ceci

‧₊˚༘˚⋆𐙚

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Beneath Kiri, small green shoots are curling up through the gaps in the wood, stretching toward her skin like they’re trying to say hello. They aren’t wild or threatening; they move slowly, swaying as if they are dancing to a song only she can hear.

Kiri’s hand rests on her knee. A tiny seed from the Tree of Souls drifts in. It circles her head once, leaves a faint trail of bioluminescent dust, and then gently settles into the palm of her hand.

She just breathes, and as she exhales, the plant life near her glows brighter.

You let out a surprised chirp, a sound that breaks her focus.

Kiri’s eyes flutter open. She spots you, her expression softening into a playful grin. The plants around her seem to lean toward you, as if sensing the innocence in your reaching hands.

"Morning, little one," she whispers. She holds out her hand, the glowing seed still resting there, pulsing gently. "You saw that, didn't you?"

As you crawl into her lap, the air feels different; warmer, charged with a hum of life that makes your skin tingle. Kiri rests her hand on your back, and for a moment, the vines near the floor unfurl fully, blooming with bright flowers.

The marui is soon left behind as Kiri carries you down to the water’s edge. The tide is low, and the shallows are calm. Kiri is in her element here, walking with a steady grace that makes the water seem like an extension of her own body.

She sets you down in the shallows where the water is only ankle deep. You splash your hands, letting out a happy shriek as ripples dance across the surface. Kiri sits beside you, watching you with a smile as she trails her fingers through the water. Wherever she touches, the water seems to clarify, the sediment shifting away to reveal colorful shells and tiny darting fish.

"Look, little one," Kiri murmurs, pointing toward a patch of vibrant, finger-like anemones. "If you go slow... just like this..."

She guides your tiny hand toward the cluster. As your fingers brush the gelatinous tips, they don't retract in defense. Instead, they pulse with a warm glow, curling around your small fingers in a gentle embrace, sensing no harm from you.

Kiri beams at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

It’s a perfect moment of connection.

But then, you do something unexpected.

You pull your hand away from the anemones and turn your attention to a patch of sandy floor nearby. You don't look at Kiri; you look at the ground with intensity. You press your palms flat into the wet sand and let out a sound that rumbles deep in your chest, mimicking the resonance you felt from Kiri earlier.

Kiri freezes. She watches as the sand beneath your palms begins to shift.

Your palms tingle as tiny fibers begin to weave through the sand grains, responding to your sound. The sand sculpts itself into a miniature eplica of a ilu, rising upward until it’s a living sculpture sitting right in your palm.

The little ilu wiggles its tail, before it leaps from your hand and darts into the deeper water, swimming away.

You look up at Kiri, blinking innocently, completely unaware of the magnitude of what you just did.

Kiri stares at the water where the creature disappeared, then looks back at you, her jaw slightly dropped. A laugh bubbles up from her throat, and she reaches out to pull you into a tight hug.

"Whoa," she breathes into your hair, her voice thick with pure amazement. "Okay... I think the Great Mother has some interesting plans for you, little shadow."

Your face lights up at the mention of the name.You clap your hands together, a gummy grin splitting your face as you bounce.

"Gweat mothe poweds!" you squeal, your voice high with excitement. You point a finger toward the empty water, wiggling your toes. "More!"

"Yeah," she whispers, her voice trembling with a strange responsibility. "Yeah, little one. The Great Mother's powers. Let's see what else you can do."

The wonder of the moment shatters almost as quickly as it began.

Because the tingling in your palms doesn’t stop. The strange electric buzz climbs up your arms, and suddenly, the water swirling around your ankles feels too alive. You look down at your small hands and the magnitude of what just happened crashes into your toddler brain.

It’s too strange.

Panic sets in. You let out a sharp wail, shrinking back from the tide and holding your hands away from your body as if they suddenly belong to a stranger.

"Hey, hey, it's okay!" she coos, immediately scooping you up out of the water. She presses your face into the crook of her neck, rocking you side to side. "I've got you. You're safe, little one. Nothing's going to hurt you."

You bury your face in her collarbone, sobbing, your fists gripping the fabric of her top. Kiri holds you tight, whispering soothing words as she carries you away from the shoreline and back to the family marui.

Inside, Jake is repairing a fishing net. He looks up instantly at the sound of your crying, his brow furrowing.

"What happened?" Jake asks, setting the net aside and reaching out as Kiri steps inside. "Did she scrape her knee on a coral again?"

"No, Dad, she's not hurt," Kiri says, bouncing you gently as your tears begin to subside into wet hiccups. She looks at him. "Dad, she... she called to Eywa. Or Eywa called to her. I don't even know, but she made the sand move."

Jake gives Kiri a look. "...She made the sand move?"

"Yes!" Kiri steps closer, her voice an urgent whisper so she doesn't upset you again. "She... made a sound and the sand lit up. It formed into a little ilu and swam away! It wasn't me, Dad. It was her."

Jake sighs. He reaches over, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. You lean into his hand, the familiar comfort grounding you.

"Kiri," Jake says, his tone gentle but firmly grounded in skepticism. "She’s a toddler. She was probably just splashing around and kicked up something."

"It wasn't something! It was completely shaped like—"

"Sweetheart, I know you feel everything deeply," Jake interrupts, giving his daughter a sympathetic smile. "You have a connection to the Great Mother that the rest of us don't understand. But you can't project that onto her. Sometimes, kids just splash in the mud, and sometimes, sand is just sand."

Kiri’s jaw sets. She looks down at you, resting against her chest, and then back at her father.

She knows what she saw. She knows what she felt.

"It wasn't just sand," Kiri mutters under her breath, holding you a little closer. "I know it wasn't."

Jake just shakes his head, going back to his net, leaving Kiri standing there, the only one who truly knows the secret resting in your hands.

｡🐚⋆❀˖°⋆˚࿔

Masking autism was exhausting when you were entirely healthy. And running on a fever, it was an ordeal.

The sound of ringing phones, groaning patients, and shouting doctors felt like a physical assault. Worse, the social exhaustion of constantly forcing eye contact, modulating your tone, and scripting polite interactions had drained your battery down to zero hours ago.

You had managed to hold it together for ten hours. But then, a trauma came in. It was messy and required a lot of communication. As you stood at the sink washing the blood from your hands, the bulb flickering above the mirror began to... sound loudly.

It was the final drop in a cup that was already overflowing. Your breath hitched as the sensory overload crashed over you.

You practically sprinted down the back hallway, slipping into an empty and dark exam room.

You sank on the stretcher.

The meltdown hit you violently.

Tears blurred your vision, your breathing turned into gasps, and you pressed your hands firmly into your ears.

You were rocking slightly, a self soothing stim you usually never allowed yourself to do outside the safety of your own apartment.

Suddenly, your throat felt completely locked. And you couldn't form a thought, couldn't explain the agony of your own body. And the panic directed itself outward. The fabric of your scrubs, usually manageable, now felt like sandpaper dragging across your feverish skin. Every fiber felt like a million tiny needles.

Desperate to get away from the sensation, you began fiercely scratching at your arms, your fingernails digging into the fabric and your bare skin, trying to scrape the torturous texture away.

The door clicked open. The brief influx of light and noise made you flinch.

"Hey. I thought I saw you slip in here."

It was Jack.

The two of you were close, closer than just a nurse-attending, but you had never let him see this.

Jack moved with urgency. He didn't grab you, but he slid closer, carefully extending his hands.

"Sweetheart, look at me," he murmured, his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears. "Hands off. Let's stop the scratching, okay?"

You couldn't answer. You just let out a choked sound, your fingers still frantically tearing at the scratchy sleeve of your scrub top.

It hurt, it was too hot, the texture was suffocating.

Understanding flashed in Jack's eyes. He, somehow, knew your signs. Gently, he reached out and captured your wrists, intercepting your hands before you could break the skin.

"What is going on? Are you okay?" he asked, worried.

The moment his fingers brushed your skin, he froze. He immediately used one hand to keep your wrists safely gathered, while the back of his other hand carefully pressed against your forehead.

You couldn't speak, tears spilled over your eyelashes, and you gave a frantic nod. You tried to pull your hands back to resume scratching, the panic making your chest heave.

"You're burning up," he noted softly, his brow furrowing with instant concern. "You have a fever."

"I- I'm fine," you choked out, your voice trembling terribly. "Just, just give me a minute, Jack. Please." You tried to sound fine but your voice betrayed you, sounding raspy.

"You have a fever. We need to check on you, get you some fluids—"

He was trying to be the doctor. He was trying to reason with you, to fix the physical symptoms, but the threat of being taken back out into the medical floor crossed the final wire in your brain.

The dam broke. The non verbal wall shattered under the weight of sheer desperation, and the truth came rushing out in frantic sobs as you burst.

"NO, okay, I’m sick, but please don't make go out there." you wept, the words spilling out of you in a desperate torrent. "I can’t think anymore. I can’t look at anyone. I need a calm playlist and I need everyone to stop, I want to go home, hug Duckie, and just stare at the wall. I'm sorry, Jack, I can't—"

"Hey, it's okay," Jack interrupted gently, cutting off the spiraling apology before it could swallow you whole. "Stop. You don't ever have to apologize."

He stayed a respectful distance, giving you space, but his eyes were filled with a protective warmth. "I know. You don't have to explain or be sorry."

A small smile touched his lips. "I pay attention to you. I see how you tap your fingers in a specific pattern when the alarms go off for too long. I know how much energy it takes for you to mask when the ER gets like this, let alone when you're running a fever. You don't have to hide it from me, okay? You can just be done."

He held his hands open, offering but not taking. "Can I touch you? Like I do when your shoulders are tense?"

You could only manage a small nod.

Jack moved in, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his chest. He applied steady pressure, tucking your head under his chin.

"I'm going to tell Lena you're going home sick," he murmured after a long while, once your breathing had finally started to match the pace of his own. "And then, I'm going to take you to my car, drive you home, and make sure you get to your Duckie. Okay?"

You nodded against his chest, letting a long sigh out.

-

The cool leather of the passenger seat was a mercy against your feverish skin. Jack had practically carried you out the back exit of the hospital and now you were safely cocooned inside his car.

Jack opened the driver’s side door, the brief chime of the door alarm making you wince. He noticed immediately, slipping inside and shutting the door quickly to cut off the sound.

He didn't start the engine right away. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water and two white pills.

"Fever reducers," he murmured, as he carefully placed the pills in your palm and unscrewed the cap of the water bottle for you.

You swallowed the medicine. Your throat felt locked. Your social battery was empty. Jack didn't press you to say thank you. He just took the bottle back and set it in the cup holder. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone along with his wireless earbuds.

"Here," he said softly, putting the case in your lap and holding out his phone. "It’s unlocked. Put on whatever you need."

You looked down at the screen, then up at him. Your eyes were still heavy and wet from the meltdown, your chest aching with exhaustion. You couldn't form the words to tell him how much this meant, so you just looked at him, letting your eyes communicate what your voice couldn't.

Jack’s expression softened. "I know. It's okay."

You carefully put the earbuds in, the active noise cancellation immediately kicking in. You tapped his phone, finding a familiar ambient track you always used to decompress.

It was perfect. It was the calm you needed.

Jack buckled his seatbelt and finally started the car, the headlights cutting through the dark parking lot. Before he shifted into drive, he turned his head to look at you. He tapped your leg so you would look at him.

"We're going straight to your place," he said, speaking a little clearer so you could read his lips. "I'm going to get you inside, and then I'm going to stay until the fever breaks. Sound like a plan?"

You looked right into his eyes and gave him a slow nod.

Jack smiled.

"Alright. Let's get you home."

The steady sound of the track in your ears blended seamlessly with the quiet rumble of the car's engine. The world outside the window was a blur of passing streetlights, melting into soft streaks of gold and white against the dark. Your eyes fluttered shut, your body finally succumbing to the heavy exhaustion of the fever. You floated in that peaceful limbo between awake and asleep.

Through the fog of your half-sleep, you felt the car slow down, idling at a quiet red light.

A moment later, Jack’s hand carefully brushed your face before the back of his fingers came to rest flat against your forehead.

He held it there for a few seconds. checking the heat radiating from your skin.

"Still a little hot," Jack murmured to himself. "But you're sweating it out. That's good."

He carefully pulled his hand back so he could shift the car into gear as the light changed.

As the car moved forward again, his hand returned across the center console, resting casually but securely on your thigh, a grounding weight to let you know he was still right there.

Your eyelids felt too heavy to open. Slowly, dragging your hand up from your lap, you slid your palm over the back of his hand. You slotted your fingers between his, squeezing weakly.

Jack was looking straight ahead at the road, but the moment your fingers intertwined with his, a small smile broke across his face.

He didn't say a word, respecting your quiet phase, but his thumb began to stroke the back of your hand. He squeezed back, a firm and reassuring promise.

You relaxed as you held onto him. The ER was miles behind you, the calm sound was filling your head, and Jack was driving you home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉