manmademartyr

“Baby’s doing fine. This is nothing more than Braxton Hicks.”

Jack looks to the young pregnant mother in her second trimester, mild contractions but not in active labor, as her first kid plays with her fingers. She’s stable, and as of now, there seems to be no reason to send her to L and D. It's the kind of case that gives them time to breathe.

“Or maybe your kid just doesn’t like the food here.”

“I don’t!” 

Jack smiles closed-lipped at the five-year-old’s proclamation. The mother chuckles with Whitaker at the monitor. Jack watches the way your lips form a warm smile as you pick up the chart for vitals.

Sometimes he wants to kiss you and the pink of your brain, because every other night is when he’s stuck realizing the way your lips move or hips sway or brain bleeds nursing genius into every other shift. 

You and the pink of your brain. It’s not fair, really. He needs to see you stumble over him. That’s only fair, sleepy. You’ll like it.

“We don’t blame you or your little sibling. You should’ve seen what the cafeteria called spaghetti last week.”

Jack doesn’t look up, banter ready at the ends of his stubble. “Still better than what you packed for lunch that day. What was it again, cheesy rice and a packet of almonds?” He turns to the mom. “You’d think the girl who brings her co-workers lemon squares bi-weekly would know how to properly feed herself.”

“It was brown rice with spinach and parmesan cheese. Full of flavor. Don’t be uncultured, Dr. Abbot. It’s unbecoming of you.”

“You said that when I didn’t shave for two weeks.”

“...I was joking. That was so becoming of you.”

Jack just smiles at the mom. A sort of “Hearing this? Yeah, this is what I deal with every day.”

Wouldn’t change it for the world, regretfully. 

“I’m being serious, you know.” 

“...I know.” 

“...Do you guys always talk like this?”

You and Jack both watch the patient with her bright grin. You both miss the way Whitaker nods with everything genuine on his face, mouthing “Yes!”

“Yep! He’s my morale booster.” 

Jack’s head lifts back. 

Those words of yours send something burning down his spine. 

You better not be joking, he can’t feel like this over a joke. 

“...Tragically.”

You and he share a glance, and Jack…Jack here, in the before, is still in a place where he can ignore–pretend that a glance like this isn’t tethering. He pretends he’s not locking focus onto you, something deeper than he realizes. 

Something deeper than you let on. He doesn’t realize that either. 

A flow of black hair strolls by the open curtain, and there, it’s obvious that Santos, with a chart in her hands and a scrunch of her face, hears the tail end of your and Jack’s banter.

“Just get married already.” 

Jack’s head snaps to the intern, eyes leaving the way you call after her. 

“We’re already divorced. You missed the custody hearing over my pen he keeps stealing.”

His fist clenches. His neck jerks in one stiff movement.

Why the hell would she say that? 

No. Jack couldn’t know why that singular quip from Santos fills him with a quick rage in his chest. It’s ridiculous…

It’s ridiculous as much as it should be valid, right? 

Santos is good, and she’s capable of molding her insults into something that’s not worthy of reprimand most of the time–but she can’t talk like that. Not to an attending. Not about you and him. That’s inappropriate as much as it’s disrespectful.

…Even if you liked it. The implication that others can see that you and him are…something. 

But you liked it, and that ships something burning to the lower ends of his stomach. Would you like to know that? That you’re doing this to him? He bet you would. 

“...I’ll give it back once I’m finished charting tonight.”

But even if you do–even if you do know what you do to Jack, which is what he’s constantly fucking said is the only thing he needs to stop feeling like a dirty old man, the assurance that you’re in need of him as much as he is in need of you, the guy…he knows it doesn’t matter.

Maybe he needs you a little dirtier, sleepy.

“They could be mommy and daddy with each other.” 

The mother laughs again as you snort at the so-to-be big brother’s genuine words. Jack tries not to take in a breath, because a kid who's only been able to use the bathroom on his own for two years cannot be assurance–no fucking way. And he doesn’t care for the way Whittaker looks to him, his attending, and you to see if it’s okay for him to laugh too. 

“Yes, sweetheart, they would make very cute parents, wouldn’t they?”

Jack nods once, thin smile going down as quickly as it went up.

“She’d look good pregnant.”

…He doesn’t even know what he’s said until his words hit the room like a dropped scalpel.

Jesus Christ. What in the actual fuck did he just say? 

Jack wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t–he was just lost in the flow of the banter. He didn’t mean to say that–

Even if it’s true. 

Jack burns in the neck and jaw as you freeze, and he’s hoping to God it’s not in offense, because you should know he did not mean to say that. He watches the small of your fingers hover over the vitals chart. You blink once. Slowly. 

He didn’t mean to say that. He’s sorry. What in the hell is wrong with him now?

What are you doing to him to make him slip up like that? 

…Jack’s not looking at his med student, but he can be sure Whittaker’s giving the same look a deer gives when they’re scared.

Fuck. 

He doesn’t feel relief give way when the breath you let out is something of a half-laugh, half-scoff. 

“Uh…thanks, doc–”

“I meant in general.” He cuts your small words off quickly, staring with a focus of what he makes sure looks like assurance at you, because he’s not willing to fumble in front of a patient, even though his ears are burning in the way they haven’t since he was a kid caught by mom. Jesus Christ. Maybe later. “I meant–you’d carry well.”

Oh. Fuck him.

He tries to smile, because he feels better when you do, even if his teeth-baring is probably half as effective. He still feels sick, and you still look like you’re not enjoying this. 

But…would you…would you allow his words to be something concerning some fucked up flirtation? Would you allow him that, sleepy? He needs it. Even if he doesn’t deserve it.

“Never mind.”

Jack clears his throat and turns his sights back to the chart, suddenly very interested in fetal heart rates.

So, no. He couldn’t know the way you shake your head with a quiet smirk. He’ll just want to die for the next ten minutes instead. That’s a habit too. But neither of you could know that Whittaker’s eyeing the tile with a new, uncomfortable edge sitting deep in his chest. 

Even he’s been able to get past Dr. Abbot’s and your’s…quirky flirtations like everyone else. He’s even been able to have moments where…whatever his attending and you are make him smile–where he can find it endearing. Or something.

But that was something else. That was something that makes him want to apologize to the patient when he ends up alone with her. That was something that makes him want to ask if you’re okay with that kind of thing, and between all the things he’s seen of you and Dr. Abbot, you’re more than okay with a lot. You’re more often the perpetrator.

“Sorry about that, Ma’am.”

…Yep. Whittaker’s almost brave enough to call it…wrong.

Instance Worthy Of An HR Report #2: Smudge 

The second time Jack fucks up is the fiftieth time you fuck up. Another day that ends in Y, really. You, kid, are made up of flirtations and poking, brightly-colored manicured nails that belong to him and him only. He doesn’t know when he decided that, but the fact he did is half of the problem, he’s sure. What he could also name a fuck up is that fact that he’s getting closer and closer to not…giving any absolute care in the world about it. If he did care, then he wouldn’t be fucking up right here, right now. 

When he doesn’t stop you from squeezing his bicep or telling him that his medical skills are as beneficial as his looks, he fucks up. When he enjoys it, feels every tease and cheeky smile in the bruising of his old bones, he really, really fucks up. And if he cared enough about that, he’d stop you from pushing. 

“Your bicep was made to be a pillow, Dr. Abbot. The way your hands were made to save lives, your biceps were made to be my headrest.” 

But God, do you push. And that means, you want it, right? You want him, even if he doesn’t know how the fuck in the world that happened. And that…

Unfortunately for whatever conscience and morals he has left, that’s stopping him from fucking and hoarding the young, wanton nurse, that’s gonna be enough for him.

But with the way you lean into him, smile tired in its beauty, and yada yada do, it’s not unfortunate for you. Quite the opposite. You should act like it when the time comes. 

God, what the fuck are you doing to him?

You both still smell faintly of blood and saline. Jack watches you lean against the counter as you wipe your cheeks, your hands trembling just enough to notice if you’re looking closely. 

And Jack is looking closely, because apparently, he’s the only one around here who’s going to notice you collapse because you, despite taking care of everyone around you, pretend that there’s no time to take care of yourself.

Just another reason he should have you. 

Jack crosses his arms.

“You didn’t eat. You obviously haven’t slept enough to be working a full shift. You didn’t even–”

“Jack–”

“Don’t 'Jack' me. You’re not gonna be any good to anyone if you run yourself into the ground.” 

You exhale, obviously half-amused at the lecture, and the guy’s thankful that you're too tired to throw some knowing quip at him. He’s not in the mood to feel his lungs go tight. But he’s mostly thankful that you don’t bring up the one-time pregnant debacle that happened a couple of days ago. There’s no need.

“You’re one to talk, Jack.”

Jack smirks. His heart beats against his thick chest. He moves in closer, and he can’t remember when he began doing that. 

“Watch it.” 

He’s tired too, but not as tired as you. Not tired enough to not want to see you fall under his words. 

But you don’t hide the embarrassment on your face. You don’t give Jack a stuttered tease he can stiffly tilt his head at. 

You just let your head collapse onto his shoulder. That’s nothing new, it’s what you do when you’re too fatigued to keep what little sense of professionalism you have with Jack on your skin, and it’s been a while since he…really, kid, he really did attempt to stop you from doing this. Once. A long time ago. 

But why stop you now? You look so…peaceful. 

Peaceful enough, that without asking, without thinking, you turn your face and wipe your mouth against his sleeve–a lazy, almost toyed gesture. 

Jack doesn’t move. He can’t move. 

Well. You’ve never done that before. 

It’s like every nerve of his is aware of your weight against him, the warmth of you through thin cotton. 

Keep this up, and he’s not gonna like what he has to do to you. Maybe. He hopes the good of him will keep strong by then. 

Jack lets out a deep, deep breath. Act normally, dumbass. 

You can't fuck her and tell her all the things you want right here. Can you imagine that? Ripping apart her scrubs and holding her up against the wall? No, then you'd have to pay for the damage. She buys the expensive kind. Figs. They always fit too well. But he'd pay. He'd take care of you and all your ruined clothes.

“You’re living up to the name I gave you.” Jack closes his eyes when you push your face further in. His voice is flat. “You know that was disgusting. I should reprimand you to hell, sleepy.” 

“...Mhm.” 

But he won’t. Hence, the fuck up at this very moment. 

He lets you lean onto him, lips staining his scrub sleeve with the lip gloss you’re wearing, and he’s only getting closer to realizing he’ll let you do things like this over and over and over again. And right now, his ignorance, his denial of it all, is the only thing keeping him straight. Alright. Whatever the word meaning straight. 

“You’re gonna take a twenty in the break room.” 

“Jack, the shift ends in an hour–” 

“I’m not trying to kill the ego you don’t have, but the nurses can do without you for less than a quarter of 60 minutes. What’s gonna happen when you wipe yourself on Langdon, or a patient? You’re going to force me to save you from whatever healthcare management’s gonna say about that?” 

Jack watches you with unblinking eyes as you smile faintly, not meeting his gaze. 

“Yep.” 

He doesn’t know if he’s waiting for you to meet it, or if he just can’t help himself when it comes to swallowing the sight of you whole. It’s as ridiculous as it is something he’ll stop finding ridiculous one day. He’ll be entitled to it. 

God, he already is—no thanks to you. Look at you. 

Pretty, capable thing on his shoulder. 

“Yeah. But…you won’t have to force me.” 

Jack’s less harsh on himself for not knowing why those are the words that make you drag your eyelids open. But he takes the moment, eyes never leaving yours. 

“Break room. Now.”

You blink, and Jack takes the burn of your head, leaving him when you pull away to smile and nod. You’re already taking a few steps on the way to the break room. 

“Whatever you say, captain.” 

His lips slightly curl at that. They fall when you turn to leave. 

He tugs on his stained scrub sleeve, and it’s only when he catches Whittaker’s gaze snapping away from him that he realizes…you and him and your mouth along his bicep have been in view of the entire Pitt. 

It’s just another thing that he has to almost care about. But Jack has a feeling that if anyone doesn’t have the smarts (like Dennis Whittaker) to look away, then that might be a problem. But the only person, as of now, to never look away from you…

That’s him. 

Instance Worthy Of An HR Report #3: Caught

Robby’s first thought when he can’t find Jack is to check the rooftop. But, wouldn’t he know it, he’s lucky enough that he doesn’t even make it to the elevator when he catches sight of the guy. He smiles when he turns into the doorway of the break room. 

His smile drops when he sees it isn’t just Jack. 

It’s you and Jack. Which, nope…that’s not an uncommon sight nowadays. Heck, Robby’s got a mind to know that sight of his favorite nurse (he’ll only admit that when you’re on your deathbed) and the second-best attending in Pittsburgh close enough to be a perpetual…cuddle isn’t that odd anymore. Right? Right. You and Jack are much too competent at your jobs for him or anyone else to care. 

But what Robby’s stumbled in on is you with your head lolled towards the armrest, one hand tucked under your cheek. There’s a tiny crumb, maybe one from those expired vending machine crackers, on your pinkened bottom lip. Are you wearing a different shade of lip gloss? 

He blinks quickly with furrowed brows when Jack’s knuckle brushes it away. Gently, intimately. He pushes his curled finger against the corner of your lip just enough to make a soft indent. 

Robby finds the need to stuff his hands in his pockets as deeply as possible. 

That? He guesses that’s…what’d you call romantic. Cute. It makes sense. You like Jack, and Jack, really, really likes you–and the inability of either of you to make a move, at least when one of you is conscious, is ridiculous and amusing. Entertaining for this Godforsaken place, he can’t live without. And it’s never been a problem. 

In fact, there’s nothing about this scene that’s really a problem now. Yeah. So why Robby feels something heavy coming at his arms? That’s on him, maybe. 

He watches Jack watch you stir, lashes fluttering. 

“Go back to sleep,” Jack drags your last name in the order. Robby’s head lowers. 

It’s dramatic to do this in their place of work, but it’s more funny than wrong, so Robby takes on focusing on trying to swallow the shit-eating grin he’ll wear when Jack turns around–

“You’re killing me.” 

…It’s swallowed. 

“Hey, Jack.” 

Jack’s head stiffly jolts in turning to Robby, and he gets why his jaw is tight. He’s been caught in…whatever the fuck this is. 

“I was just coming to find you to relay what’s in store for me, as always…you good–” 

“Have you made it a habit to stalkingly leer at people, Robby? Jesus Christ.”

Robby stills at Jack’s whispered, harsh tone. 

Is this going to be a problem? Jack Abbot, the Jack Abbot he’s known forever, wouldn’t allow that. He’s Jack Abbot, he’s just been caught in a web of vulnerability by the man who’s non-professional relationship with him is, at most, made up of asking for beer and bar recommendations and the occasional talk to get each other to stop fantasizing about suicide, even if he’s Jack Abbot–a man who’s more open about his trauma than the usual stone-wall doctor because he manages to be somewhat healthy about his mental health. He has a right to be embarrassed and mad as much as Robby has a right to critique that…fucking tone. 

Yep. That’s what he’s going to go with for now. 

“I didn’t mean to stalk you, brother. I just wanted to find you…” Robby shakes so, so slightly in an up-and-down motion. “And I did.” 

Jack’s jaw slightly loosens. Robby’s eyes shift away from where his hand drops from your face. 

“Sorry, you just jumped up on me. That’s it. We actually…” His eyes shift back when footsteps come heavy his way, and he has to lean against the breakroom doorway when Jack shoots right by him, head lifted and body stern in posture. Eyes are never not confident. “We weren’t short tonight, so a good amount of patients have been triaged.” 

“She alright?” 

Jack doesn’t slow in his walk as Robby follows. He doesn’t blink when glancing at him. 

“She’s fine. Just extremely tired, you know her. I’d rather her be slightly unprofessional and sleep on the job instead of being very unprofessional and collapsing over in the middle of a shift.” 

“...So she didn’t knock out while clocked in on her own accord.” 

“No. So don’t bully her.” 

Robby smiles with a closed mouth. 

Maybe moves have been made. Maybe it’s seeping into his hospital because you two can’t keep your hands off each other. Maybe congratulations are in order. 

More like a “Final-fucking-ly.” 

“Should I send you two a housewarming gift?” 

Jack stops in his tracks. 

“What?” 

Okay. Maybe Robby didn’t swallow his shit-eating grin well enough. 

“I’m not going to insinuate that you two need head up to HR and file a consensual relationship agreement, and I have absolutely no interest in figuring out the dynamic between the both of you, but if something happened, Abbot, you…you’re lucky. She’s lucky–” 

“Robby.”

…It’s swallowed again when Jack turns to him, nothing like humor and everything like a stern, well-kept rage on his face. Something like a warning under the curls and against his stubble. 

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

Robby looks out to the coldly lit hall before shrugging his shoulders at Jack. “Okay, sorry–if nothing happened…and nothing did, it’s the first hour of my shift, I’m still dragging on my riffing–” 

“I just don’t know what you’re talking about. So don’t talk about it.”

The other attending’s head is slightly lifted up at him. He’s not the first one to look away. 

Robby scoffs at his shoes. 

“Okay, Jack. I’ve apologized. Let’s move forward.” 

They do, because maybe Jack’s had a bad night. Or maybe…

Maybe even if nothing has happened between the both of you, Jack think he’s entitled enough to act this way when you’re the topic of a conversation, but for the sake of his friend, and for the sake that he doesn’t care to deal with this, Robby convinces himself, quite easily, that it’s the former. 

And in that, as Jack relays Pitt information as he hands over the E.R., Robby couldn’t catch how Jack’s jaw is still so tight. 

And Jack couldn’t know it’s because he’s walking himself to the edge of a cliff to bury himself alive there. 

Instance Worthy Of An HR Report #4: Guilted

You know what you’re doing to Jack. 

Well, you thought you did. 

You’re not stupid, for the most part. You know that your teasing and gifts and everything you do to and with Jack isn’t just something for him to roll his eyes at. You would be an idiot not to notice that you and your attending like each other, and with every unblinking glance and banter growing with more and more tension, with more heat in your stomach, it’s becoming less and less fun and instead becoming something that you’re probably going to have to confront with him sooner or later. But as of now, you can barely handle the thought of Jack Abbot being attracted to you enough to want you without your knees collapsing in together. So, you hope it’s the later. The latter. Because you… 

You’re also not stupid enough to think the way you want him is normal, because you want him too much, and you are stupid enough not to immediately try to kill that feeling. Instead, you’re waiting on all the signs to justify it–that need. 

That need to hold his broad, thick arms in the night. That need to have his hands grab your face and whisper things to you that aren’t flirtatious nothings and professional praises. That need to see what he looks like underneath his scrubs. That need to know all of him, how he feels–what he’s like when he’s against you under the sheets. You’ll wonder if he’s as stern and commanding and stoically teasing inside of you if he never gets to be inside of you. That need to feel like death at the idea that he may never be inside you and your house and your kitchen and on your couch. 

That need that eats away at the word “casual”. That need that finds you when you should, at the very least, just think about having sex with him. That you should just think about fucking him and maybe date him…but no. That need wants more, and it’s a part of you. 

And at best, Jack probably just wants to fuck you and maybe date you. Maybe commit. That’s what you thought. 

“I grabbed Thai.” 

You look up from your almost devoured granola bar. Dana gave it to you; she’s occupied with being the best nurse there is two computers away. 

“Who’s thigh?” 

You hear Dana snort. 

Jack doesn’t blink. His mouth curls by an inch, which means he found your quip to be very, very hilarious. 

Maybe he’s okay with whatever this is for the rest of you and him, and that need is telling you that if this is the only way you can have him, you’ll take it. God, Dr. Abbot. I’ll take you anyway I can have you and try my best not to feel pathetic about it. I’ll never be able to just want to fuck you, but if that’s what you want, flirts and/or fucks with no-strings attached, I’ll pretend like that idea’s not hanging my neck up by those very strings. I’ll just hope you’ll like me enough to cut them. To tolerate attachment. Sheeshy. If that’s where I’ll end up, maybe I’m okay with nothing ever happening. 

It’s why you smile brightly, cheeks creased til they're hurting at his slight, stern head-shake. 

“Thai food. That didn’t even make sense. Thai and thigh are pronounced differently.” Jack holds a take-out plate of what must be Thai food. “Right?”

“Right. No, Jack. You said it right. But…what is this?” 

“I tried that new place next to Vamp’s grill. The one Ellis called me a picky bitch for not wanting to try…and I tried, because no one calls me a picky bitch. I’m the least finicky out of all of you.” 

“Mhm–”

“Try me, sleepy.”

You press your thighs together as you lean forward. You’re impressed that it’s easy to ignore the way you want to kiss Jack’s stubble. Instead, you just tilt your head before spinning your swivel chair once. 

“I just did. But…is it any good?” 

“Very. And I know you didn’t eat, so I picked something up for you. And don’t start thanking me like you did with the donuts, this is just so you don’t crack your skull on the tile when your body decides it’s time for a nap.” 

…This show of generosity that Jack fails to brush off as something he’s doing casually isn’t the thing to make you realize that you don’t know this situation with you and Jack as well as you do. It’s not just another thing to make your cheeks go warm and your belly flip; it’s not just another thing that makes being casual a little bit harder. 

No. It’s what happens right after, when you kindly reject said generosity. You think nothing of it, and that’s too easy when you’re thinking about how strong and lined his hands look as they curl over the take-out container. 

“Actually, Jack–I followed the doctor's orders, a specific doctor who told me I should eat healthy but fairly, and I made myself a hefty meal before I came here, almost as hefty and pretty as you. I’m still burning it off. But, whatever you got me–which, thank you thank you thank you, it smells really good. I’ll throw it in the lounge fridge and save it for breakfast.” 

…It’s when Jack doesn’t roll his eyes or shake his head and short, grey curls with a slow blink or curling lip. 

It’s when you somehow, instantly, know something is wrong. Even if you don’t know what. 

He doesn’t say anything. Do anything. Not right away, not until he just drops the container on the counter. It takes him five seconds to put a hand there, palm flat. He leans forward. 

You take in a soft breath. 

“Do you have a problem with food?” 

You don’t let it go. 

“What? I–Jack, what are you talking about–”

“You can tell me. I–” Just looks to the left once, where noise is coming, where he’s reminded that there are other people around. “I know people who can help you. I can help you, but you do not need me worrying about you, and you certainly don’t need this becoming an issue that could affect your work ethi–”

“No! I do not–” You instantly break your words when you hear how loud and high they slip out of you. You shake your head, and the way your brows furrow and your mouth frowns isn’t you being dramatic–it’s you confused. “I do not have an issue with food or eating, are yo–Jack. Are you insinuating that I have an eating disorder?” 

You blink when Jack merely shrugs, thick and pale arms crossing over his chest. “You did this the last time, and now is a better time than never to be an asshole and confrontational.”

“The last time? You mean the donuts? I ate them–” 

“You ate one. And you don’t bring lunch, you always have some excuse for not having lunch, dinner, or breakfast. Am I wrong to say you don’t eat in front of people?”

You glance down at your nearly finished granola bar. Jack doesn’t. 

His words aren’t exactly harsh, he’s almost casual with them on his tongue. His face isn’t that stern either. 

He’s very, very good at making what he’s pulled out of his ass sound like diagnostic fact. You’d expect no less from your cowboy. You scoff anyway.  

“...Me and Dana we’re gonna grab a bite to eat after this shift, Cal’s diner. We go there sometimes. Her husband might join us there before he has to go to work. Sun might still be down. I was gonna bring this there to eat instead, which is horrible diner-customer etiquette, but that’s because I really, really appreciated this. I…” 

Your hands curl in your lap. You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t, you might cry, and you still might feel like crap anyway–because he’s obviously hurt about something and you don’t know why. 

“Hey. I’m–” You hear Jack sigh low. 

“What did I say wrong–” 

“Nothing. Nothing, I–” In your slight vision, you can see Jack’s head lower, a gentle order for you to look at him, and…you do, because not looking at him didn’t kill the heaviness in your stomach. 

His face is encouraging. Apologetic. Beautifully guilty and lined with slight wrinkles and order, you think.

“Everything that just happened in the past minute? That? That was all me, sleepy. You’re okay. I’m stupid. I am very, very stupid.” He puts his palm back on the counter. 

He turns it facing up. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You close your eyes. 

Your hand reaches his, your heart speeds up when he squeezes firmly. 

You shudder when it doesn’t let go when you try to pull away. 

 Even when you’re like, and I don’t know why you’re like this, I stand by what I said. I’ll take you anyway I can have you. 

“...You’re going to eat it?” 

Even when you can’t stop whatever it is you’re doing. 

“You can watch me. You wanna come with us?” 

Jack turns his head, and it’s where he finally lets go of your palm. “If you want me, Evans?” 

You try not to burn at the way Dana’s eyes were already on both of you. You can’t be angry at her. You and Jack put on a show, and you can only hope it didn’t make her uncomfortable. 

“...Shit. Why not? Happy to have you, Jack–the more the merrier.” 

She leans back in her chair and smiles thinly. Jack turns back at you. In the shared glance, the soft smiles…