andrea

Dennis Whitaker was six years old when he met you for the first time, and for the rest of his life, he would swear that the moment felt less like meeting someone new and more like the world quietly shifting on its axis without warning, like it was rearranging every direction he thought he once knew (okay twilight). Your family’s truck had pulled up in a cloud of Nebraska dust that hung in the late afternoon sunlight, the engine rumbling as it idled beside the old fence line that separated your newly purchased land from the Whitaker farm. Dennis had been crouched in the dirt, pushing a broken toy tractor through a carved out trench, completely absorbed in his own world, until his older brother, George, whistled from the porch. 

“Looks like we got neighbors,” he said. 

Dennis didn’t care for neighbors. Neighbors meant adults talking too much and kids he didn’t know trying to touch his things. He only looked up because the passenger door opened and you hopped down, your sneakers landing in the dirt with an excited little bounce that made your braids swing. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t linger around your parents. Instead, you spotted him and started walking straight toward him like he was already someone important to you. Your confidence made him suspicious, but then the dog jumped out right behind you. 

The creature unfolded itself from the truck like a moving mountain of fur, paws the size of dinner plates hitting the ground with soft thuds that seemed far too gentle for something so enormous. Dennis was sure at that age that something so large couldn’t possibly be just a dog. Its tongue lolled lazily and its tail swished once, twice, sending clouds of dust into the air. 

He absolutely froze. His brain, small, dramatic, and six years old, concluded with certainty that he was about to die. Then the dog began trotting towards him, right behind you. He screamed, scrambled backwards, nearly tripped over his own feet, and bolted towards the fence. His hands gripped the rough wood as he tried to climb with all the coordination that a six year old could have. His sneakers slipped, his knees scraped, and he hauled himself halfway up before he dared to look back at you. The creature had stopped a few feet away, sitting down next to you calmly as if  confused by the panic. You ran up to the fence, slightly out of breath, but laughing. 

“Wait!” you called out. “He’s friendly!”

“He’s going to eat me!” Dennis clung to the fence.

“He would never!” you said, feeling offended on your dog’s behalf. 

“This is Bear. He’s a Newfoundland, a guard dog!” 

“Guard…? Guard from what?” His grip tightened. 

You looked deep in thought at that question, then shrugged.

“Mostly from loneliness, I guess!” you beamed.

He didn’t quite understand that then, but eventually he would. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

It took two weeks before Dennis let Bear come within arm’s reach, three before he dared to touch him, and a month before he would fall asleep on the dog’s massive stomach while you sat beside him, flipping through a book about animal anatomy that you were far too young to understand. You loved animals in a way that was almost reverent, and even at six, Dennis noticed the difference between how you looked at people and how you looked at creatures that couldn’t speak. Your voice softened and your hands moved carefully. Your entire presence shifted into something patient and gentle. 

“I’m going to be a veterinarian one day,” you told him one afternoon, lying on your back in the grass while Bear’s tail thumped lazily nearby. 

“What’s that?” he asked.

“It’s a doctor for animals.” 

“You’ll fix cows?” he rolled onto his side to face you. 

“And horses.” “Even dogs?” “Especially dogs.” you reached over to scratch Bear’s ears. 

“You’re gonna be famous.” Dennis nodded like it was the most logical plan in the world. 

“That’s exactly what I’m going to be.” Your smile lit up your entire face. 

He didn’t realize then that he would remember that exact expression years later, that it would replay in his mind in a quiet moment, that it would anchor him in ways he wouldn’t fully understand until much later. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Your house became his second home slowly, then all at once. Broken Bow had expectations–tight unspoken rules that wrapped around families like barbed wire disguised as tradition. Most people attended the same church and most lives revolved around it. Dennis’ family did, too, at least outwardly, though George would roll his eyes through every service and Tucker always seemed one step away from rebellion.

Your family did not take part in that part of farm life. Your parents were polite but distant, friendly but separate, and your land felt different. It was lighter, quieter, and free in a way that Dennis couldn’t name. He started to drift there after school, and at first, he told himself it was for Bear. Then, it was because you always had something interesting planned. Whether it was building a makeshift obstacle course for the goats, trying to teach chickens to follow commands, or patching up scraped up knees with surprising seriousness, eventually, he stopped making excuses. He simply showed up and you welcomed him every time like you’d been waiting. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

At age ten, everyone began to notice. 

“Where were you Dennis?” George would ask after dinner. 

“With her.” Tucker would answer. 

“Y’all are attached at the hip.” George smirked. 

“We are not!!!” Dennis whined.

You sat beside him on the porch swing, looped your arm through his and grinned. 

“We kind of are.”

His ears burned bright red. 

You got along with his brothers effortlessly and it was something he both loved and secretly resented. George taught you how to drive the old tractor. Tucker taught you how to climb the big, old tree that stood in between y’all’s land. You laughed with them easily, slipping into the rhythm of their family like you’d always been there. He always hated how natural it looked. Not because he didn’t want you there, but because he didn’t like sharing. He didn't realize then that the feeling blooming quietly in his chest wasn’t just possessiveness. It was something deeper. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

He realized he loved you when he was fifteen. It happened on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that shouldn’t have changed anything. A calf had caught itself on barbed wire, leaving a shallow cut along its side. You knelt down beside it, hands steady, carefully cleaning the wound with warm water while murmuring nonsense to soothe the little one. 

Dennis leaned against the fence watching you. Sunlight feathered through your hair as your brows furrowed in concentration. You stuck your tongue out slightly as you worked. The entire world tilted when you looked up at him with a smile (okayyyy imprinting). His chest tightened so suddenly that it startled him. Something heavy and warm settled beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and terrifying. 

He loved you. Not like a friend. Not like family. It was something else. Something that made his palms sweat and his thoughts tangle, but he didn’t say anything. So the feelings stayed with him, unspoken, growing quietly like the roots beneath your feet. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

High school passed in a blur of shared classes, whispered jokes, and late nights laying in truck beds beneath the stars. People assume you were together, but you weren’t. However, neither of you corrected them. There were moments where the both of you almost confessed. Moments where your hands brushed his, where his gaze would linger too long. Silences thick with truth and possibility, but silence nonetheless. 

Graduation came too fast. Caps flew in the air, smiles and cameras flashed. You stood beside him for every photo, shoulders brushing. The very same night, Dennis made a decision that would fracture everything. 

He climbed through your window after midnight, the familiar creak of the frame was barely audible. You slept on your side, curled into a hoodie of his that he gave to you one chilly night. You were breathing softly, completely unaware. 

He stood there for a long time watching you, memorizing you. He placed a letter on the bed beside you. His hand hovered near your cheek before he brushed a strand of hair away. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though you couldn’t hear him. 

Then he left. By the time you woke up, he was already gone and the silence he left behind felt louder than any goodbye. 

You woke up to sunlight slipping through the curtains in soft, indifferent streaks, the kind of quiet morning that should have felt comforting, family, and ordinary, except something was wrong. Something that made your stomach twist before your eyes were fully open. At first, you thought it was the stillness. Dennis always woke you up on days off by throwing little pebbles at your window and the lack there of was starting to make you anxious. You rolled out of bed and looked at your window out of habit, fully prepared to hear the pebbles, but were met with nothing. 

You frowned as your hair fell into your face. Then you saw the letter on the bed. Your name written in family, slightly messy handwriting that you could have recognized from miles away. Your heart dropped. 

No. 

No, no, no. 

Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, the paper already soft from being handled too much, like he’d rewritten it a dozen times before settling on this version. The window beside your bed was cracked open just slightly, and a breeze lifted the edge of the curtains, confirming what your gut already knew. 

He had been there. He had been close enough to touch and he left. You opened the letter with shaking hands, your eyes scanning too fast, and your brain trying to make sense of sentences that felt like they were dissolving as you read them. 

He wrote about needing to leave, about not being ready, about finding himself. He wrote about how Broken Bow felt like a cage and how he couldn’t ever breathe, how he needed distance, how he couldn’t say goodbye out loud because he knew he’d stay if he saw your face. Was that so wrong? He wrote about everything except the words you had been waiting for. 

Your vision blurred. You didn’t realize you were crying until the paper softened beneath your grip and your breath came out in uneven, broken sounds that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to you. It felt surreal, like you were hearing someone else fall apart from a distance, like the room tilted and you couldn’t quite find the ground anymore. 

Your parents found you curled up on your bed half an hour later, the letter clutched in your hands, eyes swollen, and voice hoarse. 

“He left…” you whispered, the words barely audible. 

Your mom sat beside you immediately, pulling you into her arms, but it wasn’t the same steady, grounding comfort that you were used to. 

“Where did he go?” your dad asked gently. 

“Didn’t say.” your voice quivered. 

The fact that he didn’t tell you hurt the most. He told you everything except that one thing that mattered. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

George showed up an hour later, slamming his truck door with such intensity that it echoed across your yard. You heard him before actually seeing him, his boots heavy on the porch steps, voice already raised. 

“You heard from him?”

You wiped your eyes before stepping outside and one look at you caused him to swear under his breath. 

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

You shook your head, holding onto that letter for dear life. You could see George’s jaw tighten. 

“That idiot,” he sighed. 

He stepped forward and pulled you into a rough, but sincere hug, his hand rubbing your back in awkward circles as you cried into his shoulder. 

“He left us the same way.” George muttered. “Packed up before sunrise and didn’t tell anyone. Just up and left.” 

“Everyone?” you stiffened. 

“Yea.” he brushed some hair from your cheeks. “You weren’t singled out or anything… he didn’t tell anyone.” 

His words should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Dennis told himself that he was doing the right thing. He told himself that leaving quietly was kinder, that dragging things out would only make it harder. He told himself that if he stayed long enough to hear your voice, to see your face and those gorgeous eyes, he wouldn’t go at all, and then he’d be trapped in the same small town, the same expectations, and the same unspoken pressure that had been building his entire life. 

However, the farther he drove, the more the silence pressed in. Your laugh echoed in his head, your voice, your smile… He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, swallowing hard as he told himself over and over that he needed to do this, that he needed to become someone confident enough to come back and tell you the truth. He just didn’t realize how long that would take. 

You, on the other hand, forced yourself to move forward. It wasn’t graceful, or immediate, but slow, painful, and full of setbacks. Eventually, you got out of bed without crying, packed for college, and eventually, you felt Broken Bow with a hollow feeling that refused to disappear. You told yourself you’d get over him, that he wasn’t your dream, that you had bigger goals. You had animals to save, a career to build, a life to create, but every time you came home during breaks, your heart betrayed you. 

The first time you returned home, you saw George at the gas station.

“You just missed him,” he said casually, trying not to make it a big deal. 

“What?” your stomach flipped. “He was here last weekend.” 

You nodded, pretending it mattered, but it mattered more than anything in the world. 

The second time, you arrived late at night, exhausted from finals. Tucker greeted you with a hug. 

“You're bad at timing.” he teased. 

“Why’s that?” your lips tugged into a smile. 

“Dennis left this morning.” “I see…” your chest tightened so sharply that you had to look away. 

The third time, you actually saw his truck. You pulled into town just as it passed you, both cars moving too fast to stop. You caught only a glimpse of him, his older, sharper profile was still painfully familiar. Your heart leapt into your throat and you almost turned around, but didn’t. 

The near-misses became a pattern. A cruel rhythm that you were used to now. You arrived; he left. He arrived; you left. You were orbiting each other with no hope of ever colliding. George began to notice the pattern. 

“You two doing this on purpose?” he asked once, half-joking. 

“I’ve got some pretty wicked luck.” You forced a laugh, but he didn't look convinced. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

“Is she doing okay?” Dennis would try to ask about you sometimes. 

“She’s good.” George would shrug. 

“Still wearing that vanilla perfume?” he leaned against the barn door, trying to sound casual. 

“Why do you care?” his brother’s eyes narrowed. 

“Just asking…” Dennis looked away. George didn’t respond after that. 

Soon, years passed–six to be exact. Six years of almosts and what-ifs and memories that haunted the both of you. You built your life, he built his, but Broken Bow remained the same, waiting for the quiet moment when everything would finally collide. So, when you drove back that summer, you never expected that the timing would finally line up. 

The air felt heavier than you remembered, thick with humidity and the familiar scent of hay, warm dirt, and something nostalgic that settled deep in your lungs the very second you rolled the windows down. The road stretched out in front of you in the same lazy curve it always had, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was about to beat out of your chest the closer you got to the Whitaker farm. 

You told yourself that you were only here to see your parents, the animals, and the life you had built outside of him. So why were you still hoping to see him this time? You told yourself that six years was enough, that you were over him. You told yourself that the hollow space in your chest wasn’t still shaped exactly like Dennis Whitaker. 

The gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled onto your parents’ land. Bear, who was just a little older now, still got excited as he recognized the scenery in front of him. The younger animals greeted you both enthusiastically, but the familiarity of everything made your chest ache. You spent the first day with the farm animals, grounding yourself, and convincing your mind that this visit would be different from the others, that you wouldn’t think about him, wouldn’t wonder where he was, wouldn’t ask about him in any way, shape, or form. 

You made it almost twenty four hours. The next morning, your mom casually mentioned that the Whitakers would be having company this weekend. 

“I think Dennis is back in town.” she said softly. 

“Oh…” your heart stuttered so violently you had to grip the edge of the counter.

“You’ll probably see him.” she added. 

You nodded, though your stomach twisted in a sick knot. You didn’t expect it to happen like this. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The sun sat high and warm in the sky when you wandered over to the Whitaker property the next afternoon, telling yourself that you were just visiting George, that this was normal, that you had grown up here and had every right to walk across the familiar stretch of land without feeling like you were trespassing onto something fragile. You heard laughter before you saw anyone. It startled you. It was bright, loud, familiar in a way that pulled something loose in your chest before you realized that it was your own. George spotted you first. 

“Look what the cat brought in.” he called, grinning. 

You smiled, relief loosening your shoulders as you walked closer, exchanging a quick hug that felt easy, as if months hadn’t passed. 

“You’ve gotten shorter?” he teased. 

“You’ve gotten ruder?” you nudged him. 

He laughed at your response and gestured toward the orchard. 

“Help me grab some apples, would you? Mom wants to make pies and cobblers for the guests we’re having.” you saw him bend down and before you could protest, you heard him say, “Hop up.” 

“George–” you blinked.

“C’mon, you always needed help reaching the top ones.” 

You laughed despite your hesitation and climbed onto his shoulders, gripping his free hand as the other arm steadied your legs and balance. You stretched toward the highest branch, the leaves brushing your arms, sunlight filtering through your hair in golden fragments, and for a moment, you felt sixteen again, carefree, warm, untouched by the years that had complicated everything. 

“Almost–!” you said, reaching. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Dennis heard your laugh from across the field. It sliced through him. He froze mid-step, breath catching as his brain struggled to process the sound. He had imagined it so many times over the years that he almost thought he was hallucinating again, that his mind was playing tricks on him like it did late at night when the memories came too vividly. Then he turned and saw you perched on George’s shoulders, hair catching sunlight, smiling widely as you reached for an apple. Your arms wrapped loosely around his brother’s head for balance, your voice light and unguarded in a way he hadn’t heard in six years. 

Jealousy hit him so hard that he felt dizzy. It wasn’t rational nor was it fair, but it surged anyway. It was sharp and immediate, twisting in his chest as he watched George steady you, as he heard you laugh, as he saw how easily you fit into the space that he had once occupied. He hadn’t even spoken to you yet and he already felt like he was losing something. One thing’s for certain, he fell in love all over again in a single glance. 

You didn’t see him. Not at first. You were too busy laughing, too busy enjoying the moment, too busy pretending that everything was normal. Eventually, you climbed down, brushing the leaves from your skirt, gaze drifting across the field when your eyes landed on him. Everything stopped. He looked older, broader in the shoulders, his jaw was sharper, his posture was now confident, but the expression on his face–wide-eyed, almost stunned–felt achingly familiar. For a moment, neither of you moved, the distance between you heavy with six years of silence and everything in between. You faltered and looked away first. 

“Hey, Tucker’s inside.” George said, still unaware of the silent collision that had just happened. “Amy’s bringing the baby tomorrow too.

“Amy?” your stomach dropped.

“Yeah,” Tucker called from the porch after hearing his name. “Dennis is going to lose it when he sees her. He’s been talking about them nonstop.”

Your chest tightened. 

Baby. 

Them.

Dennis. 

Your mind filled in the gaps instantly, painfully, illogically. Of course he had built a life. Of course six years had meant something different for him. The idea settled like a weight in your lungs, making it harder to breathe. You smiled weakly, nodding as if you were processing normal information instead of feeling like the ground had shifted beneath you. 

“I… I should get back home…” you murmured. 

No one questioned it. You left before you could see Dennis take a step toward you. 

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The next day, you didn't return. You told yourself that it was fine, that you needed space. You told yourself you didn't want to intrude on his family, didn’t want to stand awkwardly while he held someone else’s child, didn’t want to see the confirmation of what you already convinced yourself was true, but the farm buzzed with activity. Dennis continued to glance toward the road.

“Where is she?” he finally asked George. “No idea.” He shrugged back. 

“She was here yesterday.” “Mhm.” 

“Did she say she was leaving?” Dennis’ stomach twisted as George gave him a look. “Funny, coming from you. 

The words hit harder than Dennis expected. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away.

You stayed away the entire day, listening to the distant laughter that the wind carried, imagining scenes you didn’t want to picture. Scenes that included Dennis holding a baby, Dennis standing beside someone named Amy, Dennis looking content, complete, and settled in a life that didn’t include you. By evening, you decided to leave. Not forever, just… early… before you embarrassed yourself. Before you did something reckless like confronting him. You packed your bags quietly, hands moving faster than your thoughts. 

Dennis noticed your absence growing louder with each passing hour and by sunset, he was restless. By nightfall, he began pacing. 

“She didn’t come back?” he asked Tucker. “No.”

Something cold settled in his chest. He remembered the letter, he remembered leaving, he remembered how it felt to disappear. Panic spread through him. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door. 

“I’m going to check–” he didn’t finish because across the field, he saw the lights of your car. 

He saw you loading your bags into the trunk. Fear surged so violently that it stole his breath and he started running. He didn’t think, just ran, boots pounding against the ground, heart hammering as the possibility hit him all at once–you were leaving, again–and he hadn’t even spoken to you. 

Dennis didn’t realize he was running until his lungs were already burning and the gravel at the edge of the drive cut sharply through the soles of his boots. His body was moving on pure instinct as the sight of you placing the final bag into your trunk triggered something primal and desperate inside him, something that had been simmering quietly ever since he saw you the day before and now erupted into full-blown panic at the realization that he was about to lose you again before he had even managed to say your name.

“Wait–!”

The word tore from his throat, raw and strained, like it hurt to get it out.

You froze with your hand on the driver’s door, your shoulders stiffening before you slowly turned to face him, and the moment your eyes met his, something in his chest twisted painfully because you looked like you were already bracing for impact, like you were preparing yourself for disappointment before he had even opened his mouth.

The air between you felt heavy, thick with everything unsaid over six years, and he suddenly became hyperaware of how close he was, how familiar the sight of you was, how much older you both looked and yet how nothing about the way his heart reacted had changed at all.

The scent of your perfume reached him first–soft vanilla, the exact same one you’d worn since high school–and the familiarity hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out, the sensory memory colliding with the present until he felt momentarily disoriented, like he’d stepped backward in time only to be slammed forward again by the reality that you were leaving.

“Where are you going?” he asked, breathless, his voice rough from the run and the fear tightening his throat. “Why are you leaving me?”

You let out a small laugh that didn’t hold any humor, your lips trembling slightly. 

“Why do you care?”

The question struck deeper than he expected, because he had no idea how to compress six years of missing you into a single coherent answer, no idea how to explain that seeing you again had undone him in seconds, that watching you disappear now felt unbearable in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Because I–I just–you got here and I–” he stumbled, words colliding uselessly.

“You don’t have to pretend.” You shook your head, tears already gathering in your eyes.

“I’m not pretending—”

“You have a whole life, Dennis.” “What?” He blinked, confused.

“You have Amy,” you said quietly, your voice breaking. 

“You have the baby. I heard everyone talking about how you’ve been helping her, how excited you were for her to visit, how she wanted to see your family farm. I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together.”

“That’s not–” His stomach dropped.

“You left me,” you cut in suddenly, the words spilling out like they’d been trapped for years, your composure crumbling in real time. 

“You left me with a letter and no explanation, and I spent months wondering what I did wrong, wondering if I imagined everything between us, wondering if I meant anything to you at all.”

He swallowed hard, guilt flooding him.

“You were my best friend,” you continued, your voice shaking but growing stronger as the truth poured out. 

“You were the person I told everything to, the person who knew me better than anyone, the person I thought I’d always have, and then you just… disappeared. No goodbye, no warning, nothing.”

“I thought–” he tried, but you were already unraveling.

“I waited for you,” you admitted, wiping at your cheeks. 

“Every time I came home, I thought maybe this would be the time we’d run into each other. George told me you’d been there, Tucker told me you’d just left, and it felt like some kind of cruel joke, like we were orbiting each other but never actually colliding.”

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully.

“Then yesterday,” you said, your voice softer now, more fragile, “I saw you again, and it felt like nothing had changed. Like I was still that girl who fell in love with her best friend and never said anything because she was too afraid of ruining everything.”

His breath caught.

“I told myself I was over you. I told myself I’d moved on, that I had my career, my life, my own dreams… but the truth is, I never stopped. Not once in six years did I ever stop loving you.” You laughed weakly. 

The words landed like a blow.

“And hearing about Amy,” you continued, “hearing about how you’d been helping her on her farm, how you were there when the baby was born, how she wanted to come see your family… I just assumed. I assumed you’d built a life with her. That you’d found someone. That you had the family we never even got the chance to talk about.”

“No–no, that’s not–please–” He shook his head quickly. 

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered, your voice breaking completely. 

“I can’t stand here and pretend I’m okay while you’ve moved on, while you have this whole other life. I can’t keep holding onto something that only ever existed in my head.”

You looked at him then, eyes glassy and full of pain. “I loved you, Dennis. I still do. And maybe if you hadn’t left… maybe things would’ve been different, but you did. And now you have someone else, and I can’t be here watching that.”

He stared at you, stunned into silence, his mind scrambling to process everything at once–the confession, the misunderstanding, the realization that you loved him back all along.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Your face fell as the silence stretched.

“Right,” you murmured, nodding faintly. “That’s… that’s what I thought.”

You turned, sliding into the driver’s seat, your hands trembling on the steering wheel.

“I hope she makes you happy,” you said quietly, not looking at him. “You deserve that and so much more. You deserve the world.”

The engine started.

“Wait–” he croaked, finally stepping forward, panic flooding him as the car began to roll.

You met his eyes one last time, heartbreak etched across your face. “Goodbye, Dennis.”

The tires crunched over gravel as you drove away, and he stood there helplessly, watching the taillights shrink into the distance, his brain finally catching up all at once.

You loved him.

You thought Amy was his partner.

You left because of him.

His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees in the dirt, hands shaking as the weight of it crashed down on him, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. He pounded the gravel beneath him in frustration. 

“Dennis, what happened?” Trinity reached him moments later. 

“She—she thinks Amy—” he choked.

“Amy is your friend. You told her that, right?” Trinity groaned. 

“I froze. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to say.” He shook his head, panic rising. 

“Dennis,” she said sharply, “Amy lost her husband. You helped her because you’re kind and because you missed home. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

“She thinks I have a family. She thinks I moved on.” He pressed his hands to his face, voice trembling. 

“Then go after her.” Trinity’s expression softened slightly. 

 “I don’t know where she’s going.” He looked up, eyes wide with horror.

The realization settled heavy and suffocating. He didn’t know. He didn’t know when you’d be back. He didn’t even know how to contact you and as panic tightened around his chest, Dennis Whitaker realized with crushing clarity that he had just watched the person he loved most drive away… and he had no idea how to find you again. He remained in the dirt long after the dust from your tires had settled, long after the last echo of gravel crunching under your wheels had faded into the night, his knees pressed into the dry ground as though the earth itself were the only thing holding him upright, his mind replaying your words over and over again in a loop that grew more suffocating each time.

I loved you.

I still do.

You have a family.

I can’t do this again.

The silence he had given you felt louder now than anything he had ever said. It roared in his ears, pressed against his chest, and hollowed him out from the inside. He hadn’t meant to freeze. He hadn’t meant to let the moment slip through his fingers. He hadn’t meant to repeat the worst mistake of his life in real time, but that was exactly what he had done, and now he could still see your face when the realization dawned that he wasn’t going to stop you, when your expression shifted from fragile hope to resigned heartbreak, and the memory made his stomach churn violently.

He didn’t even notice Trinity kneeling beside him. .

“Huckleberry,” she said softly, though there was tension threaded through her voice. “You need to breathe.”

He dragged in air that didn’t feel like enough.

Boots approached from behind.

Heavy.

Fast.

George.

“What happened?” George demanded, the sharpness in his tone cutting through the haze.

“She left.” Trinity glanced up. 

George’s eyes snapped to Dennis, and the shift in his expression from confusion to realization to anger was not only immediate, but also explosive. 

“You let her leave?”

“She thinks… she thinks Amy and the baby are–” Dennis swallowed, his throat dry. 

Before he could finish, George grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet with a force that made his head spin, dust shaking loose from his clothes.

“You didn’t tell her?” George demanded, his voice low and furious in a way that was far more dangerous than shouting.

“I tried—” Dennis stammered. “I froze. I didn’t—”

“You froze. That’s your excuse?” George shoved him backward, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to send the message. 

“George—” Trinity warned.

“No,” George snapped, turning on Dennis again. “No, he doesn’t get off easy for this.”

Dennis didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise his hands. He stood there, shoulders slumped, guilt heavy in every line of his body, because George wasn’t wrong, and some part of him almost welcomed the anger, like he deserved to be hit with it.

“She waited for you,” George continued, pacing now, his agitation barely contained. 

“Do you understand that? Every single time she came home, she asked about you. She’d pretend it didn’t matter, but I could see it. I watched her try to act normal when I told her she missed you by a day. Or by a few hours. Or by ten damn minutes.”

Dennis flinched.

“You left her with a letter,” George said, pointing at him. “No explanation. No goodbye. And now she finally tells you she loves you, and you stand there and let her walk away again?”

“I didn’t know she—” Dennis started weakly.

“That’s the problem!” George exploded. “You never know, because you never say anything! You keep everything locked up until it’s too late, and everyone else pays for it!”

The words landed heavy and unforgiving.

“She thinks Amy—” Dennis’s hands shook. 

“Amy is your friend,” George cut in. “You helped her because she lost her husband, because you’re not a terrible person, and because working on her farm made you feel closer to home. That’s it. And you couldn’t even tell her that?”

Dennis closed his eyes briefly, shame flooding him.

George exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. 

“So what now?”

“I… I don’t know where she went.” Dennis opened his eyes. 

The admission sounded hollow.

“Then you find out.” George stared at him. 

“How?”

George stepped closer again, his voice quieter but still intense. “You don’t get to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. Figure it out on your own. You call her parents, talk to her friends, drive until you find her if you have to. If you love her–and God, Dennis, it’s blatantly obvious that you do–then you fight for her.”

The word fight settled deep.Dennis nodded slowly, determination flickering through the panic.

“I will.” “You better,” George muttered.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The next morning, Dennis drove to your parents’ house before the sun had fully risen, the sky still painted in muted shades of gray and pale gold, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary as anxiety churned in his stomach. He rehearsed what he would say over and over again, but the words still felt inadequate, too small for the weight of what he had done.

Your dad answered the door, his expression hard and callous.

“She left,” he said matter of factly.

“I know,” he replied, voice tight. “Do you know where she went?”

He hesitated, studying him. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I messed up,” he admitted quietly. “And I need to fix it.”

His expression softened slightly, but he shook his head. “She didn’t tell us. Just that she needed space.”

Dennis nodded, disappointment heavy.

He didn’t stop there.

He called old friends. He called George’s contacts. He searched social media. He drove to places you used to go–parks, cafés, the lake–knowing it was unlikely but unable to sit still.

Days blurred.

Sleep became optional.

Food felt irrelevant.

He replayed your confession constantly, clinging to it like a fragile lifeline.

She loved me.She still does.

He couldn’t lose that.

Not again.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Nearly a week later, he was back at work when he received a text from George 

“She posted something.” was all he said

Dennis didn’t notice the texts at first.The emergency department was loud in the way it always was–controlled chaos, voices layered over monitors, the steady rhythm of urgency that never quite stopped. He moved through it on autopilot, exhaustion sitting heavy in his bones, mind carefully avoiding anything that might drift back to Broken Bow because Broken Bow meant you.

It meant apple trees and late summer heat, gravel stuck to the bottoms of bare feet, and a laugh that still echoed in his head at the worst possible times—like when he walked past the park and saw someone tossing a tennis ball for their dog, or when he smelled vanilla and citrus and something distinctly you.He had gotten very good at not thinking about those things.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice.Three times.

He ignored it, scrubbing his hands, glancing over labs, finishing charting. He couldn’t afford distraction–not when every second mattered, not when thinking too hard meant remembering the look on your face when you drove away. The way your knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. The way he had stood there, useless, silent, watching you leave for the second time in his life.

The fourth buzz finally made him pull it out.

George:

You need to call me.

Now.

She’s in Pittsburgh.

She posted.

Said she’s visiting.

Dennis froze. Everything else blurred. The words burned into him, hot and disorienting. You were here. Not a memory, not a ghost tied to an apple orchard and dusty gravel road, but here. In his city. Walking the same streets. Breathing the same air. His chest tightened so quickly it almost hurt.

His hands trembled as he started typing.

Where–

“Incoming GSW! Two minutes!” someone shouted.

Dennis shoved his phone away instantly. Training overrode everything else. “Trauma three,” Robby called, already moving. “Prep blood. Two large-bore IVs. Let’s go.”

He didn’t allow himself to think about you again. He couldn’t. Not now. Sirens wailed outside ad the ambulance doors burst open.

“Female, mid-twenties,” a paramedic reported breathlessly. 

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Single entry. BP’s dropping.”

Dennis stepped forward, eyes scanning the wound, the blood soaking through fabric. He moved quickly, pressing gauze down, voice calm, controlled.

“Stay with me,” he murmured automatically.

Your skin was pale, lips slightly parted, breaths shallow. He focused on vitals. On pressure. On protocol.

“…Den…?” Your head turned slightly.

The sound barely reached him, swallowed by noise. He didn’t register it fully–just a flicker, a hesitation. Your perfume hit him next. Soft, familiar, and wrong in this sterile place. His chest tightened, but he pushed it aside. 

“BP?” “82 over palp.”

“EFAST exam,” Trinity ordered, swallowing hard.

The ultrasound showed free fluid, internal bleeding.

“Call OR,” he said quickly. “She needs surgery now.”

He grabbed your hand without thinking, squeezing. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice strained.

Your fingers curled weakly around his, eyes fluttering. Recognition softened your expression like you had found something safe in the middle of chaos, but before his mind could catch up, before he could truly see, you slipped again, and the team rushed you toward surgery. He walked beside the stretcher, heart racing for reasons he didn’t fully understand. Something tugged at him, something deeply familiar, but adrenaline kept him locked in.

The OR doors closed. Silence followed and Dennis slid down the wall outside, breathing hard, your blood still staining his scrubs. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to steady himself. His palms smelled faintly metallic, and he couldn’t shake the strange, aching pull in his chest.

That’s when the commotion started. Raised voices.

“There’s a dog in here–!”

“Whose dog is that?!”

Dennis barely looked up at first before he heard the whine. Low. Deep. Worried. It pierced straight through him. He stood slowly, legs unsteady, and turned toward the ambulance bay.

The ED had parted. The staff hovered cautiously and in the center stood a massive black Newfoundland, chest heaving, fur damp, eyes frantic as they searched the hallway. Dennis’s breath caught.

“Bear…?” he whispered.

The dog’s head snapped up instantly. Bear recognized him immediately and rushed forward, nails clicking loudly, whining softly.

Dennis’s stomach dropped. Bear. Your Bear. Your guard since childhood. The pieces slammed together with brutal force.The perfume, the voice whispering his name, the familiarity he couldn’t place, the way she had looked at him like she knew him, the patient. You.

“Fuck–” His voice broke. “No… no, no…”

He dropped to his knees as Bear reached him, pressing his massive head into Dennis’s chest. Dennis gripped the thick fur, shaking.

“You followed her…” he whispered hoarsely.

Around him, paramedics explained.

“He ran after the ambulance.” “Wouldn’t leave her side.” “He kept nudging her hand.”

Dennis squeezed his eyes shut. You hadn’t been alone. Bear had stayed. Dennis hadn’t even realized it was you.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t know it was her… I didn’t–”

Guilt crashed over him, heavy and suffocating. It felt like Broken Bow all over again, another moment where you needed him, another moment where he froze, another moment where he failed to see what was right in front of him.

He replayed it over and over again–your voice faintly saying his name. The way you looked at him. The recognition in your eyes, soft even through pain. You had known. You had seen him and he… He hadn’t recognized you until now. Dennis pressed his forehead into Bear’s fur, shoulders shaking. 

“She’s in surgery,” he murmured. “They’re trying to save her.”

Bear whined, glancing toward the OR doors, restless and anxious. Dennis wrapped an arm around him, holding on like he might fall apart otherwise.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen you… I should’ve noticed… you were right there… you even said my name…”

His voice fractured completely. Memories flooded him, your laugh under the apple tree, the way you used to swing your legs off the fence while Bear laid at your feet, your voice confessing in the dark, trembling but brave, while he stood there mute.

“I keep failing you,” he choked. “Every time… I freeze… I don’t say what I should… I don’t fight hard enough… I let you walk away… twice…”

Bear leaned heavily against him, grounding him. Dennis looked toward the closed OR doors, eyes burning.

“You came all the way here,” he whispered. “And I still almost lost you… I didn’t even realize I was holding your life in my hands…”

His breathing hitched, uneven and shaky.

“I love you,” he said softly, the words finally spilling free. 

“I loved you when you taught me not to be scared of Bear… I loved you when you said you’d be a veterinarian… I loved you when you cried in my arms the night before graduation… I just… I was too much of a coward to say it.”

The hallway remained silent. He pressed his hand over his mouth, voice muffled.

“When you make it out of there,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you every day. I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll drive to Broken Bow, I’ll beg, I’ll sleep on your porch, I’ll–I’ll do anything… just don’t leave me again.”

Bear’s tail thumped once against the floor.

Dennis rested his head against the dog’s, tears slipping free.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” he admitted. “But I’m begging for one anyway. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you… I swear I will… just please… please come back.”

The OR light remained on.

And Dennis stayed there on the floor, clinging to Bear, heart breaking and yearning all at once, whispering into the quiet—

“Please… please just come back to me.”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The OR doors finally opened nearly three hours later.

Dennis had stopped noticing time after the first hour. He sat on the floor beside Bear, back against the wall, fingers buried in thick black fur, whispering half-formed apologies into the silence. Every time the surgical light flickered, his heart jumped into his throat.

When the doors swung open, he was on his feet instantly. His legs nearly gave out again when he saw the blood on the surgical team’s gowns. Dr. Garcia stepped out first, pulling off her gloves. Her expression wasn’t unreadable, but Dennis knew her well enough to recognize the careful neutrality she wore when things were… uncertain.

“Dennis,” she said gently.

That alone made his chest tighten. She never used his name like that.

“How–” His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “How is she?”

“She’s alive.” Dr. Garcia exhaled slowly. 

The words hit him like oxygen after drowning. His shoulders sagged, relief washing through him so hard it made him dizzy, but she didn’t stop there.

“The bullet caused significant internal damage,” she continued carefully. “It entered the left lower abdomen. We had to repair a section of her small intestine. There was also injury to the mesenteric vessels…she lost a lot of blood. We controlled the bleeding, but she went hypotensive for a while.”

Dennis’s medical brain translated automatically. Severe. Very severe.

“She’s stable now,” Dr. Garcia added, softer. “But she’s not waking up yet. She’s in a medically supported coma. Partly from sedation, partly because her body’s been through a lot. We want her to rest.”

Dennis nodded, though his throat felt too tight to speak.

“She might wake on her own,” Dr. Garcia said. “Sometimes hearing familiar voices helps. Talking to her… it can stimulate neurological response.”

Dennis blinked. “You want me to–”

“Yes,” she said curtly. “Go sit with her.”

He didn’t remember walking to the ICU. One moment he was in the hallway and the next he was standing at the doorway of your room, afraid to step inside. Machines surrounded you. Monitors. IV pumps. Oxygen tubing. The steady beep of your heart rate filled the quiet.

You looked so small…A bandage wrapped across your abdomen. Bruises were already blooming along your skin. Your hand lay limp against the sheet. Dennis’s chest cracked open. He pulled a chair close and sat slowly, like any sudden movement might break the fragile reality that you were still here.

His hand hovered before finally settling over yours. You were warm and that alone almost undid him.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice shaking. “It’s me.”

He laughed weakly. 

“God, I don’t even know if you can hear me… but… Dr. Garcia said I should talk to you. So… I’m gonna talk. And… you don’t get to complain about how much I ramble this time.” His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles.

“Do you remember the first day we met?” he murmured. “You were six. You had mud all over your knees… and Bear—he was so small then… and I was terrified of him. You laughed at me for, like, a week straight.” His voice softened, slipping into memory.

“You grabbed my hand… dragged me right up to him… told me he was just a baby. You said, ‘He won’t bite you, Dennis, he just wants to be your friend.’” His throat tightened.

“You always did that… you made scary things feel safe.” He leaned closer.

“I should’ve done that for you… and I didn’t. I left. I didn’t tell you. I let you think I didn’t care… I let you cry… I let you drive away…” His fingers tightened gently around yours.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.” He paused, swallowing.

“I’ve loved you our whole lives. I just… I didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you. I thought if I left… if I came back better… I could tell you. But I never did. I froze again.”

His voice cracked.

“And then you showed up… and you told me you loved me… and I still froze. God, I hate myself for that. I watched you leave… again.” He bowed his head, resting it on your hand.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. Not in college, not in Pittsburgh, not for a single day. Every time I saw a big dog… every time I smelled your perfume… every time I passed an apple… it was you.” He laughed softly, wet with tears.

“You’re still ruining apples for me, you know that?” He squeezed your hand gently.

“You came all this way… and you got hurt… and I didn’t even recognize you at first. You said my name… and I still didn’t see it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I keep failing you.” He leaned even closer, voice barely audible.

“If you wake up… I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’ll tell you everything I should’ve said years ago. I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… please wake up.”

The monitor continued its steady rhythm.

Dennis brushed his thumb over your hand again, softer now.

“And if you can hear me…” he whispered, “I just want you to know… I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

He swallowed hard, blinking away tears.

“And… when you wake up,” he added gently, “I’ll tell you all of this again… in case you didn’t hear me.”

He squeezed your hand once more.

“I promise… I’ll say it as many times as it takes.”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

It happened quietly.

Dennis had been talking for so long that his voice had gone rough at the edges, each word scraping past a throat that felt too tight. He sat curled forward in the chair, one hand wrapped around yours, the other rubbing slow circles over his brow as exhaustion and fear fought for space in his chest.

“…and you used to steal my hoodies,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “You’d say you were cold, but you just liked wearing them… and I never told you I noticed… because I didn’t want you to stop.”

He let out a small, tired breath. The room was dim, monitors glowing softly in the quiet. Bear lay sprawled just outside the doorway–hospital staff had finally relented after Dennis insisted he was calm, that he’d stay out of the way. The dog hadn’t moved in hours, head resting on his paws, eyes fixed on you like he was guarding you even in sleep. Dennis’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

“I told you I’d say everything again when you woke up,” he whispered. “I meant it. I’m still gonna–”

Your fingers twitched. Dennis froze. He stared, not daring to breathe. For a second he thought he imagined it–wishful thinking, exhaustion, desperation. Then your fingers moved again, weak but unmistakable.

“Hey–” His chair scraped loudly as he leaned forward. “Hey, hey… I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered and he stood so fast the room tilted. 

“It’s okay,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened. They were unfocused, glassy, drifting across the ceiling before settling slowly on him. For one fleeting second, hope flared so bright it hurt. Then confusion filled your expression. Your brows pulled together faintly. You swallowed, throat dry, voice barely audible. 

“…Where… am I…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You had surgery, but you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Your gaze stayed on him as if you were searching for something. Dennis’s smile faltered, but he pushed forward anyway.

“It’s me,” he whispered softly. “Dennis.”

You blinked.

“…Dennis?” you repeated, like the name meant nothing and the hope inside him cracked.

“Yes,” he said quickly, nodding. “Yeah. I– I’m Dennis.”

You looked at his face more carefully now, studying him like a stranger. Your eyes flicked to his hand holding yours. You seemed to register the closeness, the familiarity of his posture, the redness in his eyes. Your lips parted.

“I… I don’t…” You swallowed again, visibly distressed. “I don’t remember.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest. Dennis stepped back instinctively, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said too fast. “That’s–that’s normal. Temporary. You lost blood, you hit your head, you were under anesthesia–it happens.”But his voice was already breaking.

You looked around the room, panic creeping in. 

“Why… why are you… here?” you whispered. “Do… do I know you?”

He couldn’t answer. His mouth opened then closed. 

Your gaze shifted toward the doorway, spotting the massive black shape lying there. 

“Is… that dog… mine?” you asked weakly, confusion deepening.

Bear lifted his head at the sound of your voice, tail thumping softly once. He stood slowly and padded closer, stopping near the foot of the bed, whining low in his throat. You stared at him.

“…He looks like he knows me,” you murmured, uncertain.

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully. 

“That’s Bear,” he said hoarsely. “He’s yours. He followed the ambulance. He… wouldn’t leave you.”

You watched Bear carefully, your expression softening with faint instinctual warmth, but still no memory.

“…I don’t remember him either,” you whispered, which broke something in Dennis.

He turned away abruptly, pressing his hand to his mouth. His shoulders began to shake, the sound he tried to suppress escaping anyway. It was raw, wounded. You flinched slightly, startled. 

“I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve upset you,” you said weakly. “Did I… did I forget something important?”

Dennis let out a broken laugh, half sob. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Yeah… you did, but I’ll help you remember again.”

He wiped at his face, trying to pull himself together, but the tears kept coming. Six years of missing you. Hours of begging you to wake up. Every confession he’d poured into your sleeping silence was gone.

You looked at him helplessly. 

“Were… were we… friends?” you asked softly.

The question gutted him.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Friends.” “…Just friends?” You hesitated. 

Dennis’s breath hitched. He shook his head slowly, unable to lie. 

“No.” Your confusion deepened, eyes darting between him and Bear. “Then… what were we?”

Dennis’s composure shattered completely. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bed rail, tears falling freely now. 

“You were… everything,” he whispered. “You are everything.”

You watched him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the intensity of someone you didn’t recognize grieving you like this.

“I don’t understand,” you murmured, voice trembling.

“I know,” he said quickly, nodding. “I know, I’m sorry… I don’t mean to— I just—”

He looked at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I waited six years to see you again,” he whispered. “I told you I loved you while you were asleep… I promised I’d say it again when you woke up… and now you don’t even know who I am.”

Bear whined softly, resting his chin on the mattress near your leg. You instinctively reached toward him. Your fingers brushed his fur, and he leaned into the touch immediately. Dennis watched, heart breaking in a new way.

“You still… trust him,” he said quietly. “Even if you don’t remember.”

You stroked Bear weakly, eyes flicking back to Dennis. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again. “I wish I remembered… you look… really sad.”

“Yeah. I am.” He laughed through tears. 

He hesitated, then slowly reached forward again, stopping short of touching your hand.

“I’ll… I’ll tell you everything again,” he said softly. “Every memory. Every stupid thing. The apple trees. The farm. How you taught me not to be scared of him. All of it… I just didn’t think I’d have to start from zero.”His voice cracked.

The room fell quiet except for the monitor’s steady beeping and Bear’s soft breathing. Dennis looked at you like he was mourning someone still alive.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, even though it sounded fragile now. “Even if you don’t remember me… I’ll stay. I’ll wait until you do. Or… until you don’t. I’ll still stay.”

And the devastation in his eyes made it clear, he would fall in love with you all over again, even if you never remembered him at all.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The next few days blurred together in a quiet, fragile rhythm. Dennis barely left your side. He helped the nurses reposition you when the pain made you wince. He held the cup when you were finally allowed small sips of water. He adjusted your pillows, too many times to count, like if he could make you comfortable enough you might remember something.

Bear stayed nearby, often curled at the foot of the bed, occasionally lifting his head when you shifted. You had grown used to his presence quickly, instinctively reaching for him when the confusion overwhelmed you. Dennis watched that every time, something warm and painful flickering behind his eyes.

“Do you remember this?” he would ask softly, showing you photos on his phone–pictures George had sent him, old ones from Broken Bow. You as kids, muddy and laughing. You hugging Bear when he was still half his current size. Apple trees in late summer. You studied them carefully then shook your head.

“I’m sorry,” you would whisper.

Each apology chipped something inside him. He tried telling you stories instead. 

“You used to climb that old fence behind your house… you’d swing your legs and pretend it was a throne…” Nothing.

“You made me promise I’d never be scared of Bear again…” Nothing.

“You cried when I left for college…” He regretted that one immediately, watching confusion and discomfort flicker across your face.

“I don’t… I don’t remember,” you said softly.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep trying.” He smiled anyway, but the exhaustion was starting to show. His eyes were rimmed red. He barely slept. He talked like someone trying to outrun silence.

On the third day, he brought you apple slices.

“They’re from the farmer’s market,” he said quietly. “Not the same… but close.”

“They’re good.” You took one, chewing slowly, eyes lighting up. 

“You used to–” He smiled, hopeful. 

“I don’t remember,” you finished gently.

The hope dimmed again. Still, he stayed. He helped you sit up for the first time, hands careful at your shoulders. 

“Easy… you’re doing great,” he murmured, voice soft like he was afraid you might break.

Your fingers brushed his wrist as you steadied yourself. The contact lingered. For a moment, something flickered across your expression, maybe familiarity.

Dennis held his breath, but it faded.

“I’m tired,” you whispered.

“Yeah, of course. Rest.” He nodded quickly. 

He pulled the blanket up gently, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Nothing was working. Every memory he offered dissolved into confusion. Every story fell flat. You were kind to him, gentle even, but distant. Like he was someone important you couldn’t quite place, but not someone who lived in your heart. It was slowly destroying him.

That afternoon, there was a soft knock at the door. Dennis was mid-sentence, telling you about the time Bear fell into the irrigation ditch and soaked both of you, when the door opened. A woman stepped in, holding a baby against her shoulder. Dennis froze. You looked at them curiously.

“Hey… I was looking for–” The woman smiled gently. 

Your eyes widened slightly. Something sharp pierced through the fog.

“…Amy?” you whispered.

The room went still. Dennis’s heart dropped straight to the floor. Panic rising in his throat like never before. You stared at her, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused like something painful was surfacing too quickly.

“You remember me? Oh, thank god–” Amy looked relieved. 

You weren’t looking at her anymore. You were looking at Dennis and suddenly, it all came back, not in warm fragments, but in a flood of cold, sharp memory.

Apple trees. The farm. His silence. Tucker mentioning Amy. The baby. The panic. The belief he had moved on. Your confession. His silence again. Driving away with your heart shattered.

Your expression changed. The softness disappeared, replaced with something cold and guarded. Dennis saw it happen in real time, and it terrified him more than the amnesia ever had.

“…You,” you whispered, voice hollow.

 “You… remember?” His breath hitched.

“I remember.” Your eyes hardened slightly causing Amy to shift awkwardly, sensing the tension. 

“I–I can come back later–”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, but your gaze never left Dennis.

The distance between you felt enormous now.

“I think… I need you to leave,” you said quietly.

The words cut deeper than anything.

“What?” Dennis blinked. 

“I need space,” you clarified, voice still soft but firm. “Please.”

“No–wait–please–” He stepped forward, panic rising. “You just got your memories back, you don’t–you don’t understand–” His chest tightened violently. 

“I understand,” you said, calm in a way that felt colder than anger. “You left. Twice. I told you how I felt… and you said nothing.”

“I was in shock–I didn’t–I love you, I just–” Dennis’s face crumpled. 

You shook your head slightly, wincing at the movement. “I can’t do this right now.”

The finality in your voice shattered him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed before he even realized what he was doing.

“Please don’t send me away,” he begged, voice breaking. “I can’t—not again. I just got you back.”

Your expression flickered, but you stayed quiet.

“I was a coward,” he continued, tears falling freely. “I know I was. I froze. I hurt you. I’ve regretted it every day since I told you all of this while you were asleep.I promised I’d tell you again. I love you. I never stopped loving you. Please…” His trembling hands hovered near yours but didn’t touch.

“Please… don’t leave me again,” he whispered. “I’ll stay quiet. I won’t push. I’ll just sit here. I just… I can’t walk out of this room and not know if I’ll see you again.”

Your heart twisted painfully, but the hurt was still too fresh.

“I need time,” you said softly. “I’ll give you time… just… let me stay.” He shook his head desperately. 

 “Dennis… please.” You closed your eyes briefly.

The plea in your voice was gentle, but it was still a no. His shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him, replaced by quiet devastation.

“…Okay,” he whispered.

He stood slowly, like it physically hurt to move away from you.

“I’ll be right outside,” he added, voice fragile. “If you need anything. If you change your mind. If you… remember something else.” He paused at the door, looking back at you one last time, eyes full of yearning and regret.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

Then he stepped out, cracking the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, breaking all over again just on the other side, while Bear padded out after him and rested his head on his shoulder. Inside the room, you stared at the door, heart aching, unsure whether pushing him away was protecting yourself or breaking both of you all over again.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Dennis went back to work because he didn’t know what else to do. The first shift felt unreal, like he was walking through someone else’s life. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The sounds of monitors and overhead pages blurred into meaningless noise. His hands moved on instinct, checking vitals, reviewing charts, responding to consults, but there was no presence behind it. Just muscle memory. He functioned and that was all.

Patients spoke to him and he nodded at the right moments. Nurses asked questions and he answered correctly. He signed orders, reviewed labs, and charted notes. Every action was precise, automatic, hollow. He wasn’t really there.

The only moments that felt real were his breaks. He’d retreat to the empty stairwell or the far corner of the staff lounge, phone clutched in his hand. He’d scroll through photos of you until the world narrowed to just the two of you again, muddy boots at the farm, your hair caught in sunlight, you laughing with your head thrown back while Bear tried to climb into your lap despite being far too big. His thumb would hover over the screen, tracing your face without touching it. Sometimes he’d whisper to the photo.

“I’m still here,” he’d murmur. “I didn’t leave. I’m not going to leave.”

Other times he’d just stare, eyes glassy, shoulders slumped, like he was trying to memorize you all over again in case you slipped away. Then there were the nights. He learned your sleep schedule unintentionally… when the nurses dimmed the lights, when the hallway quieted, when the ICU settled into its low hum. Those were the only times he allowed himself to go back to your room, but he never stayed long. Just enough to stand quietly near the door, watching the rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes Bear would lift his head and wag softly when he saw him. Sometimes Dennis would sit in the chair again, hands clasped, afraid to touch you in case you woke and asked him to leave.

“You look peaceful,” he’d whisper. “I wish I knew what you were dreaming about. I hope it's me.” He’d leave before you stirred.

It was the closest he could get to you now. Trinity noticed immediately. Dennis had always been quiet, but this was different. He moved like someone carrying something heavy inside his ribs. He forgot to eat. His scrubs hung looser. Dark circles carved deep shadows under his eyes. One night, Trinity found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his phone in silence.

“You’re wasting away,” Trinity said bluntly, leaning against the counter. “I’m fine.” Dennis didn’t look up. 

“No, you’re not.” Trinity crossed her arms. “You’re barely sleeping, you don’t talk anymore, and you keep looking at those same photos like they’re oxygen.”

“They kind of are.” Dennis swallowed. 

 “You need to fight for her, man. Not… whatever this is.” Trinity sighed, frustration softening into concern.

“I am fighting,” Dennis whispered.

“By lurking outside her room when she’s asleep?” Trinity pressed. “By starving yourself and hoping she changes her mind?”

“She asked for space.” Dennis’s jaw tightened. 

“And you’re giving her your entire life in return?” She shook her head. “You’re letting this destroy you.”

“It already has.” Dennis finally looked up, eyes dull but intense. 

The words hung heavy in the room.

“You think she’d want to see you like this?” She exhaled slowly. 

“I don’t know what she wants anymore.” Dennis’s voice broke. 

The tough love didn’t land the way Trinity hoped. It just settled into the already-deep exhaustion weighing on Dennis. Days passed like that, gray and indistinct. Then one afternoon, Dennis walked past your room and heard laughter. He stopped. It was soft, but unmistakable. He glanced through the glass.

Your parents were there. Your mom perched carefully at the edge of the chair, your dad standing close, one hand resting gently on the bed rail. George leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but smiling, actually smiling. You were laughing. Not the fragile, polite smile you’d given the nurses. Not the guarded calm you’d shown him. This was real, eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking slightly, warmth lighting your face.

Dennis’s chest tightened painfully. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. He stayed in the hallway longer than he meant to, watching quietly, drinking in the sight of you alive in a way you hadn’t been since waking. It hurt, but it also felt like relief.

“She’s really laughing,” he whispered to himself.

He didn’t notice George glance toward the door until it was too late. Their eyes met through the glass. The smile faded from George’s face.

Later, Dennis was called into the ICU conference room. Dr. Garcia was explaining the details of your injuries, the surgery, the coma, the temporary amnesia. Your family listened carefully, expressions shifting between concern and relief.

“…and emotionally, recovery may take longer,” she concluded gently. “Given the circumstances.”

Your dad nodded slowly. Your mom wiped her eyes.

George’s gaze drifted toward Dennis again. After the meeting ended, George followed him into the hallway.

“You should’ve told us,” George said, voice tight.

 “I–” Dennis froze.

“You knew she was here. You knew she was hurt. And you didn’t call us.” “I didn’t know how,” Dennis admitted quietly.

“You didn’t know how? She’s family. We deserved to be here from the start.” George’s anger flared. 

“You’re right.” Dennis looked down, guilt settling heavily. 

George shook his head, pacing once before turning back. “She almost died. You went through all of that alone? And we didn’t even know?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Dennis whispered. “I was just trying to keep her alive.”

“You don’t get to carry everything by yourself. Not when it comes to her.” George’s expression softened slightly, but frustration remained. 

“I know.” Dennis nodded faintly. 

George studied him more closely now–the hollowed cheeks, the exhausted posture, the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You look terrible,” George muttered.

 “I feel worse.” Dennis let out a humorless breath.

George’s anger wavered, replaced with something more complicated. “She smiled today,” he said quietly.

“I saw,” Dennis replied, voice soft. “You still love her.” George watched him for a long moment.

“Always.” Dennis didn’t hesitate.

The hallway fell quiet. Through the glass, you were still talking with your parents, your smile lingering. Dennis stood there, close enough to see you, but still on the outside, aching with every breath, holding onto the fragile hope that one day you might look at him and smile like that again.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Dennis perfected the art of avoiding you.

He learned which hallways to take that didn’t pass your room. He traded shifts when he could. When he had to be in the ICU for consults, he kept his eyes down, charts clutched tightly in his hands like a shield. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. It was the opposite.

He wanted to see you so badly it felt like hunger, but every time he imagined you looking at him with that calm distance, that careful politeness, it hollowed him out all over again. So he stayed away, living on glimpses, checking the board for your name, asking nurses vague questions, standing at the far end of the corridor just to know you were still there. His routine became mechanical.

Work. Breaks with photos. Nighttime visits only when you slept. Leave before you woke.

Repeat.

Then one afternoon, he was called up to the ICU for a patient with worsening labs. He didn’t realize how close the room was to yours until he turned the corner and stopped. You were standing. Not just sitting up in bed, not leaning against pillows, but standing, one hand lightly gripping the IV pole, the other hovering uncertainly near the wall. A physical therapist stood beside you, encouraging you softly.

“You’re doing great,” she said. “Just a few more steps.”

Dennis forgot how to breathe. You looked stronger, still pale, still careful, but upright. Alive in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. He should have turned around, but he didn’t. Your gaze drifted across the hallway and landed on him. For a second, neither of you moved. Then, softly, your face brightened. A real smile.

“…Denny?” you called.

The nickname hit him like a drug. You hadn’t called him that in years. Not since before things became complicated. Not since before feelings had sharpened and silence had broken you both. His knees nearly gave out. He grabbed the edge of the counter beside him, steadying himself as emotion flooded his chest too fast, too sudden. The world tilted. His vision blurred. You took a careful step toward him.

“Hey,” you said gently, like you were afraid he might disappear.

That was enough to snap him back into motion. He crossed the distance quickly, then slowed when he saw the slight wobble in your stance.

“Careful,” he murmured, reaching out instinctively.

You smiled again. It was smaller this time, but warm.

“I’m getting better,” you said.

“I can see that,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Before he could stop himself, he pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t gentle.It was desperate as arms wrapping around you like he needed to confirm you were solid, real, not another dream. He buried his face against your shoulder, breathing you in, shaking. Then he froze. You’d asked for space. He pulled back abruptly, hands hovering awkwardly as guilt rushed in. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have–” He was already crying.

Tears spilled freely, his composure collapsing in seconds. 

“You… you smiled,” he said brokenly, like he couldn’t believe it. “You called me Denny.”

“I did.” You looked at him softly. 

“I thought… I thought you didn’t want me near you,” he admitted, wiping at his face but failing. “I’ve been staying away. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

 “You’ve been avoiding me?” Your expression faltered slightly.

“Yeah. I still come by when you’re asleep… I just–I didn’t want you to see me if you didn’t want to.” He nodded, embarrassed. 

The confession sounded small, almost pathetic.

You studied him carefully and saw the weight he’d lost, the exhaustion, the way he looked like someone who hadn’t let himself hope in weeks.

“You look terrible,” you said quietly.

 “That’s fair.” He let out a shaky laugh.

You shifted your grip on the IV pole, then tentatively reached out and touched his sleeve. The contact made him still completely.

“I didn’t mean I didn’t want you,” you said softly. “I just needed… time.”

“I know,” he whispered quickly. “I was trying to give it to you. I just… I missed you.” The vulnerability in his voice was raw.

 “I missed you too.” You squeezed his sleeve gently.

“You… did?” His breath hitched.

You nodded. He looked like he might cry harder.

“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he admitted, voice quiet and shaky. “You smiling at me. Saying my name. I kept thinking… that was gone.”

 “It’s not gone. ”You tilted your head slightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m being pathetic.” He laughed weakly, wiping his eyes again. 

“A little,” you agreed gently.

 “Yeah, that tracks.” He nodded, almost relieved.

You both stood there, the air between you softer now, fragile but warmer than before.

“You should sit,” he said suddenly, slipping back into concern. “You’re still recovering.”

“You always do that,” you murmured, amused.

“Do what?”

“Switch from emotional disaster to worried doctor in two seconds.”

“Occupational hazard.” He flushed faintly. 

You took another small step, and he hovered beside you immediately, ready to catch you if needed. Not touching, but just close enough.

“Denny?” you said again.

He looked at you instantly.

“I’m… glad you didn’t stop caring,” you admitted.

“I couldn’t. I tried to give you space, but… I never stopped.” His voice broke. 

You smiled softly and that small, simple expression nearly undid him all over again.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

You made it back to the room with his help, the short walk clearly draining you, but you looked lighter somehow like seeing him had steadied something inside you. Dennis stayed close, hands hovering as you got back on the bed carefully. Once you were settled, he stepped back, unsure where to put himself now that the moment had softened. He shifted his weight, glancing at the floor, then at you, then away again. There was something he needed to say. He swallowed.

“About… Amy,” he started, voice tentative.

You watched him quietly, waiting. He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling.

“I should’ve explained sooner. I should’ve explained that day when you… when you found out. I just– I panicked. I froze and then everything spiraled and I–”

“Dennis,” you said gently.

 “Right. Sorry. I’m rambling.” He nodded quickly but kept rambling anyway.

“Her husband died,” he said, the words tumbling out. “Just before the baby was born. His name was Teddy. They were… they were high school sweethearts. Grew up together. Like us. Everyone knew them together. They were inseparable. Attached at the hip.”

Your expression softened. Dennis’s voice grew quieter.

“He used to do all the work on the farm. Fix the fences, manage the equipment, everything. And then suddenly she had… none of that. Just a newborn and acres of land she didn’t know how to keep running.” He looked down at his hands.

“I saw her one day trying to fix the irrigation pump by herself. She looked exhausted. And… I don’t know. I just saw you. Or… what you would’ve been if something like that happened to me.” Your chest tightened.

“She talked about him constantly,” he continued. “About how they grew up together. About how he used to walk her home. About how she didn’t know how to exist without him. And it… it reminded me of us. Of everything we had. Everything I was too scared to say out loud.” His voice cracked.

“So I helped. At first it was just once or twice. Then more. I wasn’t trying to replace him–I just didn’t want her drowning in it. I knew what it felt like to lose someone before you even really got the chance to… hold onto them.” You listened carefully, the pieces settling into place.

“And when I realized you thought… that the baby was mine…” He exhaled shakily. “God, I should’ve stopped it right there. I should’ve told you everything. But I didn’t. I just… stood there. Like an idiot.” He laughed weakly at himself.

“I talked to her after,” he added quickly. “After you left. I told her I couldn’t come around the farm anymore. That it hurt you. That I’d made a mess of everything. She understood. She said she didn’t want to be the reason I lost you.”

You frowned slightly.

“You… stopped helping her?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

 “Dennis… I never wanted that.” You shook your head slowly.

He blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t know the situation,” you said softly. “If I had known… I would’ve told you to keep helping her. She lost her husband. She has a baby. She needs support.”

His face fell in a complicated mix of emotions–pain, admiration, something almost reverent.

“You’re still… like this,” he whispered. “Like what?”

“Kind. Understanding. Bigger than the situation.” He swallowed. “It’s the girl I fell in love with.”

Your gaze softened, but you looked down, unsure what to say.

“You really think I should keep helping her?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “If she needs it. You were doing something good. I don’t want to be the reason someone else struggles.”

He stared at you, eyes shining with something fragile.

“You always put everyone else first,” he murmured.

“I just… don’t want anyone to hurt more than they already are.” You shrugged faintly. 

His expression shifted–hurt threading through the warmth.

“I don’t want to take advantage of that,” he said softly.

 “You’re not.” You looked up.

“But I could,” he admitted. “You’d let me. You’d tell me to go help her even if it hurt you. Even if you were still… trying to figure us out.”

He took a small step closer, voice quiet.

“I don’t want your big heart to cost you anything else. Especially not me.” The vulnerability in his words sat heavy between you.

“I’m not sacrificing anything,” you said gently. “I just… understand.”

“You always did.” He shook his head slightly, eyes lingering on you like he was memorizing every detail. 

Silence stretched, soft but full.

“I don’t love her,” he added suddenly, like he needed you to hear it clearly. “It’s not like that. I never stopped loving you. Even when I was helping her, even when everything got messy… it was always you.”

Your breath caught faintly. He looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty. 

“I just didn’t say it when I should’ve.”

You studied him, the tired eyes, the careful distance he was trying to maintain, the way he looked like he was afraid of hurting you again just by standing too close.

“You don’t have to punish yourself forever,” you murmured.

He gave a small, sad smile. “I’m not punishing myself. I just… don’t want to lose you again because I didn’t think things through.”

Your fingers rested lightly on the armrest, close to his hand but not quite touching.

“You won’t lose me,” you said.

He nodded, no longer able to speak. For the first time since everything had fallen apart, the misunderstanding that once tore you apart felt smaller, replaced by something fragile, hopeful, and painfully careful, like both of you were learning how to hold each other again without breaking.

The room fell into a quiet that felt almost sacred.

Dennis didn’t move right away. He stood beside you, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, like he was afraid even breathing too hard might break the fragile peace settling between you. His eyes kept drifting to your face, then away, then back again—like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t another moment that would dissolve the second he reached for it. He swallowed.

“Can I… ask something?” he said softly, voice almost shy. “You can ask me anything. ”You looked up at him, the gentleness in your expression making his chest ache.

He glanced at the hospital bed, then back at you. The request seemed to embarrass him before he even said it. 

“Would it… be okay if I laid with you? Just… for a little bit. I won’t get in your way. I just… I think I need… I need to hold you.” There was something so small and vulnerable in the way he said it, like he expected you to say no and was already bracing himself.

“Come here.” You smiled softly. 

The relief that crossed his face was immediate and almost overwhelming. His shoulders dropped, tension leaving him in one long breath.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He moved slowly, deliberately, lowering the railing with careful hands. He glanced at you constantly, checking your comfort, making sure he wasn’t hurting you even before he touched you. Then he climbed onto the bed, shifting cautiously so the mattress barely dipped.

For a second, he just sat there beside you, uncertain. Then instinct took over. He curled toward you, sliding one arm around your torso, then the other, pulling you gently into him like he’d been waiting years to do it. His face tucked immediately into the crook of your neck, breath warm and shaky against your skin. The sound he made was barely audible, half exhale, half broken sigh.

“I missed this,” he whispered, voice muffled.

You wrapped your arm around his shoulders, careful but sure, and he tightened his hold in response, fingers gripping softly at your side like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened them.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words spilling out again, softer now. “For everything. For freezing. For letting you walk away. For not telling you… I should’ve told you I loved you. I should’ve chased you. I should’ve–” His voice trembled, fading into quiet.

“I love you,” he whispered again. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”

He breathed you in deeply, like he was trying to memorize the scent of you. His nose brushed your neck slightly, and he let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh.

“You still smell the same,” he murmured. “Like… home.”

Your fingers found his hair. The second you started running them gently through it, he melted completely. His body softened against yours, the tension draining out of him all at once. His grip loosened just enough to become something more comfortable, more trusting.

“That feels… really good,” he whispered, voice already heavy with sleep.

You continued, slow and soothing, nails lightly grazing his scalp. He leaned into it unconsciously, pressing closer, his cheek resting fully against your shoulder now.

“You’re okay,” you murmured softly. “You can rest, Denny.”

He nodded faintly, barely awake. “Don’t… don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.

His breathing slowed, deepened. Each inhale grew steadier, each exhale warmer against your skin. His hand, still resting at your waist, relaxed fully, fingers uncurling like he’d finally let himself believe you were real. You kept stroking his hair, murmuring quiet reassurances even as his weight grew heavier with sleep.

“Thank you… for being here,” you whispered. “You waited. You stayed. I’m right here.”

He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened briefly, like some part of him heard you.

You watched him, heart softening at how peaceful he looked. The lines of worry that usually pulled at his face were gone. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his brow smooth. He looked younger somehow like the boy who used to sit beside you under the apple trees.

Your fingers slowed, still tangled gently in his hair.

Sleep tugged at you too, warmth wrapping around you both. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you, your own eyes growing heavy.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured one last time.

You drifted off with him curled against you, both of you tangled together, finally at peace.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Later, after shift change, Trinity walked quietly down the ICU hallway, scanning for him. She hadn’t seen Dennis sign out, and lately that meant he’d probably disappeared somewhere he shouldn’t be—skipping meals, forgetting time, sitting alone.

She nudged the door open gently and stopped.

Dennis was curled tightly against you, one arm wrapped around your waist, his face tucked into your neck like he’d burrowed there and refused to move. You were angled toward him, one hand still threaded through his hair, fingers resting softly like you’d fallen asleep mid-comfort.

Your legs were tangled slightly beneath the blanket, the IV line draped carefully to the side. Bear lay at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his paws, watching over both of you.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh,” she whispered, almost reverent.

He looked peaceful in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. No tension, no exhaustion…just quiet relief. He clung to you like someone who had finally made it home after being lost for too long.

She carefully pulled out her phone.

Snap.

The photo caught everything–the curve of his arm around you, your fingers still in his hair, both of you tucked close together, the soft rise and fall of shared breathing.

She smiled to herself, a small, fond shake of her head.

“He’s gonna pretend to be mad,” she murmured. “But he’ll keep this forever.”

She dimmed the light slightly, making sure the room stayed peaceful. Bear’s tail thumped softly once, but he didn’t move.

Trinity slipped out quietly, leaving the door cracked just enough.

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]

PART FIVE — June 5th

PART SIX — June 10th

PART SEVEN — June 20th

PART EIGHT — June 25th

More chapters TBD

#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

— 

“H—hello?” You blinked at your phone a few times, giving your tired eyes a few seconds to adjust. An unknown caller was ringing you, one hour before you’re meant to wake up for work and two hours before your shift. “Who are you sorry?”

The person on the phone spoke too slowly for your liking, and they rambled on about needing you to come in. You wondered if they were either new to the job or just really terrible at doing it. 

“Sorry, do you have the right number?”

They asked for your name, and after confirming, the person on the phone then explained that they were calling from an ER, telling you that your dad was in the hospital, although now discharged and he needed to be picked up.

“I need to speak with him” you were now fully awake, and fighting back nausea, “put him on the phone.”

“Ma’am, I can’t do that, it’s policy so please—“

“I don’t give a single flying fuck about your policy, put my dad on the phone!”

“Ma’am, as I said —“

“Do not fucking ma’am me right now!” The hammering of your heart in your chest was making it incredibly difficult for you to stand, and the shaking of your hands made it impossible for you to put your clothes on. “Why is he in the ER and why did it take you this long to contact me?!”

The voice on the other end launched into a not-so-rushed explanation; something about police, procedure, questions but, the words blurred together into meaningless words. 

“Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes” 

Then you hung up before they could say another word.

You grabbed your keys and phone, rushing out of the door, giving your dad a call on the way there. No answer. Another call, followed by a million more, and he still wasn’t answering. The ride was a lot longer than five minutes; it felt like an eternity.

There were two men in your life you cared about: your dad and Jack. And knowing that your dad was in the ER, not knowing why or how long for, given his health struggles… Thoughts started rushing through your mind, mainly terrible, awful ones.

“Call Jack,” you choked out to the automated system.

The screen lit up.

Calling… Jenna.

“No, no— cancel!”

You slammed the button and tried again, voice cracking. “Call Jack.”

Calling… Jason.

“Fuck!” Your hand hit the steering wheel hard enough to sting. “Who the fuck is Jason! Cancel call!”

Another attempt. Another wrong number.

You pulled up outside the hospital and slammed on your brakes, jumping out of the car. The driver’s door hung wide open behind you as you sprinted toward the entrance.

First it was anxitey you were feeling as you walked through the doors.

Then it was anger.

Pure, strong, pulsating rage.

Your dad was asleep on a chair, slumped over, with no shoes, no blanket. Just himself and a bag of medicine in his hand. 

You rushed over to him and immediately checked for a pulse. “Dad it’s me”

He opened his eyes, his beautiful, tired eyes and managed a smile.

“What happened, dad?” 

“Hi sweety, I’m doing…okay. His speech came out in it's usual way, since the stroke, slow and slurred.

“I need to know what happened and what they did” you managed a small, forced smile.

“I don’t remember much”

“How long have you been here for? Do you know where your shoes are?”

He shook his head. 

“Okay, wait here” you got up and marched over to a small window — the woman behind it sipped slowly on a hot drink as she scrolled through her phone. 

You cleared your throat, but that didn’t seem to have caught her attention over the loud music blasting from her phone. 

You tapped your fingers gently on the counter, as if to say, I’m here and I’m waiting. 

Nothing. 

You slammed your hand on the glass window and that seemed to get her attention.

“Busy night?” You said sarcastically, “My dad over there, I need to know what happened”

The woman looked up slowly, chewing her gum like she had all the time in the world. You saw too many teeth and too much tongue. 

“Did he not tell you?” She looked back at her phone.

“Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you”

“He fell, but the doctor said he’s all good” she said casually, eyes flicking back to her phone. 

And then your patience string finally snapped. 

Two hands now slammed on the glass window, and this time, it was a yell. “Look at me! And tell me, what the fuck happened to my dad!”

“If you don’t calm down, I will call security”

“If they are as useless as you, then please do!” Another yell filled a very empty ER. You wondered if it was empty because their care was poor or because they discharged patients, so they were another department’s problem. 

She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. You shook your head, gave her not one, but two middle fingers and walked back to your dad. “C’mon we’re leaving” you said calmly as you helped him stand up “we’ll talk in the car, okay?”

“Yes, sweety” he nodded slowly. 

You helped him get up and carefully made your way out to your car. You sat him in the back, so he didn’t see your tears run as you drove him to PTMC. 

“Dad I need you to try very hard to remember… it’s okay if you don’t but anything that can help me.” you said “What happened at home?

“I fell” he said weakly “And the… neighbour heard it, so he called an ambulance”

“Does anywhere hurt?”

“My… head” he said slowly “shoulder too”

“Dad, did they put you in a big machine? To scan your head?”

“No I was in one bed the whole time”

“Did a nurse… like me, come in and poke a needle in your arm?”

He mumbled something and you couldn’t understand him. You were normally pretty good at understanding him but he seems to have gotten worse. Your mind was scanning for possible injuries, and illness, and of course, further strokes. You called the emergency line at PTMC, this time not asking the automated system to do it for you. 

“Lena It’s me” your voice broke and you didn’t hide your tears from your dad this time “I need help — I need someone to meet me outside with a gurney, please. Dad’s had a fall, and it’s a long story but Lena I need… help please”

“Okay sweet, we’re waiting. Drive safe okay? I’ll let Jack you called”

Jack. Shit. Your stomach dropped. You forgot to call or update him. You looked at the time, and you should have started work hours ago. 

You said quietly, “okay, see you soon”

You kept glancing into the back seat as you drove. Your dad was slumped there, drifting in and out of consciousness, his head rolling slightly with each turn.

“Hey, Dad… stay with me, alright?” you tried, voice shaking as you spoke to him between breaths. “What did you have for breakfast today? Did you eat anything? Tell me about your day…”

By the time you pulled into the ambulance bay, there was already a small crowd of anxious faces waiting. Jack opened the back door, and the team helped your dad get out and onto a gurney. 

“Male, 78, head injury” you said quitely as you leaned against the car, legs slowly giving up “he—he was at a different ER and uh…”

“Previous history of stroke” Jack cut in, completing the history because he knew it would be too difficult for you to say it, “response might be slow, but this is usual for him. Do not speak on his behalf and do not finish his sentences for him”

He smiled at your dad giving him a gentle tap on the shoulder.

“Good to see you, son”

“I’d say likewise but I don’t like seeing you like this” he said, focusing all his attention and love on him. 

You followed them into the trauma room and watched Jack assess, calm and collected, as always. 

Someone drew bloods, and you noticed that there were no puncture wounds anywhere on his arms. They didn’t even do the basic checks on him, and you felt the same anger as you did before rise in your chest. 

You stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, feeling like you might pass out. 

“They thought I was drunk” he mumbled, “but they didn’t understand that’s who I am”

You put your hand over your mouth to silence a small sob. 

“I’m sorry that happened” Jack replied softly, “and I’ll make sure they’re aware of how bad they treated you. Let’s get you better, alright? We need to rule out any injuries to your head. Do you remember the big machine that looked like a doughnut?”

Your dad nodded.

“We’re gonna take you up there, I’ll stay here if that’s alright? Need to make sure she’s okay,” his voice was gentle and caring — another reminder why you loved him so much. 

“Take care of her” he said slowly “she’s been crying the whole drive here”

Jack gave him a small smile and rested his hand on his “it’s because she loves you”.

One of the nurses smiled warmly at the exchange, but when her gaze shifted to you, her expression abruptly changed. Her jaw dropped, eyes widening in panic. 

You frowned at her. “Ww—what?”

She lifted a hesitant finger “You’re bleeding”

Jack’s head snapped in your direction, along with everyone else’s. Warm, dark blood was steadily dripping down your face. You touched it, realising with a jolt that it wasn’t sweat from anxiety — it was blood pouring out of your nose. 

“I’m fine” you said quickly as you reached over for a wipe “It happens, when I’m stressed”. 

Jack gave you a look of this has never happened before.

“I’ll be right here, Dad, okay?” You went over to him “I’m not going anywhere”

Despite the weakness in his hand, he still managed to squeeze yours. 

As they wheeled him out, Jack was by your side, anticipating the sobs that were about to happen. He quietly but firmly said “Can everyone clear the room, please?”

He pulled you against his chest, blood and tears soaked into his scrubs as one arm wrapped securely around you and the other rubbed slow, soothing circles across your back. He rocked you gently, whispering comforting words that everything would be okay, that you were both safe now, and that he had you.

“I’ve got blood all over you” you mumbled as you pulled back “sorry”.

He grabbed the wipe from you and carefully cleaned your face. “Don’t worry about that. C’mon, let’s get you somewhere private sweetheart”

You nodded. He took your hand and led you to an empty room down the hall. Once inside, he pinched the bridge of your nose to slow the bleeding while wiping away the rest of the dried blood.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call — I tried, then the stupid car wouldn’t understand what I was saying”

“It’s okay, baby” he whispered, “I was worried sick, thinking the worst has happened, but I’m glad you’re safe and back with me”

“You should have seen him Jack” you cried “all alone in an ER with no shoes on, no phone, no ID, nothing. They didn’t do a basic blood test on him and h—he hit his fucking head!”

He sat on the bed next to you, and you leaned back in his arms “Which hospital was that?”

“Uh… the one closest to his house I can’t remember the name” You had an awful headache coming on, and the lights suddenly became too bright. 

“I know which one” he muttered, “that’s a terrible hospital, really poor inspection reports too. I bet with my complaint coming their way, they’d have the department of health knocking on their door by the morning”

“And the woman behind the desk my God — absolutely useless!” 

“You feeling okay?” He said gently as he leaned some more, “You’re squinting, are the lights too bright?”

You nodded and softly said, “Just a headache”.

“Okay, sweetheart, get some rest. I’ll go wait for your dad's results okay? Then I’ll be back with you”

You shifted off the bed and said “No, no I need to get ready for my shift and—“ 

Jack titled his head playfully and gently pushed you back into the bed “no, you’re not. You’re going to rest, and I think we both agree that you’re in no state to work”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right”

“I’ll be back, get some rest” he kissed your lips and got off the bed, turning the lights off on his way out.

“Hi, this is Dr Jack Abbot from PTMC” he said as he stood by Lena at the hub “I need to speak with your attending” 

He ensured that there was no please, added at the end of it. 

After listening to what felt like the worst holding music ever, someone picked up the phone and joyfully said “Hell'oooooo”

Jack frowned and muttered what the fuck. “Who am I speaking to?”. 

The attending gave his name and all of the medical titles he seemed to have collected over the years.

“Listen — doc. I have one of your patients here; it seems like you’ve discharged him inappropriately”

Jack continued, giving him patient details and medical history, asking for a request on what tests they’ve already done.

The attending said “Uh… so we didn’t think he needed a CT scan because this wasn’t the first time he’s had a fall”

“You…” Jack took a deep breath in “didn't….think to give an elderly man a CT scan after hitting his head?”

“As I said, the man who appeared drunk at first, has been in a couple of times and—“

“The man had a stroke you ass—“ Lena nudged Jack hard and he bit his tongue “Did you even check his chart?”

Jack was now pacing around the hub, feeling the pressure spike in his veins and feeling the same headache that you had. It infuriated him the lack of urgency and the poor medical advice he had to listen to from a guy who somehow managed to collect at least four titles.

“Let’s say he was drunk. Did you check his alcohol levels?” …. “oh you didn’t. Okay” …. “By the sounds of it you didn’t a lot, did you?”

A nurse walked back with your dad’s results on the iPad and Jack flicked through them as the doctor rambled on. 

“Well, I’m not going to tell you what the results of his CT scans were, but let me tell you this… you will be hearing from James Lee in the morning”.

The doctor stuttered, “J—James? You know James?”

“A very good friend of mine, yes. I’ll pass your regards to him”

James worked for the health department, and he was in charge of inspections and operations. Having inspected PTMC multiple times, he and Jack became friends over the years. “So I would suggest you send over every bit of detail you have on our patient, and I’d like to have it in the next 30 minutes” he said, “actually make it ten because my patience has run out” … “oh you don’t have my email? Figure it out.”

He hung up then slammed the phone on the desk. 

“Absolutely appalling!” He snapped looking at the results “He’s had another stroke —by the looks of it, it happened a few weeks ago!”

“What?” You said from behind Jack, and you felt yourself stumble, “he had another one?”

Jack’s head snapped in your direction and he was by your side within seconds “Sweetheart, the results just came through"

You nodded but the words didn’t feel real. 

Suddenly, everything felt distant. Like people didn’t exist and life didn’t mean anything. Everything was distant and hazy, and your body no longer felt yours. That anxiety that was bubbling this whole time? It had finally poured over, but not in a way you expected it to. 

The room fell silent or maybe that was just your hearing. 

You felt Jack’s hands reach for you, but you brushed him off and stumbled down the hall, pushing outside into the night air. Traffic sounds were muffled by the loud ringing in your ears.

Then, like an imaginary snap of a finger, lava erupted in your chest.

Suddenly, your chest felt tight, and you couldn’t breathe. 

You gasped for air, but you felt as though your lungs no longer worked. 

You tapped on your chest a few times, a movement you thought would awaken your lungs, but that didn’t help. 

You gasped again as you stumbled and reached for a wall that seemed to keep moving further away from you. 

This time, hands wrapped around your waist and steadied you. 

“… can’t breathe” you gasped, clawing at your neck, hoping it’d open up your airway.

That lava now burned your chest, and you felt heat slowly wrap its hand around your neck 

“Ja—ack can’t breathe” 

Jack quickly lowered you to the ground and knelt in front of you, grabbing both of your hands.

“Close your eyes, and trust me, please, baby. Close your eyes”

You squeezed your eyes shut. 

“Now I want you to focus on my hands that are touching yours. Forget about everything else but focus all your attention on my touch”

His warm and gentle thumbs moved in slow circles on your palms.

“Good, you’re doing so good baby” he said softly “now I want you to take a slow breath for me”

“I—can’t”

“Yes you can” he whispered, “just try once okay. Just one… slow… deep breath”

You took one slow, painful, deep breath.

“That’s it” another gentle whisper, “now breathe out slowly”

You let out a shaky and warm breath.

“Now let’s do that a few times. Another one c’mon”

Eyes still shut, another painful deep breath in and a shaky breath out. The pain seemed to have eased with every deep breath, but the ache in your heart was worse. 

“That’s it, you’re doing great” he whispered as he leaned in “now this next one, I don’t usually recommend or do on patients”

His lips gently pressed against yours. Suddenly, you felt safe, and despite your breath catching in your chest, you felt alive again.

“Good job baby” he whipsered against your lips “you did so well”

You nodded, eyes still closed but slowly coming back to yourself. 

“Last one is having to listen to my ugly voice okay?” 

You let out a small, broken laugh. 

“I need you to open your eyes and pick one”

You slowly opened your teary eyes. Jack had his phone resting on your lap, screen glowing with house listings.

“Jack…what’s this?”

He was smiling despite the obvious anxiety on his face “Pick a house”

“Baby, we already have a house”

“I’ve had this thought for some time… so I’ve saved a few options.” He said “A house big enough for three”

“Are you pregnant, Jack?” You managed a small joke despite the heavy feeling in your chest. 

“I wish” he chuckled softly “but I’d like him to move in with us. I've thought about it for a while and after what happened today... That’s the right thing to do and also… You would be a lot less anxious. I don’t ever want to see you have a panic attack ever again"

“You’d really do that for me?”

Jack looked at you like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Loving you doesn’t mean just you, it means loving your family and the person who raised you”

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his, fresh tears now covered your cheeks and this time, from overwhelming relief instead of fear.

You whispered, “thank you”.

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

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

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

There’s a strong arm hanging over your waist under the covers that once it feels you move, tightens a little and pulls you closer under a warm chest. You feel the soft tickle of his hair against your naked shoulder as he nuzzles lazily into the back of your neck, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

“Mornin’…” You whisper, turning slightly back to him.

He grumbles something against your hair and the vibration of his chest against your back, combined with the tiny kisses he’s planting over it, rise bumps along your exposed arms.

“J.J…” Your warning passes less than so through the prominent curve of your lips.

“Honey…” He teases back then blows out a soft laugh. “Five more minutes…”

It’s useless to fight back once he pulls the covers higher and his arm threads under your left one. Almost unconsciously, his hand rests softly over your right forearm stretched out in front of you.

His thumb begins to swipe over the faintly-there scar, breath already growing deep and steady behind you. Your eyes stay fixed between his slow motions and the pale line under it, reminiscing that single night that chanced everything in your life.

You remembered blacking out mid shift. One second your head hung low over the cutting board, knife tight in your grip and sweat condensed on your brow, and the next, your eyes caught the blurry shape of your worried coworkers from the kitchen floor.

You remembered the drive to the E.R. How the passing cars turned into nothing but blinding headlights from your sous’ passenger seat, your usual pristine uniform splattered maroon. You cradled your right arm in your trembling hand, watching the kitchen rag slowly soak up the blood oozing from your forearm.

All your knife had to do was fall a bit too roughly from your grip onto the stainless counter, turn a few degrees and slip by the weight of the handle to pierce your skin straight down like butter.

You remembered the cold breeze cooling your heating skin as the passenger door swung open, the ringing in your ears growing through the disturbed silence.

You tried to walk yourself inside, save the little pride you had left from the accident. But your vision tilted on its axis and your knees bucked just as your bloodied palm crashed against the crystal doors.

Heads turned in the already bustling room, your legs giving in despite your sous’ weak hold on your good arm, palm leaving a crimson trail as you slid down.

You remembered the heavy footsteps vibrating under you, the cold palms cradling your face to keep you from loosing consciousness and the fuzzy vision of the man trying to hold you upright.

“sorry for bloodying your door.” You mumbled.

Then it all went dark.

“Female, twenties. Heart rate unstable. Deep laceration to the medial left forearm, applying tourniquet to slow down bleeding.”

“C’mon kid, don’t black out on me, I just clocked in.”

“Patient collapsed from suspected hypoglycemia and dehydration. Minor scalp hematoma from secondary impact during the fall.”

“Any arterial damage?”

“Missed by millimeters.”

“Lucky you, kid. you’re gonna be alright.”

Your body jerked conscious with a sharp inhale, head turning towards the source, a thin needle piercing your skin and connecting to the clear bag hanging above your head. You felt the liquid crawling in instantly, cool and sharp following the parallel bag of O negative hanging beside it.

“Fuck…” You rested your head back against the pillow, exhaling defeated.

“That’s one way to put it.” A voice beside you chimed in, your attention too focused on the setup above you to notice him at first. “Glad you’re awake, kid.”

You turned instantly at the sound, eyes wide and monitor copying the beating in your chest. The doctor stood a few feet from your bed, iPad in one hand and both arms raised in faux surrender.

The voice sounded familiar, caught somewhere in the unconscious of your brain. Your eyes took in the borders of his face, a little more defined now that you weren’t bleeding out on the emergency floor.

He rested the iPad slowly by your feet, brows raised at the way your narrowed eyes analyzed each of his movements. With a slow hand, he reached into the side pocket over his chest and pulled out the thin penlight, wiggling it a little towards you.

“I’m just gonna check your responses, okay?” He waited until you finished scanning him, then quickly nodded.

“I’m doctor Abbot, can you tell me your name?” He asked once he was standing closer, close enough for you to catch the soft hint of cologne and hand sanitizer.

Your voice came out softer than you would have liked as your eyes darted over his features, the strong jaw, prominent nose and concentrated gaze were more intimidating up close; you prayed your pulse didn’t spike enough to trigger the monitor.

Doctor Abbot kept the same calm tone as he continued his routine questions, asking where you worked, if you remembered what day it was and when was the last time you had eaten. You took a little longer to answer the last one, saved by a nurse placing a tray of equipment by your side, then leaving you alone again.

He stood patiently by your bedside, arms hooked behind his back and brows raised waiting for a response. Then, as your eyes darted around the room devoid of an answer, he sighed softly and cleared his throat.

“Well- you don’t seem to have a concussion, which is good, but we’ll keep you in observation for the night just to be sure.”

You mumbled a quiet ‘Okay, thanks’ that he responded with a single nod, then dragged a stool from the wall to your side and sat down with an exhausted sigh. The room was quiet beyond the beeping monitor and the squeak of the latex gloves as he slid them over his hands.

“That bad?” Your question disrupted the silence as his hands carefully began to remove the bandage circling most of your forearm.

He looked up for a second, watching you tilt your head towards the unit of blood, then back down to your skin with a light curve over his lips.

“Enough to warm up the night shift into rhythm.”

“But, like… bad enough to need blood?”

“Well-“ He hummed turning your arm in his grip to analyze the resident’s stitches, then answered. “-yours was all over your uniform, my uniform and the E.R. floor so it’s not like we could use it.”

The neutral tone in his voice contradicted the teasing curve of his mouth and the soft snort you exhaled, turned your pale skin into a healthy shade of pink over your cheeks.

“Flex your fingers for me?” He asked and yours immediately reacted. “Beautiful…” Abbot muttered concentrated.

His words landed inside somewhere they definitely didn’t belong, especially for the situation you were in.

“Why’d you think about that?”

You shrugged. “It’s kinda weird.” You tried to pay attention to anything but the heat of his hand pressing over yours behind the latex. “The idea of having a stranger’s blood in me.”

He looked up, expression curious. “How so?”

“I dunno… just the concept of a stranger unknowingly helping save my life, I guess.”

Abbot hummed again, gaze squinted over your skin and your words heavy in his head.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not like the stranger’s a psycho or anything…”

You exhale a soft laugh that didn’t go unregistered by the doctor, too busy rolling your eyes to catch the glint behind his own.

“And how would you know?”

“Cause it’s mine. Does this hurt?”

The newly accommodated blood inside you froze, head snapping up in his direction quick enough for the spots to blur the edges of your vision again.

“What?”

“Does this hurt?” He asked again quizzically, as if he had just casually mentioned the weather and not revealed some important information to you.

He pressed again delicately by the sides of your arm, attention fully darting over your face to catch any glimpse of a reaction.

“It doesn’t- what do you mean ‘yours’?”

He shrugged in return, fingers prodding over a different spot closer to the wound. “You needed blood and I’m a universal donar.” Is all he said.

You nodded slow. “Oh.”

Silence invaded the small room again as he finished examining the wound and asking you to flex each finger one last time, only a low rumble could be heard every once in a while from the adjacent emergency room.

Once he was satisfied with the state of your progress, Abbot laid your arm carefully over your thigh and turned to the tray for some alcohol and gauze.

“So… do I need to request a psych eval?” Abbot asked too casually, voice purposefully calm.

Though his back was slightly turned to you, his attention was anything but casual. He could hear the ruffling of your feet under the uncomfortable sheet and the almost imperceptible jump in the monitor.

The doctor turned to look at you again, brows permanently raised in expectation now. He didn’t expect your attention to be already on him when he turned, eyes too wide and head tilted slightly to the side as you contemplated his question. He swallowed the sudden dryness.

“What d’you mean? Like if I tried to kill myself?-”

“-This might sting a bit.”

“-o-okay- ah” A hiss escaped at the cold contact. “-I didn’t. Try to kill myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So how’d this happen?” He asked, touch warm under the latex as he carefully dabbed the gauze around a few stray dots of blood, the sting slowly dying down.

“Work accident.” Your answer came too quickly, a little too rehearsed.

He hummed again, slow nods in a way a parent would when a lie wasn’t believed. You wondered if he had practiced the same nod with his own kids; after all, he seemed to have the age of a man who would have them and the attractiveness of someone who was at the very least married.

“And was that before or after you fainted from malnutrition?” He asked too casually again.

Your lips stuttered wordless, color heavily crawling up your neck and ears. “I-I’m not-“

“-We run tests.” Abbot interrupted before you had a chance to lie and your blood- his blood- ran cold again. “You were bleeding out faster for someone your age so we ran tests and your hemoglobin levels showed pretty low.”

You’d normally hate the slight condescending twang he was addressing you with, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but it seemed to be more out of habit than disdain and wondered how many times he’d have to use the same tone to have it practiced down to perfection.

“Did you know you’re one stage away from severe anemia?”

You bit the inside of your lip and watched him turn back and change the gauze, dab it in a brownish liquid, then back over your skin.

“I… did not.” Your confession came out meek, a soft barely there sound above the beeping. “At least not consciously.”

That at least wasn’t a full lie. Sometimes your job got the best of you. You had to be the fastest, the toughest, the best as the only woman in a room full of grown men who never gave you a second thought despite your hierarchy. The fact that many of them had been working since before you were born didn’t help and being recommended for the job fresh out of culinary school practically cemented you as the lowest link in their food chain.

So you worked extra hard to earn your place, first one in, last one out. Quick on your feet despite the headaches, pumping out dish after dish, that by the time closing came around, any trace of an appetite had vanished behind images of countless sauces and perfectly cooked steaks.

It was part of the job, you knew that. ‘A chef without eating disorders? Groundbreaking’ you always thought.

Besides, the voice in the back of your head constantly repeated that you could always afford to lose a couple pounds. But that thought was reserved only for you.

“You’re a chef, right?” Abbot asked, looking up from his work once he saw your eyes too deep in thought over the sheets.

You blinked back a couple times, like reeling yourself back into the now. “…yeah. At Parker & co.”

“The place with the Seabass and garlic ravioli?”

“Yeah!-“ Your voice instantly regained a bit of confidence, the soft proud smile over your face contagious on his own. “-you’ve been?”

“No, but I’ve been meaning to. I’ve heard a lot of good things about it.” You nodded in agreement, smile pleasant again and he hated to be the one to dull it out with his questions, as important as they were. “Have you?”

“What?”

“Tried it, I mean.”

“Oh…” Your smile faltered, gaze leaving his and falling over his working fingers and the strange pit forming over his chest grew again. “It-it’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“I don’t really get a lot of time with everything I have to do- and by the time closing comes around… I don’t really have a taste for anything.”

He nodded understanding, more than he would have liked to admit. “You get full from the sight of it.”

“Yeah, the sight, the smell.” you agreed. “It cancels itself out…” Then laughed as the joke formed in your head and he looked up amused. “PEMDAS and whatnot.”

The sound burst from his chest a bit louder than he would have liked, a hearty laugh that didn’t belong between the corridors of the PTMC night shift and definitely not coming from himself. Yet there it was, as natural as he’d ever felt it despite the situation.

“Yeah… definitely like PEMDAS.” He agreed with a nod over your arm, failing to hear the way the sound of his laugh spiked up the beeping tempo of the monitor, if only for a moment.

He worked slower than normal in the comfortable silence. Typically, he would have patched you up in five minutes max, questions and worry forgotten once he crossed the door out and mind already racing over the next case. But as he began to cover your arm in a clean gauze, he found his movements delayed, wrapping and unwrapping the same tender spot multiple times for a perfect overlap.

Despite the voice in the back of his head yelling about how borderline unprofessional he was acting, he decided to ignore it; instead basking in the little peace your presence had allowed him for the night.

‘If they needed him, Dana would have found him in a second anyway.’ he thought.

His manifestation powers should be researched because, just after securing the gauze with surgical tape over your wrist, the door to his back opened subtly, washing the silence away with a wave of classic emergency commotion.

“Dr. Abbot? Dana needs you in the bay. MCC about five minutes away.”

Your chest deflated over the nurse’s words, bubble bursting and dragging you back down into reality.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec, Princess.” Abbot spoke with the same authoritarian tone as before, quickly slipping back into his attending role. She nodded and closed the door, quiet invading again.

You swallowed back the dryness in your throat and watched him place your arm back to your side with care, then stand and push the stool back to its original place.

You expected him to leave without a word, whatever a MCC was, it seemed like a pretty big deal; instead he stood motionless beside you, hands again behind his back and gaze darting over your heating face.

“You should come by someday.” You blurted impulsively, word vomit out before even passing through your brain. “To the restaurant… I mean.”

You bit the inside of your cheek waiting for a response, each second he stared at you felt torturously slow, like a bad idea waiting to happen.

Then a soft curve broke the stoicism of his lips and a single nod was enough to put air in your lungs.

“Yeah… I will.”

“My treat.” You added. His mouth opened again to deny but you raised your recently repaired arm in dismissal. “Take it as a thank you, y’know, for the blood n’ all.”

Abbot breathed out a laugh, shaking his head as one hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “Dinner over blood seems like a nice deal.”

You chuckled back. “Right?”

“…Yeah.” His gaze dropped back to your arm.

“Take care of yourself, okay kid?” His tone softer than you had heard it.

Dr. Abbot took a step back then stopped mid turn, as if his body wouldn’t let him leave without getting the words off his chest. He was glad it wasn’t him connected to the monitor, his accelerated pulse beating only in his ears.

“If it’s worth anything, you’re a very beautiful young woman. You don’t need to starve yourself for that to be true.”

His gaze froze over the white tiles, then he nodded one last time and turned on his good leg towards the exit.

“Thank you Dr. Abbot.” You muttered as he opened the door.

“Just Jack, is fine.” With his back towards you, he couldn’t see how the apples of your cheeks finally reflected a carmine you had lost long ago, smile reaching your eyes.

“Thank you… just Jack.” You repeated.

And as the door shut behind him, you couldn’t see the similar tint of red over his own features.

You’re not sure when the exhaustion hit, between three and four a.m. You remembered a nurse coming in to change the IVs while the sky beyond the window was still dark. And as the sun started to turn the sky into a soft purple, your vision focused on the round… thing disrupting the sterile white of the room.

Over the bedside table on your right sat an orange, bright and clean. Sticker still intact and under it, a defined ‘A’ that bloomed a smile over your rose dusted cheeks.

You tried your hardest to comfort your little brother as he wiggled uncomfortably on the hospital bed, trying to keep him from moving his injured arm but as time passed, it was getting increasingly harder for you to do so.

A traumatising experience months ago had meant that when you suggested taking your brother to the hospital after an accident on the jungle gym earlier that day had ended up resulting in a meltdown. It had taken hours of convincing and begging, along with a promise to get a new toy for him to finally agree and you found yourself in a sweet spot in the hospital that night. It was late enough that the rush of the day crowds had left but too early for the late night antics crowd had not yet arrived so they only had to spend an hour in the waiting room before they were shuffled into the ED and onto a free bed. Your brother had already had his x-ray taken when you arrived and so you were just waiting for the results.

You were internally debating whether or not you should quickly run and grab a chocolate bar to placate your brother when the curtain was drawn open and you were greeted by a doctor and a nurse.

"Hi there, I'm Dr Abbot" The man's eyes flicker between the two of them on the bed and then his tablet. "And I've heard you've hurt yourself little guy."

Your little brother, Caspian, whimpers in response, curling up even closer to you.

"We had a fall at the jungle gym earlier," You responded as you tried to untangle yourself from your brother, "He hurt his arm."

"I've got the x-ray results here and it looks like you've got a fracture so we'll give you a cast and then you'll get to go home." Dr Abbot turns to the nurse beside them and quickly mutters off what he needs before the nurse nods and leaves them.

"You hear that Cas?" You turn to your brother, "Nice and quick!"

Caspian's pout deepens, "Chocolate?"

You huff a disbelieving laugh at him before you turn to Dr Abbot who watched the both of you with a curious look.

"Is there a vending machine here?" You ask, already reaching for your purse.

"Yeah, down the hall and around the corner" Dr Abbot tells you, "I'll stay with him, the nurse will be back shortly."

You turn back to Caspian, cautious of how he would do without her, "I won't be long. Please behave for Dr Abbot"

You stepped past Dr Abbot as you left and he was momentarily dazed by the scent of your perfume as you breezed by. He watched you until you disappeared from his line of sight and then brought himself back to reality. For all he knew, the kid on the bed was yours and you were probably married as well.

Caspian eyed Dr Abbot with apprehension as the doctor took a seat on the stool. The doctor was generally quite awkward with children, of course he came across them and treated them when they arrived in the ED but talking and interacting with children was just out of his comfort zone. 

"So, uh, what's your favourite chocolate bar?"

Caspian giggles at his questions, his shoulders retreating from his shoulders as he considers his answer.

"Kitkat!"

Dr Abbot laughs, "Yeah? I like that too."

"I'm going to get a new toy tomorrow!" Caspian bragged to the doctor.

Jack couldn't help but laugh again. He had no idea why but he finds it easy to talk and get along with the kid.

"Yeah..Because you're doing so good today?" 

"Uh-huh!"

You returned shortly with a handful of chocolate you had got from the vending machine, interrupting their conversation and Caspian perked up at the sight of you, eagerly reaching for a kitkat.

"Thank you~" Caspian spoke around a mouthful of chocolate.

"Don't be gross and don't speak with your mouth full." You chastise Caspian, as you dumped the rest of your haul into your bag but Dr Abbot spied the smile on your face despite your words.

Soon the nurse returns with the supplies for the cast and Caspian is brought back to earth, crying into your shoulder as you try to comfort him.

"You can sit with your mom little man, but you gotta shift a bit so I can access your arm."

You freeze momentarily at his words. It's not the first time you've been mistaken as his mom, you're most definitely old enough to be but since you've gotten custody, it's happened more frequently.

"Oh I'm not his mom. I'm his older sister." You correct the doctor.

"Oh" Dr Abbot pauses, "My apologies"

You shrug, "It's fine. No worries"

Dr Abbot was silent as he wrapped Caspian's arm, only breaking the silence to ask him what colour Caspian wanted before he returned to his work. Truthfully, he wouldn't normally do something like this but it was quiet in the ED that evening and he had also taken a little liking to the quiet boy and his sister.

After he had done the final patches, he looked up and saw Caspian half asleep in his sister's arms and so he lowered his voice as he spoke to you.

"We're done here." Dr Abbot shifted his stool a bit closer to you, "It'll take around four to six weeks to heal and the nurse will be back with your discharge papers and your care plan that outlines the next steps."

"Thank you" You smile at Dr Abbot, "Seriously. Cas doesn't have the best experience in hospitals and I don't know how you did but he felt calm around you. He is usually quite upset and irritable but I think he likes you."

"Ah, it wasn't me, he's a cool kid." Dr Abbot felt shy, almost, of the gratitude he was receiving.

After you thanked him one last time before he left, you waited patiently for the nurse to return but as you dug in your bag for one of the chocolates you bought earlier for a snack, you unknowingly woke your young brother.

"Dr Abbot likes KitKat…" Caspian murmurs against your shoulder, surprising you.

"Holy sh—" You gasp, your heart thundering against your chest, "Did I wake you?"

Caspian nods before he repeats what he said, "Dr Abbot likes KitKat."

"...Yeah I heard you…" Your words trail off as you get a sudden idea, digging back in your bag for a random receipt and grabbing a pen nearby.

Hours later, long after you and your brother had been discharged, Dr Jack Abbot was sitting at the nurses station, taking a breather after a sudden rapid set of back to back patients. He was sipping his coffee and talking to the night shift charge nurse when the nurse he had worked with earlier made their way over to him with something in their hand.

The nurse had a soft smile as they passed over the item, "This was left behind for you."

Jack reached for the item, a curious expression on his face. "By the kid?"

The nurse nodded before they left, returning to other patients.

Jack looked down at the item and smiled. It was a Kitkat bar wrapped in an old receipt that had a little note scribbled on it.

'Cas said you liked Kitkats. I hope you enjoy it ❤'

Veronica, the night shift charge nurse curiously peers over at him, "What's that?"

Jack waved the chocolate bar before he opened it up and took a quick bite before he elaborated, "The sister of the kid with the broken arm left this for me. She bought a bunch from the vending machine earlier."

Veronica smiled at him, "That's kind of her."

Jack smiled to himself, "...Yeah"

It would be just under two months later when you see Dr Abbot again but at least this time it was you in the hospital bed and not Caspian.

It was nearing one am and you were relaxed in the hospital bed, sleep tugging at you as you tried your hardest not to drift asleep. Caspian was fast asleep in your lap and you felt almost jealous of him. If your palm wasn't almost split in half and burning in pain, you would have gone to sleep and gone to the hospital the next day but alas that wouldn't have been a good idea.

You were on the edge of falling asleep when the door opened and a doctor introduced himself.

It was Dr Abbot again.

The doctor paused at the end of the bed, recognising you as well.

You sat up, the urge to sleep disappearing at the sight of the doctor, smile tugging on your lips, "Dr Abbot, it's you again"

"You know, most people don't see an ED doc twice in a month and if they do, they usually aren't happy about it" Dr Abbot replied as he read over your chart.

“Can I be technical and count them separately?” You joke, “Once as a family member and once as a patient, they can’t be combined.”

“Says who?” Jack asks, pulling up a stool up to your side to examine your wound.

“I say,” you joke once more, pausing when Dr. Abbott looks up at you. “Or do I need a doctor’s backing as well?”

His movements are gentle, pausing to give you a moment to breathe after you wince in pain when he gently pulls away the dishcloth you had haphazardly wrapped around your hand after you had sliced it open. His words are soft as he explains his actions, his voice a low murmur that sends a warm shiver down your spine. His touch is soft yet firm, confidence and warmth radiating through his gloves as he pokes and prods around your wound.

"How did this happen?"

"Lost a fight against a craft knife" You laugh.

"Yeah, those don't tend to end well." Jack murmurs, eyes still on your hand.

"I found some of those DIY decorations online and decided to try it out," You huff and roll your eyes, "I think next time I'll just stick to stuff in the stores."

"It's going to need stitches" Dr Abbot announces as he pulls back and stands, "I'll be back with the nurse and then we can get started."

Dr Abbot disappears quickly but the door slamming behind him wakes Caspian and now you were tasked with calming the tired and irritable five-year old with one hand but when Dr Abbot returns, all of Caspian's bad mood disappears at the appearance of the doctor. You were surprised he even remembered Dr Abbot but you weren't going to complain.

"Dr Abbot!" Caspian beams.

"Caspian!" Dr Abbot indulges the young child, "How's your arm?"

Caspian flaunts his cast free arm proudly, "It's better now, it doesn't hurt nomore!"

"And you're keeping out of trouble? Being good for your big sister?" Dr Abbot asks, gently guiding your arm into the correct position as he pulls the tray of equipment he needs closer.

Caspian nods before you pass him your phone and send him to the chair in the corner of the room so he can entertain himself and not see you get stitched up.

"I wanted to apologise again about last time" Dr Abbot says as he meticulously stitches you up after he numbed the area.

At your confused expression, he elaborates, "When I called you Caspian's mother."

"You're not the first one to think that so don't beat yourself up. I'm twenty-five years older than him so it's a common assumption," You clarify, laughing at the shocked expression on the doctor's face, "I was a 'oh shit we're too young to have kids baby' and he was a 'oh shit we're too old to have kids baby'."

Jack can't help but be curious, his mouth opening before he could stop himself, "And you take care of him? What about your parents?"

At this, your expression changes slightly. Your brows lower and your lips pout a bit, "They uh- died a few months ago…car accident."

Once again, Jack had shot himself in the foot.

"My apologies. Again." Jack murmurs as he finishes up the stitches, "I apparently can't help but put my foot in my mouth whenever I speak to you."

Your lips quirk at his admission, "You get nervous when you speak to me?"

Jack's eyes flicker up at you, his own lips falling into a small smile, "Are you teasing me?"

"More like flirting but I think I need to brush up on my skills." Your eyes never leave Jack's face.

Oh how Jack wanted to flirt back but you were young. Too young, he tried to rationalise. He was in his mid forties and you were in your early thirties at most. Both adults yes, but Jack tries to convince himself that the age gap is too large.

Jack will always deny it but you were certain you saw him flush. Red spread across the top of his cheeks before he tucked his head down in embarrassment. Jack finishes stitching and wrapping your hand in silence before he pulls away, telling you the next steps once you've left the hospital. Feeling guilty of putting him on the spot, you reach out to grab his wrist with you non-injured hand, pulling him to a stop,

"I'm sorry," You apologize, "If I overstepped or made you uncomfortable. It wasn't my intention, I promise." 

"No harm done, I assure you." Jack tries his hardest to appear unaffected, stepping away from you, "We're done here, the nurse will be back soon with your discharge papers."

"Actually," You reach back out to take hold of his arm and shyly look up at him,"If you have the time, can you keep an eye on him for a moment? I need the bathroom."

Jack considered it for a moment, he wasn't needed at the moment and all the nurses needed to do was call his name and he'll come running so he agreed, "Sure."

You squeeze his arm thankfully before you leave the room which catches Caspian's attention and he watches you leave with wide eyes. 

Jack turns to the young boy, "I enjoyed the chocolate you left me last time."

Caspian's eyes light up at Jack's word as he climbs down off of the chair before he climbs onto the bed so that he is closer to Jack. "I told her you liked 'em!"

Jack paused, the idea of reciprocating the chocolate gifting entering his head. 

"Hey kid," Jack focused back on Caspian, "What's your sister's favourite chocolate?"

Caspian's nose scrunched in disgust as he answered, "Bounty…gross!"

Jack's own nose scrunches in disgust at the answer, "...Yeah you're right about that kid."

Soon you return back to the room, the nurse not far behind you as they hand you the discharge paper for you to sign.

"Did you drive here? How are you getting home?" Jack asked, concern leaking through his words.

The nurse flashes him a curious look, a doctor did not usually concern themselves with how patients were getting home.

You peer up at him from where you were signing the papers, "No we taxied. We'll be fine won't we Cas?"

"Yep!" Caspian chirped.

Jack paused as if he wanted to say more before he eventually nodded, wishing them well before leaving. Jack immediately made his way to the vending machine and bought a Bounty chocolate bar and when he returned to the nurses station and pulled out a post-it note and a pen, he paused as he thought about what he should write before settling on, 

'Let's hope the next time I see you, it isn't in my ED. Enjoy. - Jack Abbot'

"You're not going to leave your number?" Teased Veronica over his shoulder.

In a moment of doubt, he asked her for advice, "It's not too much is it?"

"No! It has a good mix of flirting and you, Sergeant grumpy" Veronica assures, referencing the nickname he had garnered during his time at The Pitt.

Jack watches as the nurse guides you and your brother out of the ED and Veronica leans down to whisper in his ear, "You're running out of time."

Jack knows she is right so he quickly follows after you,  the chocolate bar held firmly in his hand as he searches for you in front of the hospital. 

"Hey," He calls your name, jogging up to you, holding out the chocolate bar towards you, "A little birdie helped me return the favour."

You looked down and smiled at the bounty chocolate bar in your hands, "My favourite! This little birdie of yours is very smart."

You grin down at Caspian who simply smiled tiredly, the late hour affecting him now.

Just then the taxi pulled up, and you placed the chocolate in your pocket as you focussed getting Caspian buckled inside but before you made your way into the cab, you smiled at him. A full sincere smile that leaves Jack breathless.

"Thank you Dr Abbot, for everything. You've made our hospital visits durable and Cas has really taken a liken to you. Really, thank you for everything" 

With that you wave at him before you climb into the cab which shortly pulls away leaving Jack alone in front of the hospital, kicking himself for not writing his phone number on the post-it.

Meanwhile, you’d gained, lost, gained again, and were currently losing the same five pounds, your posture was shot from couch surfing amongst your friends, and the cherry on top of the shitty cake? You were breaking out because you’d run out of the expensive skin care products Jack had bought you and you couldn’t afford to replace them. It was one of the pettier reasons (of the many reasons) you’d cried over Jack Abbot, but the last pump of the ultra thick laniege moisturizer had been a dark day for you. 

But, if he was stalking your instagram the same why you stalked him? He’d assume you were fine, everyone would. You couldn’t bring yourself to delete the pictures you had together, but you could bury them under weekly posts of you going out with your friends, vague postings about dates, mirror selfies, a picture with your hairstylist after a bold cut (that you totally didn’t regret cry over that night) and anything else that projected the image of your Thank U, Next era. 

But, as the clock in the corner of your phone screen ticked 2:47 AM, you wondered if he could see through those posts. Those intense eyes had always managed to see straight through you, in an almost an alarming way. Would he think you’re fine? What would he do if he knew you weren’t? 

Sure, you’d broken up with him, leaving a year long relationship in ruins- but at some level you’d hoped it would have been a wake up call for him, and he’d wake up and realize how badly you needed each other. Still, his nonchalance, his lack of availability had been a dagger into the softest parts of you, but the removal seemed to have made it worse, and now all those soft, feelings were hemorrhaging and no amount of glitter eyeshadow and Taylor Swift was helping. You missed him. You didn’t miss how it’d been in the end, but you missed how it’d been all the other months. You wanted him to miss you just as much. Wanted him to show up and apologize and hold you like he used to. Hell, if he texted you right that moment and told you it all been in your head, you might’ve let him convince you. 

With a forlorn sigh, you twisted onto your other side on the futon in your friend’s living room switching from instagram to Zillow for the fifth time in the same hour. You needed to get your own place, get out of this terrible rut you’d stalled in. You couldn’t live on your friends’ couches while you stupidly hoped Jack would whisk back into your life. You’d have to tolerate being alone. 

___

Fuck it, I should’ve stayed on that stupid couch- that was the first thought you had when you hit the ground after falling down the stairs of your brand new apartment. You’d smacked your head pretty good, but hadn’t lost consciousness, and you remembered Jack saying that was a good sign. What wasn’t a good sign was the awkward angle of your arm and the searing pain radiating through your entire body. What was worse? You’d fallen down the stairs of your stoop onto the sidewalk, and now random Pittsburghers were gathering around you. By the time the stars had cleared from your vision, the paramedics were there, and by the time they told you that you were en route to PTMC, it was too late to argue. Because when you groaned in remorse, they just attributed it to the wrist injury and upped the pain medication. 

The silver lining was that it was 11 AM, Jack Abbot should be dead asleep, or off gallivanting with the SWAT team. In The Pitt, as Jack used to call it, the closed fracture wrist break was low on the priorities list, however the fact you smacked your head on the sidewalk bumped you up considerably. This left the room you’d been in a constant flurry of bodies coming in and out, people prodding at your wrist, shining lights in your eyes, and asking a slew of questions you could barely keep up with. 

"Do you know where you are right now?" 

"Can you tell us your name and what day it is?"

"Can we call your emergency contact for you?" 

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"Are you experiencing any dizziness?"

"What about sensitivity to light?" 

All asked in rapid succession, by a musical rotation of residents and interns, occasionally interrupted by an attending that was thankfully not Robby. So rapidly that you didn’t even know who you were answering as you prattled off answers that you hoped matched the questions, even if out of order.  You started with your name and birthday which a nurse tapped into the computer, followed by the actual date, and then a rambled, "Yeah, yeah- sure. No- maybe?" 

Apparently the answers sufficed, because one by one the people prodding at you nodded and started talking amongst themselves. A younger medical student made the mistake of moving your wrist in the wrong way, producing a choked yelp out of you- the wave of pain and subsequent morphine increase distracting you from a nurse stepping outside with a phone pressed to her ear. 

Sniffling back tears, you thought the worst was over. But of course, life was only a comedy when you weren’t the one laughing. A familiar, older voice rang over the murmurs of the students, "We good in- Oh shit-" 

You opened your eyes to see Robby right as he lost his usual determined stride, recognizing you on the gurney shaking his usual rhythm. The other doctor, Dr. Al Hashimi sent a wide eyed disapproving gaze to him, "Dr. Robinavitch-" 

"It’s ok- we know each other-" You mumbled, covering your face with your one good hand. Regardless, Robby was already on a b-line to you, flicking over you and assessing all the injuries and probably assessing whether or not Jack was going to kick his ass for not personally calling him. Dr. Al Hashimi’s dark eyes flicked between you and Robby, as if quietly asking if you wanted him to stay. You appreciated the gesture, so you just nodded minutely, "It’s fine." 

"What happened to you?" Robby asked breathlessly, ignoring the student doctor telling him the results of the pupil test as he flashed his pen light into your eyes himself. You tried to swat him away with your good hand, only earning you an unimpressed glare vaguely masked with bedside manner. 

"Aren’t the students supposed to tell you?" You grumbled, a touch petulantly as the pen light clicked off, which earned a dry laugh from you ex’s best friend. A couple student doctors leaned in, as if eager for the chance but Robby ignored them. 

"When I ask them to. Right now, I’m asking you so I know before you know who tears through here on a warpath-" Robby shook his head, running gloved hands over your scalp, another repeat exam before turning to a resident to talk about your wrist..  

"There’s no need for all the dramatics-" You huffed, wincing when he found the same tender spot that the resident had earlier, "Ow. I was moving into my new place and I tripped while carrying boxes up the stoop. Overcorrected and fell backwards. So can we dial back the fussing by 40%? And Jack isn’t coming because we aren’t together anymore, he doesn’t know I’m here and I doubt he’d care if he did-" 

Robby cut you off with one of those sideways looks that blurred the line between confusion and irritation, your name clipped, "He’s on his way here right now-" 

"Robby- you called him? No- no- call him back- tell him not to come- uncall him-" You rambled, scrambling to sit up, voice raising until a nurse made a comment about your blood pressure rising and Robby pushed you back against the gurney with a stern look, "That’s a violation of HIPPA or something-" 

"Jesus, stop!" Robby hissed, his hand on your shoulder holding you in place against the hospital bed. His temper a bit frayed by being caught in the middle of someone else’s relationship issues, especially after hearing Jack’s rooftop spiel about letting you go every morning for the past three months. Realizing that his temper had turned every head in the room, he took a deep breath. It was one of the residents who picked up the conversation, the mousy looking one with a badge that read Dr. Whitaker. 

"We asked, you consented to your emergency contact being called. Do you remember that?" He asked, both as a way to diffuse the tension and also to test your short term memory. You scanned all the questions you remembered being barraged with, all the ones you’d off handedly answered, and to your mortification, you did remember Whitaker asking about your emergency contact, the question sandwiched between questions about yourself so you’d just nodded along to all of them. Whitaker waited for you to nod slowly, before continuing calmly, "We used the medical ID on your phone, called the number listed, and Dr. Abbot picked up. He’s on his way now." 

Your good hand came up to cover your face in embarrassment. The stupid medical ID that Jack had made you set up after he’d learned about it on a bad shift at work. So, if something ever happens, and you can’t tell them, they’ll know to call me, please, sweetheart? He’d said, and you’d done it to ease his worry, kissed his forehead, and promptly forgotten all about it. 

God, your relationship melodrama was turning you into one of the problem patients that Jack would complain about. Not only that, but Jack was on his way, probably woken up or pulled from a SWAT shift, because you had a non serious fracture and maybe a concussion. Oh, God, He was going to show up and see you teary eyed in a trauma room that’d seen way worse than you in the last hour, in your worst leggings and a tshirt with holes in it, and he was going to remember exactly why he didn’t argue when you said you wanted to break up, why his answer was ‘I think that’s for the best’, he’d remember why he hadn’t texted or called once- 

Every single one of those breakup emotions swarmed you at once, all the feelings you said you’d doused with happy-hour margs and ice cream, and you looked to Robby with a pleading expression, "Please call him and tell him not to come- I’m literally fine-" 

"You know better than I do how that conversation would go." Robby’s expression softened a touch, easing his grip as you quit trying to sit up, and he hit you with a dry, tried smile, "You literally need a head CT, and an X-ray for your wrist, maybe an ortho consult if it’s not as simple as we think. But congrats, having an attending as your emergency contact has officially made you a VIP, so we can bump you up in the imaging line." 

—-

You got carted away for imaging before Jack showed up, escaping that spectacle by the skin of your teeth. But his impending arrival was hanging over your head like a guillotine, and the anxiety only made you feel more juvenile. Imaging was quick and clinical, untouched by the melodrama in the ER, which eased your worries a little bit. A false sense of security that assured you maybe Jack had showed up, had Robby tell him how unserious this all was, and eased Jack’s guilt complex enough for him to leave without laying eyes on you. 

Or maybe that was the concussion talking. It probably was, given that you knew how intense Jack was, it had been- it currently was- one of the reasons you couldn’t get over him. So it shouldn’t have shocked you, when he actually clocked you before you saw him. Robby saw this all happen as he was coming back from the bathroom, the way Jack had been reading your chart (policy grey area since he was also a doctor at this hospital) at the hub and then, as if he’d had a sixth sense for your presence, Jack’s head popped up and swiveled directly towards you.  Uncanny in that way Jack could be when something was eating at him, and something had been eating at him since the day you walked out of his life, even though he’d been the one to open the door for you. 

"Dr. Abbot-" The nurse pushing your wheelchair gasped as he approached a touch too quickly to be casual, "I was just taking her to curtain 6-"

"Hi, Vivi- I got it from here- thanks-" Jack nodded, already taking the handles and walking away. The only reason you didn’t protest was the fear of causing a bigger scene than you already had earlier. Instead, you glanced once over you shoulder and cringed- because not only was he still unfairly handsome, he looked pissed. 

"Isn’t transport a little under your pay grade?" You snipped, to fill the awkward silence as he wheeled you through the ER, drawing the gaze of every nurse who’d inevitably been whispering about the patient with Dr. Abbot as their emergency contact, "You know- I don’t even need the wheelchair-" 

"Yes. You do." He cut you off dryly, not opening up any room for argument or protest, nor offering any further explanation.  Your jaw clicked shut, and you fixed your gaze on the tiles as you were rolled over them. He only spoke once more before wheeling you behind the privacy curtain, to the nearest nurse or resident you couldn’t see, "The minute her results are in, bring them to me. Thanks." 

With that, the brakes were locked on the chair, like you might try to escape, and the curtains scraped closed. It didn’t actually dull much of the outside noise, but in that moment that paper thin divider might as well of put you on another planet with him. And finally, he turned to actually look at you, but for the first time in a long time you couldn’t read any of the emotions on his face. Because there were none, his expression carefully schooled into neutral as he sighed, "Ok, c’mon, let me help you into the bed-" 

Something about the lack of anything made you want to shrink just like it had three months ago when he’d iced you out, but this time it was accompanied by frustration that made you want to dig your heels in. So, you did, no moving as he huffed, "I don’t need help getting into the bed." 

His jaw ticked as he reached over and lowered the railing on the hospital bed, and turned to look at you expectantly, "Well, the fall risk bracelet and hospital policy says otherwise. So, let me help you." 

 "I don’t want your help getting into the bed either." You sighed, swatting away the arm that trying to come around your waist. He didn’t even seem to notice, because he didn’t pull away, instead he made sure you were completely steady until you were in the bed and he could lock the rails back in place. He didn’t make any comments about you being stubborn or immature, his expression didn’t sour into a scowl, his shoulders didn’t even tense up. It made you want to needle him. It made you want to prove he felt anything at all about the situation because you felt too much, so you glared at him, "Are you in doctor mode because your pissed they called you about this? I didn’t tell them to call you, I just forgot to change my emergency contact. But I’m fine and you can leave-" 

"I’m in doctor mode because you’re a patient in my hospital with a concussion and a broken wrist. You’re not fine. If you were fine, you wouldn’t be here." Jack finally snapped, silencing you with a look. You bit the inside of your cheek and watched as he busied himself with your IV lines, "So, would you please just let me be your doctor if not anything else?"  

If not anything else, those words rattled around inside your aching head as he took a deep breath, and rolled the stool to your bedside. He took another moment, letting the silence settle before asking, "How are you feeling? Dizzy? Nauseous? Confused?" 

You stared at him for a long moment, confusion having nothing to do with your concussion. After a full minute of both of you just sitting and watching each other, you decided to play good patient for the moment, starting with, "I can’t feel my arm-" 

"That’d be the nerve block, to keep you more comfortable during transports. Robby didn’t want to cloud your coherence with any more pain medication, in case of a more serious concussion." Jack visibly relaxed as he rattled off the answer, partially from relief you were cooperating and partially because your complaint was something easily explained, easily fixed, nothing lethal. He nodded, eyes glancing down at the injured limb before meeting yours again, "How’s your head?" 

"You never complained." You joked almost reflexively, and then blanched. Even after all this time, it was like your body was wired differently around him, eager to fall into old patterns like slipping into comfortable shoes. You shook your head, which made you wince, "Sorry- I shouldn’t’ve- anyways- my head hurts, the lights hurt my eyes, but I don’t think I’m confused? Would I know if I was?" 

The corner of Jack’s lip twitched up, a crack in that Dr. Abbot facade he was trying to keep up and he shook his head at you, "Personality’s still intact. That’s good. You’d probably realize it, you’d feel foggy or dazed, you might struggle with regulating your feelings, maybe overly emotional. Feel anything like that?" 

"No-" You said a bit too quick, and like the confusion, you didn’t think your emotional regulation problems around him had anything to do with hitting your head. You couldn’t stop yourself from blurting, "Why are you here, Jack?" 

He leaned back on his stool, as if he was trying to fit that outburst into his diagnostic. Finally, he answered quietly, but sincerely, "Because I’m your emergency contact. And they called. Of course I came." 

You opened your mouth to interject, but Jack wasn’t done, "And even if I wasn’t your emergency contact, if someone here would’ve let it slip that you were a patient, I still would have come. Because you were hurt and alone-" 

"I’m a big girl, Jack, I can handle a bump on my head-" You sighed, looking away. He scoffed. 

"But I can’t." His voice rose as he stood, his knees cracking with the motion, "Even on the phone they told me it was a minor accident, that the phone call was basically a formality, but the minute they said your name and ambulance in the same sentence it was like my brain turned off, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to breathe again until I saw for myself that you were okay-" 

"Well, I’m okay now. You’ve seen it. So you can go back to whoever or whatever you were doing- but if you could discharge me first, because all my shit is just on the curb outside my apartment and I’d like to have something left when I get back-" You waved him off, trying so hard to be dismissive because if you weren’t those words would throw blankets over the barbwire around your heart and allow Jack to weasel right back in. 

"I called movers as soon as I got off the phone with the hospital. They’re handling it now and they’ll lock up when they’re done. I told them I’d pick up the key from their office," He dismissed your dismissal. You finally snapped your gaze back to his- movers were out of your budget as it was, and the rush fee to get there within the hour, and the inevitable convenience fee for the strange situation. The dollar signs were racking up in your mind, but Jack just put his hand on your knee, squeezing once, "I took care of it. I’m not leaving you alone here." 

"Jack, I’m alone because of you-" You knew the words hurt him, but he only winced when you shoved his hand off your knee. "You don’t get to swoop in and play martyred knight when you’re the one who shut me out  and never even told me why- or really shown any inkling of even caring I was there or that I left until I got hurt-" 

"You think I don’t care? That’s your big takeaway from everything? That I don’t care about you?" Jack growled, his hands clenching into fistfuls of his cargo pants, resting in controlled casualness. He scoffed your name, "If I didn’t care about you, all of this would be so much easier. But I do care, I care too much, according to my therapist-" 

"Then just tell me why, Jack! If you care so fucking much, why did you act like loving me was the hardest part of your day?" You demanded, the fight rising in you as quickly as it died out when the spike in blood pressure made you wince and force yourself to settle. Jack gritted his teeth, and the words started coming. 

"Because one day, I knew you were going to realize you wasted the best years of your life waiting around for me, and if you’re always waiting around for me, you’d never live your life," He said each word as he was pulling them out like teeth, each statement accentuated with his finger rapping against the hospital bed, so close to touching you but blatantly making sure not to, "And I am a selfish, possessive bastard, but I couldn’t do that to you- I had to give you the chance to live outside of me. Because I’d rather have you leave me behind than see you start resenting me." 

"Resent you? Do you think so little of me?" You sighed, anxiously fiddling with the taped edges of the IV, which made him lead your hand away. The action started as a doctor-ly thing, but then, he didn’t let go, and this time you didn’t jerk away. With a considering gaze, you watched him, and then shook your head. You knew he didn’t think that little of you, but, "You think that little of yourself? And instead of voicing your concern you thought the best course of action was? What, whitefanging me?" 

He opened his mouth to argue, or maybe to defend himself, but you were faster. Your voice was firmer than usual, sincere as you met his eyes, "I was happy with you, Jack. At least I was before you started icing me out. Because one day everything was fine, and the next you acted like being near me was painful. That was what was killing me, feeling like no matter what I did it was somehow too much and not enough at the same time. You don’t get to unilaterally make decisions about how I feel or how I might hypothetically feel in the future." 

"I didn’t want you to be my age and then look back and realize you spent most of your twenties waiting for me to have the time and energy for you. I thought you needed to be around people your own age-" Jack tried to defend his decision once more those intense eyes only staring at your intertwined hands, but you silenced him by squeezing his hand. 

"Other than the two months you spent trying to push me away, the time we had together was… Jack- it was everything." For a moment, you struggled to find words that encompassed your feelings, to explain to the man who had single handedly redefined love for you, who you had made your whole sky, and every star in it, "You never made me feel less than for my age, but you also managed to teach me a lot of things. Like what to do when my pipes froze, and also how I deserve to be treated. You pushed me to be better at everything I did, but you always knew when I just needed a break. We went to museums and you took me to the opera, and you also let me do stupid TikTok trends and let my friends hang out at your house-" 

"I think I get it, sweetheart-" He tried cutting you off, but you shot him a look. 

"And have you spoken to boys in their twenties lately? Like really talked to them?" You sighed dramatically, pointing an accusatory finger out of the window at the student doctor Ogilvie- the poor kid’s eyes went wide as he tried to pretend he didn’t notice while subtly looking around for someone else you might be pointing at. Not that he’d personally affronted you, but it’d only taken one brief conversation to remind you why Jack had swept you off your feet so effectively. "If I wanted a boy that didn’t own sheets or a developed sense of empathy, I’d have one. But I want you, and I wanted to be enough for you." 

Jack couldn’t help but snort at that, gently guiding your hand out of its point as Ogilvie was clearly whispering around, Is she pointing at me? What’s she telling Dr. Abbot? Did I say something wrong? And as comedic as that was, his brain snagged on something.  Want. Not wanted. It was in the present tense. 

"Sweetheart, there was never a single moment that I’ve known you that you weren’t enough for me. And you’ve never been too much either." He stated, quietly but firmly, those indescribable eyes pinning you in place and finally quietening your rant, "I should’ve talked to you, or my therapist, or probably both- but I didn’t and it drove you away, which was what I was trying to do, but once you left, I was so miserable. And the only reason I didn’t call or try to get you back was because you seemed so happy in the pictures you posted, it felt like I’d been right, and I’d been dragging you down. It was never because I didn’t care, or because i was unaffected by you leaving." 

"Happy? Up until today, I’ve been couch surfing and using dates as a way to get out of the house. I’ve been…" You murmured trailing off, hesitant to use the word miserable, hesitant to appear any younger or smaller than you felt, so instead you lifted sheepish eyes to meet his, "I posted the pictures hoping you’d see them and reach out-" 

"Almost worked." He promised with the smallest smile, squeezing your hand, "Another week, if you’d’ve posted another date night picture, probably would have." 

"And if it had? What would you have said?" You asked, voice quiet as if speaking too loud might drive him away again. He stilled, but he didn’t break the contact.  

"I would have told you that it was all in my head. That’d I’d gotten it all twisted, that everything I thought and said was wrong. I would show you the list I made of everything you did for me that I didn’t thank you for, and if you let me I’d make it up to you for each one by celebrating you- worshipping you in the way you deserved all along." His words were intense, his voice low and sincere as he held onto you like a tether. Like he never intended to let you go again. Those stupidly hopeful butterflies started to flutter in your stomach, the ones you thought you’d gotten rid of after too many girl’s nights out resulted with your tear stained face in the toilet. It was too much, so you tried to drop your gaze, but he moved like a shark, ducking into your line of sight so his eyes stayed locked on yours. "I would make any promise you needed, and I’d throw myself off the roof before I broke them this time-" 

"Don’t talk like that Jack- you know I hate it-" You hissed, and he offered a small smile, nodding. 

"Then I’ll start there, sweetheart." His words were resolute, "What else?" 

Your head was spinning, tears wobbly and silver on your lash line. He was saying so much, saying exactly what you’d been dreaming of hearing from him. Every promise, every tender sentiment, diligently wrapping blankets around barbwire meant to keep him out- just like you knew he would. When a tear slipped down your cheek, Jack tracked it, his jaw clenching like it personally offended him. His eyes glanced back up to yours, and held them as he gingerly reached up to wipe it away, like he’d cut his hand off if you didn’t want his touch. When you accepted it, even leaned into it, something in both of you relaxed. 

"I don’t- Jack-" You choked, barely a whisper through how thick your throat was, "I missed you so much, but you really fucked me up-" 

The doctor looked pained, but he didn’t argue, didn’t deny. Instead he just muttered your name quietly as he nodded. You sniffled, then winced at the pain in your head, dropping more of your weight into the palm of his hand as you leaned into the warmth of his hand, the scent of the teakwood lotion you’d picked out for him.

"I don’t know how to fix it-" You continued, as he diligently wiped more tears off your face. Softly, he shushed you, something you usually hated, but right now it didn’t feel patronizing when he coached you through a deep breath, voice low and steady. Obliging without further argument for the moment, you let that teakwood scent warm you from the inside out. "My head really hurts- Can you- would you just sit with me? For a while?" 

"Thought I’d have to beg." He hummed, easily popping down the rail of the bed so he could perch beside your hip, angled so he could keep touching you in whatever way you’d let him, "You don’t have to come up with anything right now, sweet girl, you’ve got plenty of time to think about it. We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling up to it." 

"I’m only crying ‘cause of the head trauma-" You murmured hotly, sniffling back more tears. As if you hadn’t cried over Jack enough to fix the droughts in California, as if crying over him right now was something silly that you would never do. Like it was something childish that you wanted him to think you were too mature for. Jack smiled warmly, nodding completely seriously as he carefully adjusted the hospital blankets over your lap before pressing a kiss to your forehead, more for himself than you. 

"I’d never assume anything else, sweet girl." 

____

Three months later. 

You were sat on a slightly uncomfortable couch, sitting and watching Jack. And listening as he answered the therapist’s question. He was sat next to you, fidgeting with the Velcro straps of the brace on your wrist as he spoke. The cast had come off, the bone had healed slowly alongside the salvaged relationship. And now, the brace was just additional support. Just like this couple’s session with his therapist. One of the promises you’d asked from him, and he’d kept it: once a month, one of his weekly sessions with his therapist would be a couple’s session. 

And it wasn’t just for him. It was helping you just as much. Jack deciding how you felt or might feel about your life with him wasn’t fair to either of you. Neither was you exhausting and isolating yourself trying to fix things with an overwhelm with love strategy. Together, during these sessions, you workshopped solutions that prevented these feelings from reaching that breaking point again. At the moment, the list was as follows: 

-You would continue to live in your own, new apartment until the lease was up, and re-evaluate from there. Having that sense of independence was important at your age, a place of your own with all your eccentric decorations that you’d hidden away in Jack’s attic. Not because he made you feel bad about them, but because they’d felt too childish in his professionally decorated bachelor’s pad. It was nice, you realized, being confident in your own space. And plenty of exceptions were made for sleepovers, quickly realizing that Jack actually preferred your cheap, shoebox apartment. Why? Because it felt like you, and that’s exactly what he’d been missing. 

-He would take on fewer SWAT shifts. You wouldn’t ask him to quit entirely, but he said he wanted to give more days to you. Besides, he could keep himself busy with plenty of fixer-upper projects in your new apartment. Getting all your artwork safely mounted on the wall was a near week long project with how often you changed your mind about the placements. Aside from warm teasing, he never breathed a complaint when you asked to take something down and try it somewhere else. Only arguing when it came to safety, and getting to use his fancy beam finder device- (because thumbtacks and command strips were not a safe way to mount large artwork over your bed, he continuously reminded you). 

-You would take dedicated time with your friends, and to yourself for your interests. After the first therapy session, and the process of telling your friends you’d gotten back together, you had realized that in pouring all your energy into being to be the best girlfriend to someone who couldn’t accept it at the time, you’d become a bad friend. And despite the way Jack had gone about it, he’d had a point. Trying to make yourself endlessly available to him had isolated you from people your own age, and maybe one day you would have regretted that. So, at least once a week, no matter what his work schedule looked like, you’d give him a kiss before heading out for dinner or drinks or a movie with a friend, and when you got back or the next time you would see him, you’d share all the juicy gossip with him- a new sacred ritual that both of you loved. 

-He’d work on not projecting his feelings onto yours, and when he assumed he knew what you were thinking or feeling, he would ask before making decisions for both of you.  It was harder, more emotional homework (but hey, these were his therapy sessions, you had your own emotional homework from your own therapist). Sometimes, it was a we need to talk sit down discussion, one of the ones that he’d use to pointedly avoid, and you struggled to voice your actual opinion over just appeasing him. Yes, sometimes, more often, it was as simple as a casual, tell me what you’re thinking about, please, as he held you close in bed.   

After the fifty minutes were up, Jack led you out of the office with his fingers laced through yours,  looking down at you with tired, but loving eyes, "Do you think we deserve a little treat? Our fun Beverly’s? Is that what you call them?" 

"Who is Beverly? It’s fun bevvys." You snorted a laugh, shaking your head as you cleaned up the last bit of your smudged mascara, not feeling silly or childish for getting emotional in front of him was a new development, but a good one. One you were both proud of. Because despite couple’s therapy being abundantly helpful, it was also exhausting,  "And yes, I think we do deserve a little treat. Maybe even more than one, old man. And then we deserve to go crash on one of our couches and not move until dinner time." 

"Old man? Says the girl who couldn’t work a VCR." He echoed, his free hand clutching his chest like you’d wounded him, before he accused you playfully, as if it was a big conspiracy, "You love me." 

liked by lilprivyn, a.hotchner, kg_garrick, sjbooth, johnnythelad, n1kt0_00, seba_doss and 98 others

s_riley YTB.

tagged a.hotchner, sjbooth, kg_garrick, price_john, kon_igs, johnnythelad, seba_doss and n1kt0_00

ilprivyn give me back my boyfriend???

lilprivyn get your own seba_doss he's ours now lilprivyn what the??? lilprivyn you guys hated him like a couple of months ago jfc a.hotchner You guys hated me? kon_igs We thought that you were leading maus on. n1kt0_00 мы собирались тебя убить comment liked by s_riley, kong_igs and seba_doss seba_doss but now we realise you're great! don't know why you're with (y/n), you could do so much better ;) lilprivyn bro stop hitting on my boyfriend lilprivyn aaron, i swear, if you don't come home in the next hour i am banning you from sex lilprivyn on a serious note, why do all of you need to gather multiple times a week??? seba_doss logisitcs and optics lilprivyn stop watching succession

johnnythelad Very good discussions today, lads.

kg_garrick Very productive indeed. lilprivyn you're all freaks but let me in on the secret 🙏🏼 s_riley No. comment liked by price_john lilprivyn 🧍🏻‍♀️ lilprivyn i'll get it out of aaron, don't you worry johnnythelad Nah, lass, don't think ya can. lilprivyn i have my ~ways~ seba_doss ew seba_doss gross lilprivyn pls shut your bitch ass up

lilprivyn and YTB??? what is this 2013????

lilprivyn #chavs lilprivyn you can take the boys adidas but you can't take the adidas out of the boys 😔

liked by a.hotchner, derek_morgan, haley_lane, s_riley, jj.jareau, david_s_rossi, spence_reid, prentiss.here and 102 others

lilprivyn a little bit of this a little bit of that

tagged a.hotchner

song waiting - the cave

sjbooth What could the context be possibly be for the sixth photo?

lilprivyn foreplay sjbooth I'm telling pops lilprivyn i'm telling pops 🤓 lilprivyn get a life nerd comment liked by drtemperancebrennan and camille_saroyan

yourgirlgarcia I LOVE THE TWO OF YOU SO MUCH!!!

lilprivyn and WE love you!!! comment liked by a.hotchner

derek_morgan Rare Hotch smile spotted.

spence_reid To be fair, it hasn't been that rare since he and (Y/N) made it official.

s_riley Do you actually ever go to work?

lilprivyn excuse me yes lilprivyn i just happen to know how to have a life outside of work s_riley 👍🏼 lilprivyn don't thumbs me up, riley s_riley 👍🏼 s_riley Stop calling me lilprivyn stop leaving thumbs up s_riley 👍🏼

lilprivyn also pls appreciate my man in his quarter zip (🤤) and puffer jacket. meeeeoooowww

prentiss.here Do we have to? lilprivyn yes comment liked by a.hotchner a.hotchner You and my quarter-zips. lilprivyn you're hot baby, but quarter-zip hotch??? woooo ahhhh hottie alert. like i'd bear your children if you keep wearing them comment liked by a.hotchner prentiss.here And that's enough internet for the day.

view more comments

liked by lilprivyn, david_s_rossi, spence_reid, prentiss.here, jj.jareau, derek_morgan and 12 others

a.hotchner To the cabin.

tagged lilprivyn

lilprivyn ty crime for stopping so my baby and i can actually have some time off

sjbooth Let's normalise putting pants on.

lilprivyn let's normalise scrolling, old man drtemperancebrennan LOL. sjbooth Bones never say 'lol' again. lilprivyn let her do whatever she wants, seeley comment liked by drtemperancebrennan drtemperancebrennan Thanks for that (Y/N), I would have done so regardless but I appreciate your support. lilprivyn got your back girl

yourgirlgarcia I expect photos, missy!!!! And you to, boss man!!!1

lilprivyn i already have a dedicated album to show you, pen <3 yourgirlgarcia Love you, star girl!!!!!

derek_morgan 'To the cabin'. Sounds like the description a killer would use in their journal.

lilprivyn why so mean :,( derek_morgan I'm just saying! It's so dry. lilprivyn what do you want to the caption to say oh mighty one??? derek_morgan Anything but that. lilprivyn 'On our way to our cabin in Massachusetts so I can have sex with my hot girlfriend for two weeks straight without the neighbours calling the cops.' lilprivyn is that better? sjbooth Dear God, no derek_morgan The caption is fine, Hotch. comment liked by a.hotchner

lilprivyn call us the dua lipa of the bau because we keep holidaying (within reason and mostly because we have tons of annual leave booked up)

david_s_rossi Who is Dua Lipa? lilprivyn #oldman

liked by a.hotchner, derel_morgan, prentiss.here, jj.jareau, derek_s_rossi, yourgirlgarcia, spence_reid, haley_lane and 100 others

lilprivyn just got back from holiday. tan everywhere. sand everywhere. aaron everywhere.

tagged a.hotchner

song making breakfast - samia

prentiss.here Didn't need that last part but I'm happy that the two of you had a good time.

derek_morgan Don't think we needed to see Hotch shirtless either. lilprivyn look it was this or another one but i'm pretty sure instagram would have flagged it lmaoo prentiss.here Dear God. Is this your way of soft launching your pornos? lilprivyn🫦🫦🫦 lilprivyn i have nothing appropriate to say lilprivyn but like we would do so well lilprivyn top 0.1% on OF baby lilprivyn aaron has ~moves~

jj.jareau Are we just glossing over what the third photo says?

prentiss.here I think I just blacked it out. derek_morgan Same here. david_s_rossi Once again terrible day to have eyes. spence_reid Daddy kinks are quite common though and with (Y/N)'s attraction for people in power, it's not that surprising. lilprivyn spence, again, what have i told you about psychoanalysing me??? spence_reid To not to? lilprivyn it was a joke btw lilprivyn aaron doesn't like to be called that lilprivyn but he does like to be called sir a.hotchner HONEY. a.hotchner Only by you though. lilprivyn ;) 🔥

sjbooth For the record, I don't like any of these photos

lilprivyn for the record, i don't really care lmaooo lilprivyn don't you like have to pine for someone somewhere??? comment liked by angietheartist and jackhodgins

view more comments

liked by lilprivyn, derek_morgan, sjbooth, yourgirlgarcia, haley_lane, david_s_rossi and 12 others

a.hotchner I missed our cats.

tagged lilprivyn

song absolute beginners - david bowie

lilprivn can confirm, aaron was looking at his folder through out the whole holiday

a.hotchner You were also doing the same thing. lilprivyn i know 😔 lilprivyn we can never take a holiday without them ever again lilprivyn when we have our honeymoon we're taking our babies with us >,< comment liked by a.hotchner a.hotchner Don't worry, I've already figured out which airlines have the best reputation for transporting animals. lilprivyn raw 🫵🏼 comment liked by a.hotchner prentiss.here Good God, at this rate you'll be pregnant before the two of you get hitched. lilprivyn 🤞🏼 a.hotchner Honey? lilprivyn shhhh my baby

lilprivyn god i'm so lucky

a.hotchner You? Honey, I've hit the jackpot. You're smart, beautiful, caring, funny and everything and anything in between. lilprivyn love that you said smart first lilprivyn marry me. marry me right now aaron hotchner. lilprivyn like i'll propose on our bed rn lilprivyn and i promise i won't fall off this time jj.jareau This time? How many times have you proposed to him?

prentiss.here Is that a ring??????

lilprivyn it's a gum wrapper lol lilprivyn long story

david_s_rossi A lot of marriage talk here.

lilprivyn can you blame me for wanting to lock him down? comment liked by a.hotchner lilprivyn and can you blame him for wanting to lock ME down? comment liked by a.hotchner, derek_morgan, prentiss.here and s_riley derek_morgan Please, these two are practically married. I wouldn't be surprised if they actually got married already. lilprivyn lol imagine

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

taglist

@kneelforloki | @imtotallylexie | @aaronhotchnerisbae