where they are, as if he’s waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. “Okay,” you say softly. “We got it.”

He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like he’s 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. “Couch next?”

You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like him—warm, faintly coffee-scented—and it hits Jack harder than it should. It’s not the first time he’s 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.

“Sit down,” you command, flopping onto the couch.

“Bossy,” he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.

You laugh—a little too sharp, a little too quick—and then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like he’s 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.

“This okay?” he asks, voice quieter than he intends.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Is it okay for you?”

He swallows, the words coming too fast. “Yeah.” Then softer, almost under his breath, “Yeah.”

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, don’t 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 that’s nearly indecent—a 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.

“Relax,” you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he can’t disguise. “It’s just brushing teeth.”

“Very dangerous activity,” he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that it’s not the brushing he considers risky; it’s 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 doesn’t 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. He’s caught—cornered 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.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. “You look… very normal.”

He shoots you a look—sharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everything—of the closeness, the heat, the way his body won’t stop reacting.

A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and it’s infectious.

Another snap.

Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself he’s 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 his—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow that’s exactly the problem.

The photo captures it perfectly— how awkward, flustered and tense he feels—but 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 can’t. 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, he’s frozen. You look… breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.

“Hey,” he manages to say, voice casual but tight. “I brought you these.” He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.

You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. “You really didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. “But I wanted to. And, uh… figured it's a great mood setter.”

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.

“Thought I’d give you the thrill of being escorted down,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. “Better than a text, right?”

“Thrill? Really?” you ask, smirking, though there’s 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."

“Well, then,” he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. “You haven't been dating real men, then.”

You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He’s smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasn’t been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.

Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. “After you,” 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. You’re 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. He’s 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, he’s still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But it’s 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 he’s been practising all evening—but the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.

The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadn’t been able to see before. God. The colour, the cut—it’s perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadn’t thought imaginable. His chest tightens as his jaw clenches. He clears his throat subtly.

You catch him staring. “You look stunned,” you say lightly, teasing him. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."

“Stunned? Me? No. I—I mean, yes. You look… good,” he says quickly, fumbling with the words. “Very… good. Not too good. Perfectly good.”

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 he’s 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 small—a clumsy gesture, the way you sip your water—and your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries he’s being too obvious. He’s 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. “Right. HR,” you mutter, pulling out your phone.

Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but he’s 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 again—God, you look… stunning.

The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. “Want me to take one for you both?” he asks.

You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.

The waiter snaps the photo. Jack’s hand brushes yours just slightly on the table enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like it’s a casual touch. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what he’s 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 it’s 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, it’s done.

Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t 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.

“I’ll walk you up,” he says, breaking the silence.

You shake your head immediately. “I can—”

“I'll walk you up.” His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you can’t 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 buzzes—once, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. “No,” you mutter, exasperated. “No more. I’m done.”

Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. “…Everything okay?”

You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. “Yep,” you chirp, a little too brightly. “Everything's good. Totally fine.”

Suspicion narrows his eyes. “What did Olivia say?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Trouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.

Cautiously, you meet his gaze. “She wants—” You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “…more.”

Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. “Another hug? Another—”

“No.” You grimace. “Not that kind of more.”

He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out, “She said HR wants a kiss.”

The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. “…A kiss,” he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.

“Barely a kiss,” you rush to clarify. “Microscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake it—angles, illusions, movie magic—”

He steps closer, measured, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. “Breathe,” 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.

“We don’t do anything you don’t want,” he murmurs, low and even.

Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. “It’s fine. We have to... for HR.”

“Right,” he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. “HR.”

You don’t back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. “Uh—come in. We can do it in my room.”

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. There’s still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.

“Extremely,” 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.

“Do you want me to just…?” He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.

You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. “I’ve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school.”

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.

“This okay?” he murmurs, voice careful again.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in and brushes your lips—just a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.

Your chest jolts anyway.

Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepens—not 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 don’t.

Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like you’re checking that he’s 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. “…That should probably satisfy the committee,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.

“Probably,” 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. “Okay,” he says, his tone rougher than before. “We should… send it to Olivia.”

“Right. For HR.” You hit send, hands trembling slightly.

Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like he’s still catching up to his body.

Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesn’t move.

“Relieved?” you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.

“Relieved to be done changing clothes for the hundredth time,” 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 him—thin, tired, and undeniably real. “Count me out,” 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.

“Crisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it.”

Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then he nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “We did.”

You wake up hours later, disoriented, in an empty bed. A fleeting memory flits through your mind—Jack’s 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 hadn’t 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. He’s 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 away—relief, clear and unguarded—then 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.

It’s easy, for a fleeting moment, to imagine afternoons like this—shared silence, coffee waiting, and Jack attending to you with a casual care that feels immensely significant.

You don’t let yourself stay there.

“I should head back later,” you say lightly, attempting to downplay the heaviness in your heart. “Ride out the last of it at my place.”

Jack’s response is immediate. “You don’t have to,” he says. “You can stay. At least another day.”

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 ‘yes’ that threatens to escape and instead paste on a smile, one that doesn’t 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. “Or if she left the window open again. Last time we had pigeons. Plural.”

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. It’s phrased casually, but there’s something firm underneath it. It's not a question.

You open your mouth to protest—I’m fine, I can order an Uber—then close it again. The truth is, you’re still tired. Still a little shaky. And part of you doesn’t want to be alone quite yet.

“Okay,” you say finally, a reluctant acceptance creeping into your voice. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

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.

“Yeah,” you say, the answer forming more easily now. “Tired, but feeling significantly less like death.”

He exhales something almost like a laugh. “Good.” He pauses, then adds quieter. “I’m glad.”

When he pulls up outside your building, neither of you moves right away. The engine idles. The moment stretches.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you finally say, breaking the silence.

His gaze flicks to you then, steady and sincere. “Anytime.”

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 you’re 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 it’s natural to feel concern for someone unwell. That people were watching in the ER. That that’s 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.

How’s your head? You eating? Take your meds?

You respond honestly, but you don’t 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, you’re functional. Not great. Not fully recovered. But upright. And breathing. And pretending that’s enough.  

Pretending is your forte after all.

“You’re back!” Parker sidles up beside you at the hub, eyes flicking up to the board before landing squarely on you with evident relief. “Thank god.”

Your brows knit together as you turn to face her, arms crossing automatically. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t bother to mask her frustration. “Abbot’s been a nightmare to work with,” she says. “Distracted. Snappy. I swear he was checking his phone every two minutes. He even had Lena hold onto it just in case he was busy.”

You blink in surprise. "Oh."

Parker gives you a look. “I’ve never seen a guy so worried about someone with the flu,” she continues. “And that doesn’t even cover the day you came in sick."

Your stomach does a small, traitorous dip.

“Don’t know how you managed to sneak that past him,” she adds with a grin, clearly misreading the situation, and thinking you snuck out of the house after he left. “But he was a wreck that night. Total mess. He even had Robby come in hours early so he could go home to you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t 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. “I don’t think he was that worried,” you say, aiming for casual. He couldn't have been. It was probably just an act to keep the lie going. “It was just the flu."

Parker hums, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You shoot her a look. “Well, I'm back and I’m good.”

“Good,” she says brightly. “Because I can’t handle seeing his worried little frown all shift. It’s upsetting. And frankly, it kills the vibe.”

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 you—quick and sharp—assessing 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.

“You good?” he asks, low.

“Yeah,” you assure him. “Promise.”

He nods once, satisfied enough to move on, but not before his hand briefly brushes your elbow—grounding, 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, Jack’s attention is split—half on the monitor, half flicking to you, like he’s making sure you’re not pushing yourself.

You catch him doing it. Again and again.

“I’m fine,” you murmur under your breath at one point, adjusting the IV line with practised hands.

“I know,” he says just as quietly. “Humour me.”

The patient notices, too. Gives you a knowing smile. “You two work well together,” he says.

Jack answers automatically. “She's a great doctor.”

You can’t 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 he’s been holding something in all shift.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

Rolling your eyes, you can't help but feel fond despite the annoyance. “I survived. See? No hovering required.”

A hint of a smile escapes him.

In the middle of a week already testing your patience in every possible direction—work, roommate, sickness—fate decides to push a little harder.

It’s a wet, freezing, grey evening, the kind that makes merely existing outside feel like punishment. You’re 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 they’ve experienced an “engine failure”—an official term that translates into your language as: get out, everyone, and good luck finding your way home. And for you, this means: you’re in deep trouble.

The emergency stop is in a neighbourhood you only recognise because you’ve looked up ER wait-times here once (long live study procrastination)—long, 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 won’t 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 options—and your desperate situation.

Reluctantly, you call Jack.

Not because you want to, but because you’re desperate. It’s 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. “Hey,” he greets, instantly gauging that something’s amiss. “What’s wrong?

“I, um…” 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.

“Could you… can you come get me?”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end. “Where are you?”

You give the cross-streets.

Dead silence follows.

“Why the hell are you there? I thought you were working tonight?” he asks—not loud, just tight.

“I am. The bus broke down,” you mutter quickly, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine, it’s just—my next connection doesn’t come for forty minutes, and I’m going to be late, and I—”

“Stay where you are,” he commands immediately. There’s a jangle of keys, a shift in movement that speaks volumes. “Don’t walk around. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

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 expression—God, he looks furious.

“What the hell is this commute?” he demands as you slide into the warmth of the car. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

You fasten your seatbelt, the click sounding louder in the tense silence. “It’s not always—”

He slams the door harder than usual, takes a breath, and dives into the driver’s seat, shutting his own door with a similar intensity. His jaw clenches and flexes as he starts the engine. “This is a forty-minute detour from your normal route,” 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. “You do this every night?” he presses.

No answer.

"Every morning?” His voice is edged with concern now, but you’re unsure what reaction the truth would elicit.

Jack exhales heavily. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

"I'm sorry for calling you," you murmur.

“Hey.” He glances over at you, and in his eyes, the anger begins to dissolve into something softer. “No, no, sweetheart. I’m not mad at you. You can call me anytime.” His tone softens as he pulls onto the main road, still moving quickly but with more control now. “I just—if I’d known it was like this, I would’ve driven you.”

You try not to read into it. But God, it’s 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. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “You're really living up to your nickname, Trouble."

You blink at him, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Wow. So this is my fault?”

“Obviously. This screams personal vendetta."

You nod solemnly, playing along. “I did sense a hostile vibe from the engine.”

He shoots you a look that’s both incredulous and amused. “Don’t joke about engines. Too soon.”

“Sorry. My bad.” You smile slightly.

Another light. He brakes a little harder than necessary, then catches himself.

“You scared me,” he admits, the weight of his words hanging between you.

You swallow, the openness of the moment catching you off guard. “Sorry,” 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.

“Good news, though,” you say brightly. “If we’re ever in a zombie apocalypse, I now know three main exits and one suspicious alley to escape down.”

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “That’s… comforting.”

“I 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. “Next time, I’m driving you. No buses. No apocalypse training on my watch.”

You grin, sinking back into the comfort of the seat. “Look at that. One near-death experience, and I get upgraded transport.”

“Don’t push it,” he says, but there’s warmth in it.

The email hits your inbox at 3:20 PM, right as you’re dragging yourself out of bed for another night shift—brain fuzzy, your soul hovering somewhere between awake and asleep, but notably more intact than it’s 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, you’re now able to recite it word for word—backwards, if necessary—in 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 — 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. It’s 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 ring—the one you both picked out in a haze of exhaustion and bad coffee and… something else you refuse to name—slides 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. “You good?” he asks.

“No,” you reply flatly.

“Good. We’re on the same page.” He opens the door, his shoulder brushing yours in a fleeting moment of solidarity. The fluorescent lights inside still buzz like they’re trying to warn you to turn around. You ignore them.

Gina looks exactly the same—professional, rigid, already tired of this. "Doctors Abbot and Y/L/N,” she nods curtly in acknowledgement. “Let’s proceed.”

You and Jack take your seats, your knees bumping lightly beneath the table, a light and steady contact. You don’t 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. “We’ve reviewed your submitted documents. Everything looks good. However…”

Ah, the dreaded ‘however’.

“…We require further information.”

Jack nods politely. “Of course.”

She flips open a checklist that looks like it was designed specifically to ruin your week. “First point: cohabitation.”

Your stomach tightens at the mention of the word, but you manage to maintain a composed expression—tired but neutral, a facade you've mastered over the last few weeks.

“You currently still list separate addresses,” Gina continues, her tone brisk, leaving little room for interpretation. “Given your marital status, this discrepancy raises concerns for the COI committee. You mentioned last time that you were moving in together—can 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. “We’re still finalising logistics.”

Gina’s gaze sharpens, her brow slightly furrowing. “I’ll need you to have a date by the end of this week,” she presses. “To avoid any complications with your submissions.”

A whole week. Luxurious. Generous. Insane.

Jack's jaw goes tight. “We’ll have a date by Friday.”

You steal a glance at him, but he doesn’t meet your gaze—his 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 he’s right there with you.

“Good,” Gina says, like she’s 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. “May I see your rings?”

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.

“Looks good. Please ensure you’re wearing rubber substitutes in the ED.”

With that, she flips open another folder, “We’ve reviewed the documentation you previously submitted,” she says.

You and Jack exchange a subtle glance.

“Your timeline and personal statements have been added to the file,” she continues. “However, the COI committee has some follow-up questions due to the proximity and supervision overlap.”

Jack’s posture stiffens, a flicker of concern ghosting across his features. “Such as?” he asks carefully.

Gina slides a page across the desk. “They require supporting evidence.”

Your brows shoot up involuntarily. Supporting evidence? For a marriage? Is this HR or Homeland Security?

Gina leans forward, her tone clinical. “Photos together that predate the marriage. Proof of joint decision-making. Any texts or emails that chronicle the evolution of your relationship. And most crucially—documentation confirming your living arrangements moving forward.”

Jack maintains his calm facade, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying the storm of emotions beneath. “What kind of documentation?” he asks.

“A signed statement of cohabitation,” she states. “Along with the new shared address and the date of your move.”

Your brain short-circuits. This is no longer theoretical. No longer a loophole or a technicality. It’s 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.

“We’ll handle the administrative updates,” Jack replies.

Gina nods. “Please do. The committee expects everything to be submitted by the end of the week.”

Sure. Why not? What’s 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, final—an exclamation mark on this unsettling discussion. “That’s all.”

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 slightly—not to the point of collapse, but enough that Jack instinctively catches you by the elbow, concern etched in his features. “You okay?” he asks, his tone laced with genuine worry.

“I mean… define ‘okay.’”

He huffs a tiny laugh. “Fair.”

“She wants a move-in date this week,” you say, the weight of the situation settling heavily between you.

“Yeah,” he concurs, nodding. “But let’s not forget the silver lining—she also complimented our rings,” he says, his expression deadpan but the corners of his mouth betraying a smile. “A rare gesture of goodwill. I think I’ll frame it as a keepsake.”

You snort, unable to suppress your amusement. It’s 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!” she beams, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You two are seriously the cutest couple." Her gaze shifts to you, and she winks, adding, “I know quite a few people who were disappointed when they found out you snatched up this guy.”

You catch Jack’s reaction—the 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. “Thank you,” you say, though it doesn’t 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, “We’re doomed.”

You shake your head, trying to inject some lightness into the air. “We’re improvising impressively,” you counter.

He raises an eyebrow at you.

With a nudge of your shoulder against his, you offer him a playful look. “Hey, at least you know you still have options after the dust settles.”

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 he’s giving up by continuing this charade with you.

You let out a resigned sigh. “Shift?” you suggest, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Shift,” he agrees with a solemn nod. “And afterwards… we need to talk about moving in. Properly.”

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. “Okay.”

He nudges your shoulder again as you walk toward the locker rooms—light, 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 you’re 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, you’ve 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, “Good work,” 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 face—the one he only gets after he’s 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 he’s perpetually attuned to your presence. “You okay?” he asks, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Think so,” you say, though the weariness clings to your words. “And you?”

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.

“Come on,” he murmurs, logging out. “Let’s escape before someone congratulates us again. I'll drive you home.”

“Bold of you to assume we’ll make it all the way to the parking lot unscathed.”

“Don’t jinx it,” he mutters, guiding you toward the door with a soft nudge against your shoulder that feels suspiciously like checking whether you’ll topple.

You’re too tired to pretend the proximity isn’t comforting.

In the hallway, a nurse from the day shift calls, “Congrats again, you two! Seriously, cutest couple in the department!”

You both resist the impulse to react besides a polite nod, maintaining your pace.

Jack murmurs, “I wasn’t aware we’d entered a department-wide popularity contest.”

“Oh, but we’re winning,” you say. “Easily.”

“I regret everything,” he replies, but there’s the faintest smile in his voice.

You hit the parking lot in dawn light that feels too gentle for the night you’ve 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. “You’re quiet,” he observes.

“So are you.”

“Because if I start talking,” he says with a half-smile, “I might fall asleep mid-sentence.”

You give him a look. “Extremely reassuring from the person driving the car.”

He glances back. “You still have energy to sass me. That’s comforting.”

“I can sass and be half-dead," you argue. "It’s called multitasking.”

His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile, but faltering as exhaustion tugs at him. He exhales, a long, deliberate breath—revealing that his thoughts are churning beneath the surface.

“So,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “about what Gina said.”

You focus intently on the windshield, tense anticipation coiling in your stomach. “The unified household thing?” you ask, bracing yourself.

“Yeah.”

Your stomach tightens—not 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. “We need one address,” he continues, a trace of seriousness creeping into his voice. “A real one.”

“Right,” you respond, nodding slowly.

“And we need it soon.”

"Mm."

“And the logical choice is—”

“Your place,” you finish for him, your breath hitching in your throat. Suddenly, you’re 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. “Your roommate is…” he begins.

You make a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “A menace to public safety,” you supply.

“That’s one word for it," he chuckles, shaking his head.

You trace a foggy line on the window with your finger. “And you live ten minutes from the hospital," you add, weighing the pros and cons in your mind.

He nods once. “I do.”

“And you have… space," you acknowledge.

“Yes." He pauses, then adds lower, “And I don’t mind sharing it.”

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. “Doesn't hurt,” he adds, “that you might get actual sleep there.”

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 him—really look. Tired. Messy hair from the shift. That soft, worn-out fondness he doesn’t realise is written across his face whenever he looks at you right after dawn. Or maybe you’re imagining it, but you let yourself have this one for once.

“I don’t want to upend your life,” you say.

He huffs softly. “It’s not an upheaval.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” you retort, brow furrowing.

“It’s honest.”

You study him, heart racing, seeing him in this moment—tired, 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, you’re moving in with him. There was never any other option.

“Okay,” you finally say, attempting to sound casual.

He turns to you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. “Okay?” he echoes, his voice softer now, almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” You give a slight shrug, as if the decision is obvious—a simple matter of practicality. “Okay. Your place."

Something unknots in his shoulders—a slow release he must’ve been holding since the HR meeting.

You add, turning your head to avoid his face, "Just for a bit—I'll find somewhere to stay after this is over.” 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,” he says casually, like it’s nothing at all. Like he didn't hear what you said.

“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not taking your closet.” You won't be there for long so it doesn't make sense to rearrange his entire life for a couple of months.

“Then we’ll share," he counters, his expression unwavering.

His suggestion makes your pulse quicken. “You’re impossible,” you murmur, shaking your head with a smile.

He hums, a soft and low sound that kills the discussion, and turns onto your street.

It's dark when you wake, only a thin sliver of light cutting through the heavy black curtains.

Wait—your 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 second—memories clicking back into place one by one—for 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 grimace—that 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.

No—breathe, 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 easy—

—and then his eyes catch.

It’s subtle. Almost not there. Just the briefest pause, a flicker of surprise he doesn’t 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 casual—or 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." You’re 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.

“I noticed,” he says, smirking at you. “Am I about to walk into a crime scene?”

“Oh, shut up,” you mutter, knowing exactly what he’s referring to—the mess on your floor from yesterday. “I was having a crisis.”

"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 need—

“Coffee?” you ask, scanning the kitchen. Your gaze lands on the sleek espresso machine tucked into the corner—chrome, intimidating, definitely expensive. You hum softly. “Of course you’d have this thing.”

Jack makes a sound that’s halfway between a scoff and a wounded noise. He stands, rolling his shoulders. "A little respect,” he mutters, already grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “That machine has kept me alive for years.”

“Is that what you call it?” you ask. “I thought it was stubbornness.”

He smirks over his shoulder, starting the machine with practised ease. “Same thing. You want food?”

The thought makes your stomach roll unpleasantly. You grimace and shake your head. “Not yet. Still feel… questionable.”

He laughs, quiet but unmistakable, and you catch him biting it back like he’s trying not to show you. “That tracks,” he says. “You tried to outdrink Santos.”

“Hey,” you protest weakly. “Don’t be mean. She was out to get me last night.”

“Or,” he says lightly, handing you a mug that smells like salvation, “you’re just a lightweight.”

You accept the coffee with a grateful sigh, but don’t 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.

“You got Netflix?” you ask, already reaching for the remote.

Jack looks at you. “What do you think?”

You grin over the rim of your mug. “Oh, right. I forgot you were old.” 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 décor 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. “You alive over there?”

“Barely,” you murmur, then, after a moment, you say softer, “Thanks. 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. “Anytime.”

Your foot bumps lightly into his thigh after a minute, a soft nudge. “You don’t have to keep that on for me,” you say, tone easy, eyes still fixed on the screen like it’s no big deal.

Jack’s brow creases, surprise flashing across his face before he schools it away. There’s a pause—just long enough to register the weight of the moment—then he reaches down, unfastens the prosthetic, and sets it carefully beside the couch.

You don’t comment on it. That feels important somehow.

“You know,” you say after a beat, leaning back and settling in, “I once dated someone with a prosthetic arm.”

Jack blinks. Once. Then again. “Did you?"

“Yeah. He had this habit of… losing it,” you continue. “Usually right around dish-washing time.”

“Losing it,” he repeats flatly.

You nod. “Tragic stuff. We searched everywhere. Couch cushions. Laundry basket. Miraculously, it always showed up after the kitchen was spotless.”

Jack's silent for a moment. “That’s impressive,” he says.

“Weaponised incompetence,” you reply. “With accessories.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “For the record,” he says, glancing down at his leg, “I keep all limbs accounted for.”

“Good,” you say. “That would’ve been a dealbreaker.”

His mouth curves into a smile, small and genuine, like he didn’t mean to let it show.

"What about you? Any bad exes?”

He studies you for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s deciding how much truth to risk. Then he exhales through his nose. “My ex-girlfriend once decided she could dye hair.”

You sit up a little. “Oh no.”

“No training. No test strand,” he continues. “Fried it clean off.”

You burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, falling back against the couch. “That’s awful.”

“I had to wear a cap for months,” he adds dryly. “It was not a strong look.”

“That’s tragic,” you say, wiping at your eyes.

“It built character,” he huffs with a smile.

You sip your coffee, the smile lingering longer than necessary. The show keeps rambling in the background, but it’s easy to tune out now. Every so often, you catch Jack glancing at you. He’s subtle about it. Careful enough that you tell yourself it’s 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 you—firmly—that you chose right. That you’re doing great.

Later, it’s 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 isn’t awkward—it’s 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.

“Careful,” you mumble, half-asleep. “Don’t lose anything.”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, barely more than a breath.

You don’t move your legs.

And he doesn’t 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 freezing—it'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. “Here. Wear this instead.”

Before you can protest, he reaches forward, easing Robby’s 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 sleeves—quick, efficient touches, clearly meant to be practical. Still, your skin tingles where he’s touched you. He smoothes the fabric at your shoulders, then pauses for half a second, checking the fit like he wants to be sure it’s right.

It’s 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 doesn’t immediately move away. His gaze lingers on you, sharper now.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks.

You nod slowly, careful not to aggravate the dull pressure building behind your eyes. “Yeah.”

It sounds convincing. You’ve 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. You’ve already taken Tylenol, so there’s no fever for him to find—not that there ever was one. Just a headache.

A small, tired smirk tugs at your mouth. “You don't have to worry about me,” you murmur. "I'm fine."

“Hmph,” he replies, pulling his hand back, brow still knit. He tries to let it go. You can tell he does.

He doesn’t succeed.

The rest of the shift passes quietly, but Jack’s 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 don’t look at him. He doesn’t comment on it.

By the end of the shift, you’re still upright. Still doing your job. Still pretending there’s nothing wrong.

Maybe you were wrong yesterday. Maybe you were sick. Just a teeny tiny bit, though—not 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.

Jack’s early—because, of course, he is—and he’s 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 don’t look at me. You know it’s obvious. You can feel it radiating off you—heat 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.

“Ohoho, absolutely not.” Jack’s 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.

“Oh, yikes,” 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.

“Hey, guys,” you say, aiming for breezy. It comes out rough instead—scratchy and hoarse, like you’ve spent the night shouting instead of coughing quietly into a pillow and bargaining with your immune system.

Jack’s eyes narrow instantly. “Sweetheart,” he says, tone firm and unmistakably final, “You’re sick.”

You lift your chin, stubborn to the end. “I'm fit as a fiddle,” 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 you’re done arguing before you've even started.

He shifts slightly toward Robby, who’s already gathering the tablet like he’s been expecting this outcome. “You mind staying a bit longer?” Jack says. “I’m gonna take her home.”

Robby doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

“I’m fine!” you protest automatically, the words tumbling out on instinct, even as Jack’s hand settles around your elbow. The contact is gentle, steady, but there’s no mistaking the intent; it’s not a suggestion. He steers you toward the exit, body angled just enough to shield you from curious looks, pace unhurried but determined.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you are.”

You try to dig your heels in, but your legs don’t cooperate the way you want them to.

“Come on, Trouble,” 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. “Easy,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.

In the car, he doesn’t rush. He opens the door, helps you in, waits until you’re 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 it’s second nature. Only once you’re 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 you’re 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 fast—ten minutes flying by. You drift in and out, head lolling slightly, only waking when the car door shuts.

Jack’s arm is around you immediately when you’re out of the car, steady and sure. You don’t really need it, but you feel terrible, and you don’t have the energy to pretend you don’t 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.

“Sit,” he says gently, already rummaging through a drawer. He pulls out some clothes and presses them into your hands. “Get changed. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

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.

Jack’s already moved into doctor mode. His stethoscope is draped around his neck, thermometer in hand, and a pulse oximeter sits on the counter. He hasn’t said a word yet, just watches you like he’s cataloguing every flicker of fatigue, every subtle tell of your fever.

“You’re pale,” he says finally, voice low, more observation than accusation. He gestures toward the counter. “Sit. Let me check you.”

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.

“Heart rate’s up a bit,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Respiration’s fine, but you’re running a fever. It's most likely the flu.”

You open your mouth to protest, but your throat feels raw, scratchy, and weak, and the words falter.

Jack doesn’t 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 there’s 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. “I’ll be right back,” he assures.

He’s 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.

Phở.

Your chest tightens a little. That’s 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.

“You should go,” you mutter around the steam. Your appetite’s gone, but you try anyway. For him.

“Robby can wait a bit longer,” Jack replies without hesitation, his tone firm. It’s clear that this isn’t up for debate. “Have a bit more.”

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 he’s satisfied that you’re tucked in, warm, and as comfortable as you’re 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 can’t 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.

“Call me if there’s anything,” he murmurs, softer now, almost a whisper meant just for you. “Anything at all, okay?”

You nod, words stuck in your throat, the weight of gratitude making your chest feel impossibly heavy. "Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” 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 don’t pull away. You can feel the tension in him, the way he’s 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 it’s 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, there’s 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 must’ve 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.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and gentle, like loudness might break you. “Easy.”

He slides an arm behind your shoulders and helps you sit just enough to drink. You sip carefully because everything feels fragile—your body, your balance, your pride.

“Sorry,” you rasp after a moment, your voice barely a whisper as the words crackle from your dry throat.

Jack frowns softly. “For what?”

You gesture vaguely at yourself—at the blankets that feel like weights, at the tissues scattered about the bedside, at the pathetic little cough you can’t quite suppress that escapes your lips. “For… being like this.”

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. “Don’t,” he says quietly, his gaze steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

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.

“You’re shaking,” he notes, concern threading every syllable.

“I’m fine,” 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. “You’re really not.”

You don’t argue. You don’t 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.

“Head hurt?” he asks gently, his eyes searching your face for any sign of distress.

You nod. “Feels… fuzzy.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I figured.” He presses a cool palm briefly to your forehead, then your cheek, as if checking twice. You lean into the touch.

“Okay,” he says, reaching for the thermometer on the nightstand. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

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. “Still a little high,” 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. “Time for these,” he states softly, nudging the glass of water toward you with an encouraging smile. Once that’s 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.

You’re 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.

“Jack?” you murmur, voice small.

“Mm?”

“Could you… stay?” The words come out small, heavy with embarrassment, almost a whisper. They’re tinged with a raw, unspoken need for comfort.

There’s no teasing, no hesitation in his response. “'Course, I’ll stay, sweetheart," he murmurs, tone low and certain, as if it’s the only possible answer.

“In the bed?” 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.

“Sorry,” you murmur, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t usually get this—” Your voice falters; you can’t even finish the thought. The idea of allowing someone to take care of you, of letting yourself be fragile, feels almost foreign.

“Hey,” 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. “You don’t have to explain.”

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 you’re 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.

“Shhh,” he murmurs softly, thumb still tracing tiny circles against the back of your head. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

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 yours—a 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.

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? You’ve 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 Abbot’s every action is devoid of hidden meaning. He’s just being his normal self. But despite his unchanging demeanour, the way he slides water bottles next to your computer while you’re deep in charting feels monumental. The gentle touch of his hand on your elbow when he senses you’re 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 he’s kind, and he’s your attending. And that he’s married to you accidentally, not purposefully.

So you cling to denial like it’s 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, it’s Olivia, your best friend—and 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. You’ve been avoiding her for days, responding only with half-hearted texts in the desperate hope she wouldn’t 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 what’s to come.

"…Yo," you attempt to sound nonchalant as her face fills the screen, but there’s a palpable tension in your voice.

She narrows her eyes immediately, "Yo?"

You shrug, leaning back against the headboard, feigning casualness. “Just trying something new.”

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. “Liv—”

Her eyes widen, and she gasps, "It's a man, isn't it?"

You choke on your own surprise. “What—no—well—kind of—” 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, please—"

“You’re blushing,” she crows with delight. “Is he there? Is he in your apartment right now? Is that why you didn’t pick up? Wait—is he hiding in your closet?”

"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.

"Liv…" 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. “Hey, seriously. What’s going on?”

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, “We got married.”

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 don’t want to. This is breaking you, and you desperately need her support.

Olivia blinks at you in shock, her eyebrows shooting up. “...Come again?”

"Wegotmarried," you mumble fast.

"What?"

"You heard me," you say, panic bubbling over. "It was an accident—a wrong form at the convention, and HR thinks we did it on purpose, so we agreed to pretend, and now we’re in this whole mess, and we bought rings and—”

"What the fuck?" she interrupts.

"I know," you groan, pressing one palm against your forehead.

"You—" she starts, then pauses, her expression switching from astonishment to glee. "You accidentally married your attending?

"…Yes."

There is a beat of absolute, deadly silence.

Then Olivia screams—no, shrieks—and 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. “Start. From. The top,” she demands. “And don’t you DARE leave out anything.”

You sigh and begin. You tell her everything. Not cleanly—she interrupts too much for that—but enough that by the time you reach the part about the rings, you’re pacing your room in socked feet, your Chinese takeout completely forgotten.

Olivia sits back slowly, hoodie tightening around her like she’s retracting into a shell. “So, let me get this straight. You… married the man you’ve been pretending you don’t have a crush on for a year.”

“It’s not—it’s not a crush.”

“It is so a crush,” she fires back. “Sweetheart. I have screenshots.”

You curl into yourself, mumbling, “Out of context—”

“You were sober.”

You bury your face in your pillow with a dramatic groan. “That’s not—.”

“You mooned over him because he saved you a seat next to him at the bar one time. Don’t lie to me.”

"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.

Olivia’s expression softens ever so slightly, but her tone stays sharp. “Okay, 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. “Oh my god. No wonder you look like you aged six years.”

Before you can reply, your phone buzzes insistently. Three new messages sliding across the top of your screen:

Abbot: You home? Abbot: You didn’t text when you got in. Abbot: Just making sure everything’s alright.

Your heart leaps and crashes all at once.

Olivia catches the shift in your demeanour immediately—of course, she does—and her eyes widen. “Show me.”

“No.”

“Show me, or I’m hacking your phone.”

You glare at her, but still screenshot it and send it to her.

Her mouth slowly, slowly drops open. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “He is so in love with you.”

“He is not in love with me.”

“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “I am begging you to hear yourself. This man is texting you because he’s 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.

“I know enough,” she insists, raising an eyebrow, a challenge silently hanging between the two of you. You snort despite yourself.

She studies you quietly, eyes softening. “Okay. Jokes aside… are you actually okay?”

You hesitate. Then nod. “I’m just tired. And everything feels... surreal.”

She nods in sympathy. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Another buzz interrupts the moment.

Abbot: If you’re asleep, ignore me. I just want to know you’re home safe.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Olivia’s voice is softer now. “You should text him back.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Start with: ‘I’m safe.’” She offers decisively. “You can freak out about your feelings later.”

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, “You know… it doesn’t have to stay fake.”

You pull your sweatshirt tighter around yourself and shrug, “There's nothing to make real.”

She looks at you for another long moment. “Okay. None of that matters right now. You’re exhausted. You’re 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, sure—it's more like a thriller where you hold Abbot hostage for three months until your residency finishes.

You huff a tired laugh. “Have a good day, Liv.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Abbot.”

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 Abbot’s name, you admit it once more, quietly, just to yourself this time. Yeah. It’s a crush. A stupid, impossible, heart-aching crush.

And you’re 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 Bridget’s 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.

“Thanks, Jack,” 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 don’t 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 who’s known Jack as long as he has… something that looks a lot like feeling.

Robby corners Jack the second you step out of sight. “Got a minute?” 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. Jack’s shoulders are set, not defensive, but bracing. He knows what’s coming. He’s 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. “Alright,” he says, turning to face him. “What’s going on?”

Jack exhales a short breath. “You dragged me up here. You tell me.”

“Don’t be cute,” Robby snaps, leaning on the railing. “You and your… wife.”

At the mention of the word, Jack’s entire body goes still—an instinctual reaction he can’t suppress.

Robby lets out a humourless laugh. “See, that right there. You freeze every time I bring her up. And she looks like she’s gonna faint when someone says congratulations.”

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. “Look, brother, I’m not mad you’re together. Hell, I bet good money on it happening someday. But you’re lying to me, man. And I need to know why.”

Silence sits heavily between them. Robby softens a fraction. “Just tell me.”

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, “It wasn’t intentional.”

Robby blinks. “What do you mean it wasn’t intentional?”

“It was paperwork,” Jack explains. “An HR form that got processed before we caught it. By the time we realised what had happened, the system had already updated our records.”

Robby stares at him.

Jack swallows, forcing himself to continue. “If we'd tried to reverse it, HR would’ve done a full conflict-of-interest audit. They would’ve pulled every chart I supervised for her, every procedure I signed. Everything she’s done in residency could've been flagged—”

“And she would take the hit.” Robby finishes quietly.

Jack nods once.

Robby takes a step back, rubbing a hand over his face in disbelief. “So you’re telling me you two woke up married, and instead of undoing it, you’re just pretending until she finishes residency?”

Jack's jaw clenches at the word pretending. "That’s the plan,” he says.

Robby mutters something halfway between disbelief and sympathy, “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

Both men fall into silence as the city hums below them, the morning rush slowly gathering pace. Finally, Robby’s keen gaze returns to Jack. “You care about her,” he says quietly. “More than you’re admitting.”

Jack doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. For Jack, that’s louder than a confession.

Robby’s gaze sharpens with recognition—and something like resignation. “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “She didn’t ask for any of this. She’s just trying to survive residency. I’m not dragging her down with me.”

Robby’s expression shifts, a beat of sympathy. “You're not dragging her down by admitting your feelings, you know.”

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 residency—things 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. “Okay. Listen. I’m not going to HR. I’m not going to anyone. I get why you did it, and… she’s a good kid. She works her ass off.” He sighs. “You'd better keep her protected. Because if this backfires on her—”

Jack nods. “I know.”

“I’ll help you keep this steady,” Robby says. “But don’t lie to me again.”

Jack meets his eyes, guilt and relief mixing. “Deal.”

Robby claps his shoulder once, a silent promise of support. “Alright. I’m going down." He’s halfway to the door when he pauses, “Oh—and Jack?”

Jack looks back.

Robby smirks, tired but knowing. “You 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 can’t afford. He stays where he is, gripping the railing, the sun catching on the exhaustion in his eyes—and the thing he’s decided he'll keep quiet forever if it means having you in his life.

A few days later, Jack's cursing Dana out—loudly—in 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 be—maybe 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 sleeves—he couldn't care less at the moment—he'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?

Jack’s 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 it’s 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 hadn’t 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 sooner—guess fate has your back on that matter.

As you scan the room, Parker’s head pops up from a booth, and she waves you over. “Lovebirds!” 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 it’s taking all your focus not to lean back into his touch.

"Are you drunk? I thought you had to work?” you tease, plopping down on the cosy leather seat beside her. Lena grins at you as Abbot slides in next to you.

“Drunk on love,” Parker declares with a cheeky wink. “But 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. “To the newlyweds and to me winning the bet!”

Parker leans across the table to give him a gentle smack on the shoulder. “There should be an automatic forfeit if you brag about it too much,” 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.

“This okay?” he leans down, his voice barely above a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. You can’t muster the words to respond, so instead, you nod subtly, offering a smile that you hope looks convincing. He mutters dryly, “Just blink twice if I’m 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 can’t 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. You’re 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 cutest—get in line. I think I’ve heard that a million times by now."

"Honestly, you guys made me wanna barf multiple times," Trinity reveals with a playful smirk.

“What?” you exclaim, taken aback. “Why?”

“Oh, please," she teases, her tone lighthearted. "You think you’re being subtle with those bedroom eyes across the ER? We’ve all seen it!” Her laughter rings out, infectious and teasing.

Your eyes widen in shock, and you stammer, "We—we've not—"

“Oh, relax,” Trinity says, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s 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.

“What?" she shrugs. "He walks around like he’s packing, so I’m gonna assume that’s a yes!”

“Oh my god,” you murmur, horrified laughter spilling from your lips. “I need another drink.”

"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 rou—.

You're just gonna dance. And definitely not think anymore.

By the time you’re 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 it’s 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 Jack—Abbot, 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 it’s 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.

“Oh, you know me so well. I could kiss you right now,” 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 hasn’t 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. “You can just sit on Jack,” 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.

You’re tired. Drunk, too—just enough that you’ve stopped pretending you aren’t. Jack doesn't mind. He lets his shoulder angle slightly so you’re more comfortable, his arm resting loose around you, not claiming, just there. He likes it when you're like this—happy 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 like—no, he can't start thinking like that.

Eventually, Jack glances down. You’re half-gone, eyes heavy, cheek pressed to him like that’s where you belong. He smiles without meaning to.

“You ready to go?” 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 tightens—something fond and careful unwrapping.

"Sweetheart?"

“Mmm.”

That’s enough of an answer.

“We’re heading out,” Jack tells the guys still lingering, already guiding you up with an arm around your waist. You come easily, leaning into him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Outside, the cool air cuts through the warmth of the bar, and you blink like you’ve just woken up.

Then, you panic. “You can’t drive.”

Jack laughs, low and easy, because of course you’d worry about that. “I only had two beers,” he tells you, opening the passenger door. “And that was hours ago.”

“Oh.” 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.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "Did you have fun tonight?"

Jack meets your eyes, really meets them, and decides to answer honestly. “I always do when I'm with you.” 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, it’s just the road and your breathing evening out beside him.

Then you frown. “…This isn’t the way to my apartment.”

“I know,” 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.

“You’re staying at mine,” he explains. You don’t say anything right away. Jack catches your reflection in the window—thoughtful and uncertain. Then he smirks a little, unable to help himself and also wanting to hear you say something, to let him know he isn’t stepping over the line. “Your place has stairs,” he adds. “I’m not fighting gravity tonight.”

That finally gets you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, but you’re smiling now. You sink back into the seat, tension draining out of you as if you’ve 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 you—just in case you fall asleep before you get there.

Abbot’s 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 space—allowed behind the version of him the hospital sees—hits 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. You’re not here because this means something.

You’re 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. “Hard to forget when the entire ER panics if we run out of milk and you go feral.”

"Hey!" you protest. "That only happened—"

"—three 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. It’s 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. “When we started dating. Why we kept it private. Why the wedding happened the way it did. Why it wasn’t disclosed. And why we’re not living together.”

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."

“Yes, we were swept away by the intoxicating scent of stale coffee and lukewarm pastries. Truly romantic.”

He rolls his eyes at you. "Funny."

You shove his arm lightly. He pretends not to smile.

"We need a real reason…" 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. “…Something thoughtful,” he corrects softly. “Something that mattered enough we could claim it as ours. That’s why the convention. Quiet in its own chaotic way. No one cared. Just us.”

You blink, chest tightening, the feelings you’ve carefully buried straining to the surface. It’s fake, you remind yourself. He’s faking it. You’re faking it. That’s all this tightness is. You smile, hiding the pain behind your usual humour.

“Right,” you say, voice lighter. “Because nothing says forever like fluorescent lights and branded pens.”

He glances at you, eyes soft with amusement. “Hey, if I can get your attention in that lighting, I’m feeling pretty confident.”

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.

“Whose idea was it?” Abbot asks, looking at his notes.

You tilt your head. “Do we really have to assign blame?”

“HR will ask,” he says evenly. “And we need one answer.”

You groan. “Fine. You pick.”

He pauses, considering, then says, “Mine.”

"Why yours?"

“Because,” he says, calm as if he’s discussing the weather, “I’m more believable as the person who would want something private. Something… just for us.”

Warmth spreads from your chest to your fingertips, a quiet, traitorous bloom. You squash it. You’re getting good at that. “…Okay,” you say. “Then you suggested it.”

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. “So, living together… We say we planned to move in after I finish residency. To avoid a conflict of interest.”

Abbot exhales, relief barely audible. “HR loves delayed gratification. Good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Noted: HR is horny for boundaries.”