parris!!

You bite your bottom lip nervously, unsure of how to voice yourself. You know you’re a good person. You don’t view yourself as a loathsome person who no one can get along with. But you often wonder why people like you. Why do they put up with your attitude and anger and worries, just to be around you?  And when they do put up with it, it’s hard for you to accept. Even harder to accept when they finally get rid of you. 

“Are you hiding something from me?” 

He doesn’t look taken aback by your question, his eyebrows furrowed as he takes you in. “Like what?”

“You tell me, Andrew.” 

“Andrew?” He’s amused, the corner of his mouth quirked up. 

You nod, “yeah, some lame ass advice J told me.” You sigh dramatically once again, “are you cheating on me?” 

He huffs, “I’m not cheating on you.” He pauses and you can tell it’s a strain to speak his next words, “you’re the only one I want.” 

“Until the next one.” You chime with a scoff. 

His grip on your chin isn’t tight, but it’s enough for him to force your eyes onto his. “There’s no next one.”

“Until there is.” 

“You’re incredibly—“ 

“Gorgeous? Smart? Funny?” You interrupt with a small smack to his chest. “You’ll tell me if I annoy you, right?”

“You don’t annoy me.” 

“You are such a liar.” 

“I don’t lie.” 

“He lies—“ 

“Shut up.” His lips press to yours. It’s a tender kiss, his hands cupping your face as his lips move against yours. It doesn’t last very long, your mouth chasing him when he pulls away. “I can promise you, there’s no one else. You don’t annoy me. You’re not too much for me. You are very pretty. Anything else I need to cover?” 

You hum, a grin plastered on your face as you lean your chin on his chest. “Tell me my ass is fat.” 

“Your ass is fat.” 

You hum, content by how well he obeys. “You’re the only old man in my life who listens to what I say.” 

“How many old men do you have in your life?” 

“Nunya. Keep eating me out.” 

authors note . . . me vs putting in my hyperfixations and rn it’s those shitty vertical movies. love you give me your thoughts

"Hey doc." Your attending approached you, fingers tapping on the counter slightly above you. Doc, he only used this nickname when he needed a favor, the other times he called you simply by your surname or he added the title doctor right before it. You weren’t complaining though. You didn’t want him to give you a permanent nickname like the one he’d picked up for himself; it would have made you uncomfortable and at the same time it would have pointed out even more his lack of professionalism at the workplace.

“Since things here seem to have calmed down a bit I need you to be for a little while in triage, yeah?”

Your gaze didn’t leave the screen, you kept charting. “Do I have a choice Dr. Robinavitch?” The tone was flat.

“Actually no.” He exhaled. “Make sure to say that to Dr. Mohan too okay? I can’t find her anywhere and -”

You finished his sentence before he could continue. “Yeah I’ll tell Kwon or Ogilvie to join us too, since this is a teaching hospital.”

“Perfect, you learn rapidly. See you later. Heads up Doc,” and with that he left.

You finished your chart before leaving the nurse station in search of Dr. Mohan that was nowhere to be found so, you stopped the only person who knew everyone’s business. “Princess, hi, have you seen Dr. Mohan by chance?”

“Oh you heard the rumor too? You know, I didn’t think of you as the noisy type of girl.” She gave you a playful smile and a wink. “Apparently they have been in that room for nearly an hour now.”

Your face clearly showed signs of confusion and irritation but she didn’t seem to notice at all. “What are you talking about exactly?” You tried to hide your frustration, you were wasting too much time and in a ER you couldn’t afford to.

“Well, Dr. Abbot and Dr. Mohan. I thought you knew,” she said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I didn’t and respectfully, I don’t care. I asked you about her cause Robby needs us in triage but I couldn’t find her.” Those words slipped out before you could even think.

Princess noticed the shift in your tone from a seemingly calm one to an harsher one. She pointed out the room in which the two of them were. “Right there Doc, see you later.” You gave her a half of a smile before heading to it.

Fucking Robby.

As soon as you stepped in you saw them. Abbot was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless while Mohan was behind him, carefully taking care of what it seemed to be a wound. The two of them were too immersed in the moment and in the conversation they had to notice you. A sudden and sickening hollowness found its way into your stomach, accompanied by an unexpected strangling sensation. You couldn’t believe how much people loved wasting time as if they weren’t working in a damn hospital and patients struggling between life and death didn’t come in at any moment. You swallowed and shoved those unpleasant sensations away. You needed to get a grip, there were lives to be saved. So, you knocked at the glass door.  

“I’m not sorry to interrupt whatever is going on,” you said firmly.

They startled. Samira immediately got his hands off Jack’s shoulders, as if you had caught her red-handed.

You continued. “Dr. Mohan, Dr. Robinavitch need us in triage together with a med student. It doesn’t matter if it is Kwon or Ogilvie.”

She nodded and then placed once again her hand over Abbot’s shoulder.

“Now.” You emphasized.

“Okay, yeah. Are you sure that you can take care of this? Earlier you seemed to be struggling.” She asked him.

“Jesus I’m not geriatric yet, I think that I can still take care of a silly wound like that.”

She chuckled and you were about to too but you bit your lips, instantly.

“Okay well, let’s go then. I’ll search for Kwon.” Dr. Mohan informed you while approaching the exit. You followed her but as you reached the door jamb and as your colleague already headed toward triage, you turned your head in Jack’s direction. “Oh and Dr. Abbot, please put a shirt on after you finish. Patients need you.” The words that left your mouth were intended to be more stinging than they actually sounded.

A subtle smile appeared onto his face. “Yes ma’am.”

This time you were able to let out a chuckle, comforted by the fact that nobody was around. Then you went to join your colleagues in Triage.

“And all done Mrs. Fernandez.” You smiled at the patient while removing your gloves. “For the next few days you need to rest and if anything happens please, don’t hesitate to come here and ask of me.”

“I will do doctor, thank you for everything.”

“I’m just doing my job. Now carefully grab your belongings and try to get up slowly.” You instructed her, making sure that she wouldn’t hurt herself in the process. As she stood up you were ready to escort her to exit, where one of her relatives was waiting for her, but your attention got caught by Donnie calling your name.

“Yo, we need you back there.”

You nodded. “Sure. I will accompany Mrs. Fernandez outside and then I’ll be there.”

“No, I’ll do it.” He uttered with an oddly firm tone. You frowned, this was your patient not his, but before you could reply anything he began to speak. “There’s an emergency. Go, please. I’ll take care of the patient.”

“Okay, thank you.” That was all you could say before offering a smile to the old lady and rushing to the hub. The first sound that you heard once you passed the door was that of Robby’s voice.

“All right, everybody, circle up.”

Your body moved without hesitation, finding its way towards the most familiar face of the pitt.

“What happened?” You asked the night shift attending, who was standing by your side.

“System was preemptively shut down to avoid a cyberattack” Abbot casually explained.

A loud sigh escaped your mouth. “Great.”

He chuckled. “You know you’re allowed curse right? I promise you that it won’t jeopardize your career.” You rolled your eyes.

His eyes scanned you from head to toe, noticing how chest rise and fall rapidly, still not having recovered from the small run. His gaze then returned to your face and his brow arched. “Where were you?”

“Got stuck with a patience in triage. Old lady, swollen ankle, nothing too serious but she was worried. I just wanted to make sure she was doing fine of before her nephew arrived to come pick her up.”

Jack leaned over you, until his bristly chin brushed your shoulder and whispered, “You’re too good for triage, you know that?” as if he didn’t want to make you feel embarrassed. You stared at the wall in front of you, unable to say anything, too focused on his close proximity, and all of the implications involved. Had somebody noticed you? If the answer was yes, would you become the protagonist of a new bet? Or worse, would they start a rumor about the two of you that would send you directly to the HR office? But most importantly, why that small and almost imperceptible contact had brought with it a sense of warmth that you hadn’t felt in a while.

In the end, Jack resumed the distance between you two. You decided to ignore the comment, filling the silence with a “You have to tell that to Dr. Robinavitch, not me,” while meeting Jack’s eyes. But deep down you appreciated both the small compliment and the way his tone shifted when pronouncing those words, and even though your colleagues knew nothing about your life nor your personality, he seemed to comprehend you somehow. That was the part that made you uncomfortable. He saw you when you didn’t want to be seen.

He winked at you, still maintaining the eye contact. “Will do, don’t worry about that.”

After that brief exchange the three attendings instructed the staff how to work without the benefits of technology.

Jack Abbot was a man of his word. As soon as all of the instructions were given, he talked to Robby and suddenly you were no longer needed in triage.

Now that all of your patients were set up, you had a moment to dedicate to charting. But right after you logged into the computer you heard the paramedics shout an “Incoming.”

You turned your head, only to see a woman in her fifties tied to the gurney, convulsing and desperately trying to free herself from the stretcher straps that held her with such a brutal force reminiscent of a lioness trying to escape her enclosure. Without any further do, you headed to the patient, followed by Dr. McKay.

“What do we have here? ” you said in unison.

“Anne Davis. Fifty three. Overdose. Her neighbor, Halimah, found her in a deep state of confusion and also mentioned that she was hallucinating once she arrived." The paramedic explained while the lady nodded. In the meantime, you noticed that the neighbor, standing on the left side of the gurney, was holding an empty yellow plastic container. You moved towards her.

“After we got her out of the ambulance she started convulsing.” The other paramedic added.

“And she overdosed on?” McKay asked.

Halimah, visibly exhausted and shaken by the situation, handed you the container.

Once you read the label your heart skipped a beat and for a moment every sound felt distant and muffled, until you swallowed all of your sensations away and uttered, “Antidepressant. To be more specific SSRI fluoxetine, Prozac. The typical dosage is between 20 and 80 mg per day. She obviously must have been taken more than that but there has been record of someone taking 8 grams of it and still being able to recover. In comparison to other types of antidepressants they are one of the least toxic in overdose. Nevertheless, we need to act now and expel all of the medication out of her body. Get her into trauma.”

Dr. McKay gave you a satisfied look accompanied by an equally satisfied smirk, and then she clapped her hands to catch the attention of the paramedics.

“All right, you heard the doctor, get her into trauma now.” She said before the four of you rushed into trauma, leaving the neighbor outside with a nurse.  

With all of your attention focused on the patient, you didn’t noticed that there was also someone else who was watching you amidst – and despite – the chaos of the ER. Jack Abbot was about to dismiss a patient and place the paper chart on the desk when he saw the paramedics reporting both McKay and you the state in which they found the woman tied to the gurney. Right after that he heard your voice, serious and professional, delivering those information in such a firm, rapid and precise way that was uncommon for a R1, and to be frank it was a quality that was rare to be found even among the most experienced residents nowadays and yet, you never failed to surprise him. Even if you had worked together for a couple of months, you had proven to the night shift attending your expertise and willingness to learn and to improve your skills. That was apparently enough to gain Jack’s trust and admiration that occasionally became known to you during those rare moments where the two of you were alone and you could discreetly accept his compliments. But his trust and admiration could be also silently seen through the way he looked at you, if only you had the courage to let yourself losing in his hazel eyes. Today it was no exception, he was watching you with the same pride and affection that his face wore countless time, before you disappeared into trauma with a more stabilized patient that didn’t require an attending supervision, and he finally put the chart on the desk.  

By the time you entered the room, the woman had stopped convulsing and before the paramedics, together with the help of McKay and Jesse could transfer the patient to the hospital trauma bed, you quickly did an airway check.

“She’s breathing, let’s move her to the bed.” You instructed.

Once the patient was settled, Cassie and you put on a new pair of gloves before she called you and said.

“Listen. I know that we didn’t quite have the chance to work together in a while, but at the same time I also know that you handled different cases of overdose in the past few weeks and from what I’ve seen so far you seem perfectly capable of taking the lead. The convulsion has stopped now so…”

The way that McKay phrased everything was odd. Too formal and unnatural for a woman like her, always sarcastic and loose. But unfortunately you did have this effect on people. You kept yourself at distance, disturbed by the fact that eventually someone could get even a slightly glimpse of your personal history and get blinded by it, instead of focusing on your skills. It was a deliberate choice, that’s true, but it still hurt when you noticed how differently your colleagues acted when interacting with you, especially those of the day shift. All of them acted as if they were a family, and while you agreed with that statement, you couldn’t help it but to think that you weren’t part of it. You felt like the moody neighbor that had just moved across the street, the one who said hi only when forced by the circumstances. But it was okay, you were there to work, to save lives, not for socializing or worse, for finding the love of your life.

You nodded and moved towards the hospital bed. “It would be a pleasure Dr. McKay, thank you. ”

“Good.” She exhaled. “Now illustrate me the next steps.”

“First we need to asses her vital signs, then her LOC, before performing a -” your explanation was interrupted by the patient, who now started convulsing again, even more violently than the first time.

Your body reacted without thinking. “We need to move her to her side now, come help me.”

Jesse, McKay and Perla came in your help and helped you moving the convulsing patient onto her left side, meanwhile some painful, yet necessary, words escaped your mouth, Facing Cassie, who was at your left. “Even though I would be perfectly able to handle this case, I’m an R1 Dr. McKay, and this is not a low-risk overdose scenario anymore. Protocol is protocol.” You then turned your head to your right, towards Perla. “Go search for Dr. Abbot.. or Robby or Al-Hashimi, an attending.” Perla looked over McKay who gave her a nod.

You were being selfish. You wanted Jack to be there because he would have let you handled the case anyways, in contrast to Robby, who somehow always seemed to underestimate your skills and knowledge.

“We need to sedate her, as soon as possible, we were lucky with the first seizure but this one could possibly be deadly.” You said while maintaining your gaze to the woman, in order to avoid McKay.

A few seconds later Perla entered into the room and said. “Dr. Abbot and Robby are in trauma 2. Dr. Al-Hashimi is nowhere to be found.”

A smirk appeared onto Cassie’s face. “I’m the boss now, so that means that you are going to handle the case. I trust you and I’ll be observing you.” You gave her an appreciative smile.

“Okay. Jesse fill a syringe with 2 mg of lorazepam diluted in an equal part of normal saline and give it to me.”

In no time the nurse handed you the syringe and you injected the medication into her right arm, the one who wasn’t getting flattened by her body-weight. In less than two minutes, the patient had stopped convulsing, and you were able to move her onto her back. Your colleagues helped you asses her vitals, and everything seemed fine since she was able to breath normally and eventually started regain consciousness.

You looked at face and at her fragile state and began to talk to her. “Hi Anne, you did something dangerous but we are here to save you. Now I have to insert a tube in your nose, it will be a bit annoying but it won’t cause you any pain, is this okay?”

The only thing that she could do was to nod.

With the approval of your senior resident you changed your gloves for the third time, to avoid potential infections, and then once Jesse and Perla passed you the supplies and placed a linen-saver pad onto the woman’s chest, you began the procedure. Gastric suction.  

You first checked which nostril was the more patent for tube insertion which turned out to be the left one then, you measured the length of the nasogastric tube and once you reached the end of the xiphoid process Perla handed you a piece of tape to note the length. After that, you generously lubricated the insertion end of the tube with lignocaine and gently began to insert the Nasogastric tube into  her left nostril and started rotating it when you were met with a slight resistance, once you reached the nasopharynx. Afterwards you continued gently pushing the tube down to the esophagus until the predetermined mark was reached, only to fix it to the bridge of her nose with an adhesive plaster. During the whole procedure the patient surprisingly remained quiet, but conscious.

In the meantime, Jesse had placed the other supplies on the Mayo table near you while McKay gave approval for your actions and attentively observed you.

You removed the syringe form the insulation bottle and inserted the it into the end of the tube, only to instill small air bolus and auscultate the patient’s stomach with your stethoscope. Once you heard the stomach gurgling, you checked the gastric residual and let the gastric content drain onto the container placed on the table. After all of the return had stopped from the tube, you began irrigating with sixty cc of saline and let the liquid drain into the belly. Then you moved the syringe towards the container and let all of the content drain back into it. You repeated this procedure several times, until the gastric contents run clear back out of the tube and removed the syringe from it, not before filling the stomach with some air.

“Okay Anne, can you take a deep breath for me now?” you asked gently.

“Yes” she said with a weary voice and you proceeded to remove the nasogastric tube while Perla disposed the linen-saver pad away.

Eventually the woman was transported into another room and immediately feel asleep.

You had saved her.

Before exiting trauma McKay gave you a pat on your shoulder and uttered. “Good job Doc. Now go check your other patients.” Those were the only words that seemed the most authentic and real. Not in terms of content but in form. Smoother than your previous interactions, more Cassie like.

You thanked her and then exited the room.

Outside trauma you were surprised to notice not only that the neighbour of Anne, Halimah, had left but also that Dana came back after finishing assisting the SA victim. She waved at you from her desk.

“Hey Doc welcome back” She greeted you while chewing a gum. You smiled politely.

Suddenly a young boy entered the bay and rushed towards the charge nurse. He put his hands on the desk and tried to catch a breath.

You moved towards him, afraid that he might be sick and needed assistance, and in fact he needed assistance, just not the medical one.

“I’m Jayce Moore.” He painted, worn out by the run he had to make to be there. “I’m umh the son of Anne Davis. My neighbour, Halimah told me that an emergency happened and she had to call an ambulance.” Slowly his breath returned normal and the painting was replaced by a tone of desperation mixed with a glimpse of hope. “Where is she? Please, tell me that nothing bad has happened to her.”

Dana was about to speak when you stepped in. “Hi Jayce, I’m the doctor who treated your mom.” You said as calmly and as sweetly as possible, in order to instill in his body some sort of calm.

He tiled his head to you and locked his glistening eyes with yours. “Is she alive?” he asked you with a trembling voice.

 “Yes. She’s asleep now. Why don’t we continue this conversation elsewhere? Somewhere quieter perhaps.”

The boy nodded and moved away from the desk. Your first instinct was that of placing a hand onto his shoulders, a simple sign that wanted to communicate to him that he wasn’t alone, even though you could only a little to ease his pain. Eventually he melted into the touch that in such a difficult and stressing moment was very much appreciated.

While heading towards the family room you turned your head towards Dana and told her, “Once Kiara is available can you send her to me?”

“Sure thing Kid.” She responded while looking at some documents.

The family room was small and cold, not in terms of temperature but in terms of atmosphere. The walls were white and there were two grey sofas placed in the middle of it, facing each other, and a small wooden coffee table. That’s it.

Jayce and you seated on the same sofa, with you deciding to keep a distance that was both appropriate for a doctor and a family member’s patient, but that at the same time communicated that you were there for him, to help him.

“So what happened to my mom?” he asked you while rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“Your mom had an overdose. Prozac. Your neighbor Halimah found her in your living room in a deep state of confusion and was also hallucinating. She called the ambulance and once she arrived here, she was convulsing. The first convulsion stopped after a minute but then she was hit with another one and we had to sedate her. Fortunately she was conscious and we were able to perform a gastric suction, without intubating her.” You explained.

He remained silent for a moment and then he dragged his hands across his face and he doubled over in tears.

“It’s my fault.” The sound of his voice was muffled by her hands.

The sight of him made your heart shrink.

While patting the space between his shoulder blades you whispered , “No it’s not Jayce.”

His hands were now holding his head. His gaze locked to the ground beneath him.

“Yes.” He sobbed. “It is. My mom is dealing with depression and instead of staying at home with her I went to a stupid fourth of July barbecue with my friends. I’ve already lost my dad a few years ago and I can’t afford to loose her too. I should’ve stayed at home…”

Chills went down to your spine. You swallowed.

“How old are you Jayce?”

“Nineteen.” He responded.

“Well it is perfectly normal for a boy of your age to have some fun. No matter how hard your situation at home is. I mean it, it was not your fault. She is safe now. That’s what matters.” You hoped that your words were comforting enough but unfortunately, that was not the case.

The boy’s sadness and tears turned into anger and guilt which weren’t directed at you, but at himself.

“No, Damn! It is it.” His fingers gripped his hair tightly. “That’s what I get for hanging out with my friends instead of looking out for her. She overdosed because of me man. Because she thought I didn’t love her or care about her.”

You removed your hand from his back, giving him space to grieve, to be angry, to feel those sensations and feelings that you knew too well, before you began speaking.

“You know…” You exhaled and continued looking at him.  “When people unalive themselves or attempt, they don’t do it to punish you. Their brain chemistry is altered in a way that distorts their perception of life. It’s not necessarily that they don’t notice how people around them care for them, but it’s more of that they can’t do it anymore.” You paused. His gaze was still focused to the ground.

You continued. “They don’t think it’s worth living life anymore. Most of the time they do it because they don’t want to be a burden to their family. In psychological terms it’s called perceived burdensomeness.”

He tilted his head to look at you. You half smiled.

“What I want you to understand is that it’s not your fault.”

His eyes started glistening again.

“You’re just nineteen Jayce. While it’s a good thing to want to care of your mom, you have the right to have fun. Your life has just begun.”

He nodded. “I know but it’s hard.” His voice broke.

“I know, but you don’t have to do everything alone. There are some grassroots organizations like NAMI which help you navigate this situation. By offering counseling and lessons meant to teach how to interact and handle people who suffer from mental illness.”

He hummed.

“Once Kiara will be here, she’s a social worker you know, she will explain to you in detail everything.”

As if to speak of the devil, Kiara knocked and entered the door.

“There she is.” You said.

Kiara sat on the sofa besides the boy and started introducing herself while you got up from it and headed towards the door and opened it. Before you could exit it though, you called him and softly said, “If you need, me go to the nurse desk and ask of me. Okay?”

His eyes met yours once again and nodded. “Will do that Doc. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” You replied before uttering.

“It is not your fault.”

Only that this time, you were saying that mostly to yourself, not to him.

Eventually he gave you a weak smile. You waved at both of them and exited the room.

To your surprise, technology was finally back in the pitt, and before you could think and replay the events that both occurred in trauma and in the small room, you took a deep breath and focused on work.

Busy with handover and charting you hadn’t noticed that it was late. Your shift nearly ended one hour and an half ago, so you decided that maybe, just maybe, it was time for a little break before clocking out. Break that Dr. Al-Hashimi was more than willing to give you, since the waters seemed to have calmed down a bit in the ER.

You headed to the bathroom near the elevator. The nearest and the quietest you could find, since only the staff could have access to it. The exact moment you stepped in, all of the noise from the ER became muffled and obviously distant. You let out a sigh, finally a moment of peace.

Everything seemed normal. You did whatever you needed to do and then you went over the sink to wash your hands, where a mirror hung over. You placed your hands to the sides of the sink and started looking at your reflection for what it seemed an eternity. You noticed your messy hair, your worn out eyes. Nothing new, it happened at the end of every shift. Not a single thought crossed your mind. It was oddly empty like a ghost town .

The water continued running from the faucet, making you realize that you starred at the mirror for too long. You turned it off immediately. Then, you lightly smiled at your own blank reflection and burst into tears.

Your mind was racing now, replaying once again the events of today. Anne convulsing onto the stretcher and then onto the hospital bed, the exhausted expression that Halimah wore, the half-empty yellow plastic container, the guilt of Jayce, the cracked and desperate tone of his voice, him putting is hands in his hair, in a sign of desperation, and the big breath that you took once you exited the room. It was all too much. To much too bear, too handle, to remember. Because all of this was deeply connected to the reason why you had left Maine, and your beautiful home near the ocean in the first place.

Tears run over your face in the same way the water was running from the faucet a few moments before. Scalding and gushing, wetting the collar of your scrub and the shirt underneath.

 You were a sobbing mess, finding it difficult to breath normally.

There was only one thing that helped you set yourself free from the intricate bramble of your thoughts. You were still in the ER, at work. This sort of thing couldn’t be possibly happen in here, where your colleagues could enter at any moment and see you.

Slowly you began to breathe with your diaphragm and started focusing on the little things around you. The muffled noise, the greenish tiles, the soft fragrance of the soap and the shocking sensation of cold water on your wrists. You repeated this little game several times, until your breath returned to a normal pace and your eyes stopped producing tears.

You splashed fresh water to your face, grabbed some paper towels to dry it, tossed them in the bin and then turned off the faucet one last time.

As if nothing had happened, you went outside, and the noise, went from being muffled to vivid.

The first person you met was Robby. Your back was facing the bathroom door. He on the other hand, was standing right in front you. Arms crossed and an expression you couldn’t quite decode. Was he annoyed? Angry? Or simply exhausted? In that position you could see all his wrinkles branch off his face and his thin chapped lips trapped by his unkept beard. He looked like a rag, even worse than you.

“Where were you?” He said with an altered tone which displayed all his annoyance.

You didn’t know whether he was tired, hallucinating, or if your level of tolerance was starting to lower to zero, as your shift was coming to its end.

“In the bathroom.” Your index finger accompanied the words that escaped your mouth, pointing out the sign RESTROOM right behind you. Your eyebrows frowned. “What happened?”

Before he could answer, a nurse needed to use the bathroom, forcing you to walk away from it and changing spot, to continue your conversation. You both went towards a slightly less busy area. Robby’s back now faced the elevator. Yours instead, was facing the corridor that lead towards central, and utility cart filled with different medical supplies was standing at your left.

“Has an emergency happened?” You resumed the conversation.

“Jesus. This is an ER, what do you think?” He let out a breathless laugh while running a hand into his hair.

You decided to not give in, keeping your composure. You found his manners rather childish and snappy. Definitely not appropriate neither for a man of his age, nor for an attending. But maybe, he just had a rough shift, like the rest of you, and definitely the fact that he was about to leave for three months didn’t help him at all.

You smiled politely, before saying. “What do you need me for, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“You know what? This is not even the point!” He shouted, causing some of the staff to look in your direction, before lowering his voice and continue. “Your shift isn’t over yet; you can’t simply disappear.” He adverted your gaze and shook his head.

“I didn’t disappear. I asked Dr. Al-Hashimi if I could take a break since my shift finished nearly two hours ago and my patients are all set up” You simply explained.

“You asked her uh?”

“Yes. She’s an attending. I don’t see what’s the problem actually.” Your tone was forcedly calm, but your body told a different story. It was tense, with your arms resting at your sides and fists clenched.

“The problem is that I’m your attending. Not her.” He emphasized his words by indicating himself. “She knows nothing about this place. Hell!” He interlaced both of his hands behind his head. “She keeps disappearing too. And you can’t hide yourself in the bathroom for fucking twenty minutes while the ER is a fucking shit show.” And then, abruptly released them.

His face was getting redder each time he uttered a word. Something had definitely happened to him today, but whatever it was he didn’t have the right to let it out on you.

He was getting on your nerves now. If only he knew why you did take a break. It was better to die and let him scream at you instead of speaking. Instead of confessing him why it took you so long in there, because you knew that eventually, he would have used it all against you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were trying immensely to keep your cool and find the right words to diffuse the situation. He, on the other hand, was studying you with a predator’s unwavering attention. His gaze focused first on your scrub top, still a bit damp from the tears and then, on your eyes, puffy and slightly irritated.

Instantly you crossed your arms and your expression hardened. A defense mechanism, to shield yourself from his actions.

He laughed. “You’ve been crying too?”

He hit the jackpot with that one. In in response, you bit your cheek, not wanting to give in to his provocations. It simply wasn’t worth your energy.

There wasn’t a single trace of amusement in his laugh, more like irritation and awareness. “I can’t fucking believe that this ER has turned into a fucking kindergarten full of whiny babies. What have you been crying on uh? You got mommy issues like Dr. Mohan too?” He snickered.

If until that moment you had decided to be the bigger person, now it was over. He crossed a line, a very important one, and you couldn’t simply stand there, doing nothing and withstanding his words. It simply wasn’t your style. Not when someone, it didn’t matter whether he was your boss or your patient, was displaying the reason of your meltdown, was making you vulnerable in front of everyone. Making you a person, not a doctor.

In a heartbeat you slammed your left hand onto the utility cart, with such a brutal force that not only made some of the supplies tip over it, but also caught the attention of those around you. Then, with your hand still vibrating from the brutal slam you pointed your index finger at him and bawled.

 “Fuck you!”

For a second the ER remained silent, until you turned around with such an intimidating look that made all of your colleagues resume their work.

Robby couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. There were rumors about you, concerning your personality and temper. People called you cold, distant and aggressive. And while he certainly he agreed with the first two adjectives, he was having an hard time picturing you for the aggressive type, at least until now.

At this new sight of you he flinched, before biting back. “There she is. The others told me you were aggressive jeez.” He paused for a second and touched his beard while nodding. “You see, I know exactly why you left the hospital in Maine now. For your behavior.”

“You know nothing about me and nor do the others. Nothing about my behavior or my problems. So cut it.” You hissed.

He wasn’t intimidated by words. “Well I know a thing or two since you were crying in the bathroom.”

You thought that it was over, that him mentioning you mental breakdown, meant that you reached the peak of your argument. But it wasn’t like that. He didn’t give in, and with a patronizing tone he snarled. “I’ll give you a piece of advice. Keep your problems out of the fucking ER. When you clock in here your life is GONE, you need to think about your patients not about your pathetic issues.”

You didn’t back down. Your resentment for him grew even more.

“Respectfully Dr. Robinavitch, you’re the last person from who I would take personal advice from.”

“Watch it kid” He warned you by pointing his finger at you.

You couldn’t care less about his warnings.

“Or what? You gonna sign me up? Fire me? Move me back to the night shift? Seems fine to me. Really.” You mockingly reassured him.

He was the one who provoked you in the first place, openly humiliating you, hinting at your weak spots in front of everyone.

“But let’s go back to what I was saying. Why would I take a piece of advice from a man who can’t separate his work life from his personal one? Come one I mean..” You paused and sneered. “You  you flirt with Noelle and everybody see that. Oh and don’t even get me started on your sabbatical. It’s been days since you’ve been talking about it and making it a everyone’s problem. You’re supposed to be happy to have the chance to rest and instead you’re nervous, irritable and moody.” You spat those words like a snake envenomating its prey.

Part of you wanted to go further. Telling him how much of a cunt he was, treating others, especially female workers like shit. But maybe it was enough because what you uttered afterwards was far worse.

“So maybe, just maybe you should be the one taking advice from me, since I haven’t caused a single problem since I’ve started working here. Here’s the piece of advice Dr. Robinavitch. Why don’t you take your fucking motorbike and go fucking…”

“Hey what’s happening here?” A third, raspy voice that came from the back, asked.

…kill yourself.

Those words died in your mouth the exact moment Jack interrupted you.

He now was standing at your right, between you and Robby, with his arms crossed and an eyebrow arched. His eyes were darting back and forth between the both of you, waiting for a valid explanation.

“Nothing Dr. Abbot.” You said in a rush, eyes locked to the ground while a wave of shame, that forced your voice to lower, rushed over you. “I was asking Dr. Robinavitch if I could take a break and he agreed. Isn’t that right?” You glanced at the day shift attending, silently asking him to forge a brief alliance to which he agreed.

“Yes.” He answered in such a fragile way that didn’t go unnoticed to you.

Your eyes scanned him. He wrapped his right arm tightly around his left hip, while he was torturing the cuticle of his left thumb, to divert his attention somewhere else because a sudden glassy, reflective sheen coated his pupils. He was about to cry.

The realization left you shocked. A part of you wanted to sink deeper into the guilt that was finding space in the back of your throat, the other part though, was proud to have made him that miserable. He didn’t have the right to publicly expose and humiliate you like that.

That corridor became rapidly an uncomfortable place to be in, you felt trapped. You needed to go away.

An half smile appeared on your face. “Now, If you excuse me.” You said, before reaching the elevator unbothered to wait for the two men’s reactions or to notice their surprised expressions.

The exact moment the doors closed, you began furiously pressing the top floor button, convinced that if you pressed it repeatedly, the elevator would have taken you to the rooftop faster. The ride on the elevator was unbearable, one of the longest of your life. His cruel words poisoned your mind, and consequently, your whole body started trembling out of rage. Angry tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You tried to stop them by violently biting your lips and cheeks that in just a few seconds were already marked by your blood.

Once the elevator opened you hastened towards the rooftop door, opened it and took a step out. There, you were met with a warm and humid wind. You first checked if someone was there, you knew that sometimes your coworkers liked to come here, but fortunately, there was no one. Your only company were the stars that decorated the dark sky, the buildings around you and a few noises coming form the street.

Comforted by this loneliness, you furiously slammed the door and let out a violent “Fuck!”. Then, you moved a few steps to the right while running both of your hands across your face, before collapsing to the floor with the wall supporting your back. Your brought you knees to your chest, without removing the hands from your face. Pitch black and hospital soap that’s what you saw and smelled in those moments where you remained in that position, thinking that all of your rage will disappear alone, but it didn’t. You needed to released it.

Quickly your hands found the lower part of your scrub top, rolled it into something that resembled the form of a ball, and proceed to shove it into your mouth. With your mouth stuffed and your eyes squeezed shut, you began to scream. A piercing, muffled, garbled sound of pure frustration and anger that filled your body with heath. You screamed with all of your force, until your gums and teeth started hurting, until drool pooled over the part of the scrub that you couldn’t hold in your mouth, until your knuckles turned white and pleaded you to let go of that piece of fabric.

Eventually you released all of the rage that poisoned your body. You won.

After that, your arms rested open to your sides, palms looking at the sky, mirroring your face. You counted the few starts that shone despite the light pollution, melting in the night stillness that you despised so much, but that now, was more than necessary.

But that sensation of relief didn’t last very long. Your brain replayed the conversation that you had with Robby and guilt washed over you. For a moment you starred at the skyscrapers in front of you, hoping to find some distraction, but you could feel remorse and shame in every bone of your body. Emotions that were slowly consuming you because ultimately, you almost said to your attending, a human being who was definitely struggling, to end his life.

You felt sick. You couldn’t feel a drop of pity for yourself. What you almost did was wicked and unforgivable. Especially because everything, starting from Anne and Jayce and finishing with that, led back to the reason why you left your home.

Instantly your hands reached the pockets of your scrub pants, pulling out three objects. Your phone, your headphones and your most beloved and important possession, a silver heart-shaped locket necklace. You left the first two on the floor, while opening the locket on your lap. You traced its rim with your fingers and exhaled, looking first at the small piece of paper that said “We love you, M. & D.”; and then, at the photo within. A younger, happier version of you at the centre, hugged by the light of your life, your parents, that now were dead and gone. You eyes lingered on the smiling face of your mother, and there, you broke.

You brought the open locket to your lips like you were reciting the rosary, and then, you whispered with a strained voice. “I’m sorry mom, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thought that.” Heavy and uncontrollable tears flooded your face and your breath began hitching. You repeated those words like a mantra, a mantra that accompanied your despairing wail.

Desperate for a second of calm in the midst of sorrow, you reached for your headphones and put them on. Calm music began soothing your ears while you hugged your knees and your hands still held the necklace. You stared at an indefinite point in front of your, unconcerned about the tears that were dripping from your chin.

Memories came in waves, and soon, you let yourself drown in them.

You were standing in the hallway of your childhood home. It was October. The clock on the wall read 1.23 AM. You had been awake for more than thirteen hours. Your shift had been a nightmare that day, a mass casualty  had occurred and you had to remain there until those of the nightshift could handle the patients alone. Tired, you dropped your backpack near the staircase, not bothering to switch on the lights, as the moonlight coming from the window lighted your way. You called your mom, informing her that you were finally home. She didn’t respond which was odd, because she usually stayed up until 2AM. You didn’t worry too much about it though, sometimes the antidepressants made her fall asleep earlier. She was diagnosed with depression three years prior, after the death of your dad. On your first year of medical school. He died from heart attack on his way to work, the doctors in the ER tried to save him, but it was impossible. In the end, your mom and you grieved him differently, you like a daughter and she as a wife, married to the love of her life.

You called her another time, still no response. But again, you weren’t particularly worried, as the last few weeks proved that she was getting better. “She is just asleep”, you thought. You were the one in the first place that told her that, when you had informed her of your extra stay at the ER. “It’s okay darling. I love you so much and I’m proud of you.” She answered softly.

Still, you went to her bedroom, illuminated by the same moonlight that led you there. You leaned on the jam, arms crossed. You saw her, peacefully sleeping on her left side, with one arm that dangled over the bed, no duvet on. You moved towards her, as silently as you could and sat right next to her, in the small space that her body made. Her hair was all over her face, you chuckled and whispered a sweet “Goodnight” while stroking her head. It was only in that moment that you realized she wasn’t moving, nor breathing. You swallowed, you eyes began to sting. Slowly you tilted your head to the nightstand, where the empty bottle of Zoloft stand with the lid open. You had picked up the prescription the day before. You starred at it for too long, unable to do anything. The realization hit you like a truck. She ended her life, and you weren’t able to save her, to prevent that. You bursted out crying and pulled her cold body in your arms, with your tears wetting her soft hair, unable to say a word. You remained like that until you had the strength to call your neighbour.

Three days later, after the funeral you asked for a leave of absence that eventually led you to sell your house and continue your first year of residence at the PTMC.

Your memories were interrupted by a pair of cargo pants materializing in front of you. One hand found immediately your heart, not expecting anyone to come after you. In a second, you took your headphones off and wiped out your tears, while still holding the locket in one of your palms.

You looked up and met Jack with a paper cup in his hand.

“Jesus Christ! You scared me Dr. Abbot.” You said still recovering from the little fright.

He chuckled. “I didn’t think that I was that ugly. And please, it’s just Jack now okay?”

No, he wasn’t. Even at your lowest you couldn’t help but to notice his old-fashioned beauty. It was definitely the weariness that spoke for you, because you never truly admitted that to yourself before, scared that that simple recognition led to something more dangerous and unpredictable.

“Okay Jack.” You remarked, too tired to keep your professionalism intact. After all here, there was no one besides the two of you.

That was the first time you called him by his first name. There was something in the way your voice pronounced his name that made Jack’s heart fumble.

“May I?” He asked while pointing at the empty space near you.

You nodded. Before checking in, still looking at him. “Sure your leg won’t hurt?”

“It will or maybe it won’t. Who knows.” He playfully answered while seating at your right. Cup still in his left hand. Unlike you, he sat with his legs stretched out to the floor. The wall though, kept supporting both of your backs.

Unsure of his response, you turned your head to him and with a serious voice you ordered. “Take it off. You’ve been standing all day.”

He mirrored you. In that close position you could smell the sting odor of the hospital sanitizer as well as see an unexpected sparkle in his eyes. Your shoulders were brushing against one another, mimicking the closeness you experienced earlier that day.

He smirked. “At your orders Dr. Sweetheart.” He momentarily put the cup onto the ground, taking off his leg and placing it besides him.

Dr. Sweetheart. A nickname that you hadn’t heard in months. A nickname that Jack gave you after seeing you how you treated patients, with consideration and empathy. A nickname that he used only when no one was around, because he didn’t want the others to start stupid rumors about the two of you.

You shook your head and let out a breathless laugh. “I’m not a sweetheart Jack you know it, especially after today.” Bitterness and melancholy could be found in the tone of your voice. There was a time in which you were one, at least within the walls of your house. Outside though, you had always been a bit distant to people, even though you had formed occasional friendships throughout the years. But after the death of both your parents the distance you kept with people only got bigger and bigger, and the sweetness you once were familiar with was replaced with pain.

This didn’t go unnoticed by the night-shift attending who tried, as best as he could, to diffuse the situation.

“Nah. You are one. Especially with patients, and sometimes with me.” The last words were whispered, as if he didn’t want you to hear them which in that position was impossible. He was the one who felt too exposed for once.

He lowered his gaze, lifted it again. “At least when I have a shirt on. You know.”

His witty comment earned a laugh from you, a honest and hearty laugh that you didn’t have in a while. It was the first time he truly ever saw you like this and he felt mesmerized by it, by you letting him see more of you. You were different around him, unconsciously more at ease. Funny thing was that neither of you were able to fully catch that.

Before He could forget, he grabbed the paper cup and handed it to you. “I made this for you.”

Your smile faded and your brows frowned, and took the cup.

“Shift is already over. You never leave without drinking tea.” He continued.

You swallowed, and the warming sensation you felt earlier, when Jack leaned over you in central, found its way in your belly.

You took a sip. You murmured. “It’s Jasmine. My..”

“Favourite.” You both said in unison.

You bit your cheek because suddenly your eyes were becoming a bit watery. It had been a while since someone had shown you some kindness, and care perhaps.

You adverted his gaze, as he changed the topic of the conversation.

He rubbed the palms of his hands on his thighs before gently asking, “What happened down there with Robby?”

You froze. Placed the cup on the floor and then started fidgeting with the chain of the necklace. Gaze focus on it. “We had a conversation that led into an argument.” You coldly said.

He cleared is throat, “Yeah, he informed me about it.”

“Then why asking?” You retorted, meeting his eyes again.

Jack waited a moment before answering, trying to find the right words. He knew how difficult that question was for you. How difficult it was for you to conversate about something that wasn’t work related, to reveal something of you. He only had glimpses of you, but just because it was a good observer. But right now, that question was more than necessary and in the end, instead of finding complicate ways to address the conversation and his concern for you, he opted for the truth.

“He also told me that you were crying in the bathroom. And seeing you like that, it felt weird. I-umh never saw you yelling like that. I got worried.”

You froze for the second time in a row. You felt as getting caught red handed, like you found Dr. Mohan and him this morning.

Both of the attendings knew you were crying in there. But there was something else that unsettled you even more. He was worried about you.

With your fingertip you wiped one small tear that was threating to escape from the outer corner of your eye. You then sighed. “I almost told him to kill himself Jack.” You met his attentive gaze which never stopped leaving you really.

 A quiet, breathless “Oh” escaped his lips.

You squeezed your eyes tightly shut, not wanting to cry in front of him. But mostly, you feared you had disappointed him with that confession.

 “If you hadn’t interrupted us, I would have told him that.” Your voice cracked, and the guilt returned stronger than ever.

You tried, so so hard not to cry, thinking that your body had expelled all of the tears possible, but it wasn’t like that. You quickly covered your face with your hands, a shield that masked your sobs and weep.

Jack at first didn’t utter a word. Both surprised and concerned, he circled your shoulders with his arm, pulling you closer to him, before placing a tender kiss between your hair; as if he had done it a million times. “It’s okay sweetheart. Even if you thought it, you didn’t say it. You were angry. You didn’t mean any of that.” He murmured, still holding you. “You’re a good person, and he’s not gonna fire you, if that’s what you’re worrying about.” He planted another kiss.

You cried even harder, not because of what almost happened with Robby, but because of that delicate touch, paired with those soft words contained in his raspy voice, that you accepted. You were crying because you was accepting was he was willing to give you: affection and care. Because you didn’t avoid his touch, you melted into it. You were crying, because you realized that you had feelings for him. Because Jack was able to find its way beneath your armor and towards your heart.

But the man didn’t know what happened inside your mind. He only saw and heard you wail and suddenly, he thought that he overstepped. He tried to fix the situation as best as he could.

“Do you want me to call you someone? Maybe a friend or your parents in Maine. Sometimes it helps hearing a familiar voice during hard times.”

But little did he know…

You knew he had good intentions, really, but your body reacted anyways, stiffening and he noticed it. You removed your hands from your face and quietly let go of his touch.

You handed him your opened locket. He grabbed it and a light smile appeared on his face at the sight of the younger you.

“The only people that I ever truly had and could call are trapped in there.” You confessed with a touch melancholy.

His smile instantly faded. He didn’t need to ask you for further explanation. He understood and gasped “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

“Don’t be.” You placed you hand on his palm, the one that held the locket. “Nobody knows.” You half smiled.

At those words he closed his fingers around your hand in a gentle motion that made your heart flutter.

Eventually you gave in, and revealed him the true reason why you left Maine. You told him everything, not because you felt obliged to, but because you wanted to.

He was the first person to know about the death of your parents and the tragedy behind it, after your therapist.

His brows frowned and he shook his head. He was visibly moved by your story. “You’re so strong sweetheart.” And his thumb softly stroked yours.

You chuckled. “Says the veteran.”

He didn’t even register your joke, because his mind was already somewhere else.

“Come back to the night shift. So far the day shift hasn’t done you any good.” He said off the cuff.

“Jack…” You rebuked, “You know I’m having troubles working at night, after my mom committed suicide it’s..”

He cut you off. “I know but, if something happens to you I can help you. Because now I finally know why out of the blue you decided to move to the day shift. You couldn’t bare it anymore.”

His hand gripped yours tighter.

You were about to speak, but he didn’t let you.

“The night crawlers miss you.”

You shook your head, adverting his gaze, but he didn’t give up.

“Ellis misses giving you unwanted gossip and gaining no reaction back. Shen misses not being the only one having a drink addiction of some type.”

You lightly laughed.

“Jeez!” He exclaimed. “Even Walsh misses you. She misses  working with a clever R1 while she’s operating.”

“Really?” You were frankly and oddly surprised by that.

He nodded. Then his voice, as well as his gaze, lowered, concentrated on the small circles that he was drawing on your knuckles with his thumb. It seemed that what he was about to say was only meant for himself.

“And I miss you. I miss having you around all the time.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Not ready for that confession that came unnoticed. But once again, you didn’t escape from it. Instead you observed him. His grey curls, the freckles that covered his arm and his eyes that were still fixated on your interlaced hands.

You acted on impulse, ignoring the anxiety that tried to find space in your head, telling you to stop.

With your free hand, you lifted his chin and closed the space between the two you. You pulled him into a soft and tender kiss. After the initial shock, he cupped your face with his other hand and shifted slightly his position to have a better taste of you; and for the same reason, you adjusted yourself too. You felt the scrape of his beard on your chin, his work-worn hand against your cheek, and his slightly chapped lips melting against your equally chapped ones. It was a kiss that tasted of tears shed and jasmine tea. It was a kiss that spoke of mutual respect, trust, admiration and that silent devotion that both of you started feeling right after you arrived in the pitt, on February.

When you parted, you rested your foreheads against one another. Both smiling shyly.

“Was it unprofessional?” You asked a bit embarrassed.

“No, it wasn’t.” He whispered out of breath.

He then let go of that position, and of your interlaced hands, carefully placing the locket on the ground, and after that, he opened his arms. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate to welcome his comforting hug. With your chin rested on his shoulder and his fingers gently running through your hair he murmured, “I hate to say it but in a bit we must go. You haven’t clocked out yet. Can’t let you waste your fourth of July.” He paused for a moment. “Lemme accompany you at home, you’re exhausted. The others won’t find out I promise.”

You hummed, trusting Jack’s promise and accepting his offer, while feeling his smile against the top of your head.

In that moment there was no space for fear and preoccupation. There was just Jack and you, and a proud feeling that settled in you, for letting yourself admit your feelings and ultimately, for letting yourself set free from your own self-imposed chains, even for a slightly bit.

taglist: @goddess-of-spring

The soft patter of rainfall resounded within your classroom, the grey clouds casting a dim light through the glass. The students had gone home for the day, and here you sat marking some homework, a quiet hum of a song on your lips. It was late autumn now, the leaves having changed and fallen, as they usually do, as the days have gotten darker and colder. A thermos of tea sat on your desk, steaming at the lip. 

A few of your coworkers had found out that Grace and you had attended the same grad school, through some ethical stalking of your old Facebook account, to which you now tried your best to avoid contact with most of the staff. Of course they noticed, and fortunately they took it as a sign to stop prying into your personal life.

However, this did lead to you being alone most breaks, lunches, and evenings. Not that you minded - the quiet has always been something you enjoyed - but now the only person you really talked to at work was the one person you actually wanted to avoid. Part of you wondered if you should put in a transfer request, and with every day you felt the eyes on you that part of you grew stronger and louder. It got to the point that the transfer request sat on your desk, only waiting for your signature.

If not for your students, you would have sent it in weeks ago. 

You had gotten incredibly attached to your classes, and in the few months that you’ve worked here, you had been told by multiple parents of your positive effects on their children. The mere thought brought a smile to your face, your features lighting up as you continued to write in red ink.

A knock on your door broke your train of thought, your smile falling as your eyes met the guest at your door, standing in his usual grey suit.

He immediately raised his hands at your stony gaze, sighing through his nose. “It’s for the kids.”

Your gaze softened immediately, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose, your other hand waving in a gesture for him to state his case.

“I’ve run out of stickers, and I’m halfway through grading papers for tomorrow.” Grace began, taking a tentative step into your classroom. “Could I borrow some of yours? The students without them would be heartbroken.”

You paused for a moment, before sighing in defeat as you gestured him to come closer, spinning in your chair to reach the lower shelf of your desk cabinet. Your fingers quickly found the laminate sheets, a gentle smile on your face as your eyes caught the shimmer of gold stars. You held them out for him to take, only for him to not do so, causing you to raise an eyebrow in confusion.

You followed his gaze to your transfer form that lay on your desk, not missing the conflicted emotions that swirled in his eyes. His lips parted to speak, only for the words to get caught in his throat, his brow furrowed.

“I haven’t decided yet.” You sighed, placing the gold stickers down, gaze avoiding his. “I’m planning on staying until the winter break at least.” 

“You want to leave again?” With the way his face quickly morphed between expressions, you could tell he immediately regretted the words that slipped from his mouth, especially the adverb ‘again’.

Your heart leaped into your throat, jaw clenching as you swallowed the years of buried grief. You drew a sharp breath through grit teeth as you simply pushed the stickers into his hands, and he easily took the hint, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him.

Thunder roared outside as you sunk into your chair, palm on your chest as your eyes scanned over the transfer forms yet again. You couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at Grace, he was right after all. 

You were always running away.

*~*~*

Your phone buzzed endlessly with congratulations, after your supervisor accidentally spread the news of your new job to the rest of your cohort. Sitting at your desk, you sighed as you turned your phone off, eyes drawn to the droplets of rain that cascaded down the glass of your window. The sun had long since set, the room illuminated solely by the warm light of your desk lamp as your eyes fluttered shut, focused on the sound of the storm raging outside. 

After months of interviews and assessments, you had finally secured a job at the MRC Laboratory of Molecular Biology, a company that you’d been striving for a position ever since you were in high school. It all felt a little unreal to you, and so you had kept the news mostly to yourself, but you let it slip at your final meeting with your supervisor. A job at MRC is incredible for anyone in your field, and in the midst of celebration, your supervisor had let everyone else know, much to your dismay. As brilliant as an institution MRC was, it was situated in Cambridge, in the UK - you would be leaving California, with no known return date.

You wanted to be the one to tell him, you didn’t want him to hear about it like this.

But alas, here you were, the news spreading like wildfire throughout your cohort, and you were positively certain he had caught wind of it by now. Part of you felt relieved that you wouldn’t have to figure out how to break it to him, you were sure you would have said something stupid, something you would have regretted. Maybe you wouldn’t have regretted it? Perhaps it would have turned into something beautiful. 

But no, you had no reason to see him again now, with your graduation having passed and your flight next week, there was no point in saying goodbye.

Your train of thought was derailed by a frantic knock on the door, your brow furrowed in confusion as the rattling continued. With the lightning flashing outside, only someone stupid would be out at this time.

You quickly made your way to your front door, fingers hasty against the lock before you swung it open, your heart jumping to your throat at the sight before you.

There Ryland Grace stood, hair flat against his forehead as droplets obscured his glasses. He wore a grey hoodie, which was drenched through, his whole body shaking. Your name fell from his lips, a pitiful sound as he looked at you.

“What…” You could barely find the words to say, eyes darting anywhere but his. “Why are you here, Grace?”

He removed his glasses as he took shelter on your porch, his chest heaving as you took a better look at him in the light. A mess was an understatement, disheveled and scattered, anguish swimming in those blue eyes of his. Did he run all the way here?

“You… You’re leaving?” Grace swallowed thickly, trying to catch your averted gaze. Your jaw tightened at his words, arms folded as you took a deep breath.

“Why do you care?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, and you didn’t miss the way he flinched at your words. “We agreed that we’d stop once we graduated, which was weeks ago. In fact, you shouldn’t even be here.” You buried the ache that bloomed in your chest at his crestfallen expression.

“No.” He said firmly, shaking his head, “don’t give me that bullshit.” You could see the tension in his shoulders as he spoke, quivering with each breath. 

“Bullshit?” You groaned, rolling your eyes. “I’ve finally achieved all I’ve ever wanted since I was a teenager, Grace. What we have, what we had… It didn’t mean-”

“Don’t you dare.” He cut you off, tears lining his eyes. His hands came up to angrily wipe away any semblance of his vulnerability. “You were gonna leave without saying anything? Pretend that we aren’t anything? That this - that I - meant nothing to you?”

Your throat felt dry as the words tangled in your throat. What could you say? Could you even say anything?

“I always hated the way you would only call me Ryland if you wanted something from me.” He confessed, fists clenching at his sides. “You didn’t even have to, I would do anything you asked of me.” He laughed wryly. “Because I am yours,” his voice felt small at his admittance, as if you could see straight through him, “my heart, my soul - they’re all yours.”

You could only stare at him as he laid everything bare, a disgusting thing twisting in your chest. Shame? Embarrassment? Or perhaps the slight realisation that you felt the same - something you have always denied squirming to life at his words.

“Tell me I’m not stupid. That I’m not imagining things.” He begged, searching your eyes for anything he could cling to. “Tell me that you love me too.” His voice broke, the sound similar to that of breaking glass with each second that passed. “I love you,” your name followed - a whispered, vulnerable sound.

The silence from you was almost deafening, and with the cold wind that scraped against your skin, you struggled to find your own voice. 

“Ryland…” You were lost for words. “Grace, I-” His expression contorted at your struggle, the shame of it all finally getting to him as his shoulders slumped.

“Fuck- this was stupid, I’m sorry.” He bumbled, palms dragging over his face as he shook his head. “I- forget this ever happened. Good luck with everything, you’ll be great.”

Grace almost stumbled over his feet as he turned around, facing the storm that seemed to only grow more furious as time passed. Yet he didn’t look back, as he stepped off of your porch, into the torrential rain.

If you didn’t stop him now, that would be it. You could forget everything that happened between the two of you, and focus purely on your future ahead of you. You would permanently close this door and throw away the key, and you could continue denying your feelings for the years to come, despite the years of burying the yearning and care you held for him.

You would never speak with Ryland again. Never feel the warmth of his touch, the comfort of being in his arms ever again. You would never know what this could’ve been - it could’ve been a truly wonderful thing. His smile flashed in your mind, followed by the look on his face before he turned away.

Before you could even think, your bare feet met wet concrete, rain in your eyes. It was cold, the wind getting under your clothes as the storm seeped into the fabric, but you didn’t care. All you wanted was to reach him, to hold him, to tear your own walls down for him.

He must’ve heard you scrambling down your driveway, as he turned to you with wide eyes, your name falling breathlessly, though it was muted by the downpour. You leaped into his arms, and before you could spend even a second overthinking it, you pressed your lips into his, his arms holding you tightly as you spun in the rain.

It was messy, uncoordinated, teeth clashing and noses bumping, yet so unbelievably perfect. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you fell deeper into the kiss, eyes closed as your heart burst, fireworks flashing behind your eyelids.

He kissed back almost desperately, lips finding yours between each shaky breath. It was everything you imagined, everything you had tried to run away from, yet here you were discovering the beauty of it all. 

You pulled away breathlessly, pulse thrumming in your ears as your eyes darted between his, illuminated only by the streetlight above, bathed in orange rain.

“I love you too, Ryland Grace.” You mumbled, taking shelter within the crook of his neck, “...please, stay.” His hands shook at your sides as he pulled you from hiding, a bright grin on his face as he forced himself into your line of sight.

“Say it again.” He teased, lifting your chin with a finger to pepper kisses at the corner of your mouth. You rolled your eyes at him, pushing his face away with a sigh.

“Nevermind. Leave.” You joked, turning away and walking back to your open door.

“Wait, no-” He chased after you, only for you to pull him into another kiss under your porch light, hand gripping the collar of his wet hoodie as the both of you smiled into the kiss. “God…” He murmured as he pressed his forehead against yours, “it’s so much better than I dreamt.”

“You dreamt of me?” You raised an eyebrow at him as you stepped inside, using your damp shirt to wipe the rain from your face.

“I always hoped to find you there.” He said slowly, closing the door behind him. Your heart fluttered at this new romantic side to him that you’d never seen before. It was nice, something you could definitely get used to.

“What a flirt.” You scoffed, peeling your shirt from your body. “Do you want to join me in the shower?”

Grace almost choked on his own saliva at the sight of your bare skin, his eyes glueing to the wall. “I’m the flirt?”

“You’ve seen me naked before.” You tilted your head at his bashful expression, a smirk curling at your lips.

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged, face hidden behind his hands. “But it means something more now.”

You nodded slowly at his words, finally gauging just how important this meant to him. Your arms crossed over your chest with an embarrassment you hadn’t felt in front of him for years. Were you feeling shy?

“You should probably go first-”

“Nonsense.” Grace immediately shut your proposition down, shaking his head. “My shirt is still a bit dry under this, and it’s your shower.”

“Okay…” You smiled softly, “you’re free to join me, but don’t feel pressured to, of course.” You took a deep breath, a hand on the banister leading up the stairs. “You know where the towels are.”

He gave you a warm smile before you went up the stairs, slipping into your bathroom with a dopey grin. You tried your best to ignore the sound of your own heart in your ears as you stared at yourself in the mirror. Raindrops remained on your skin, reflecting the bright bathroom lights. You peeled yourself from your remaining clothes as you ran the water, fingers dipping into the stream to test the temperature.

Hot steam rose from the tiles as you finally stepped under the shower, a quiet groan of relief slipping from your lips as warmth envelops your cold skin. A delighted hum of a song you could never remember the name of vibrated in your throat as you relished the buzzing feeling in your chest. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ran your palms over your face, not hearing the latch of the door or the shuffle of clothes on the other side of the curtain.

You almost jumped out of your skin at the feeling of his touch ghosting your waist, lips pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. His hands were light, tentative and hesitant, as he stood behind you. 

You tilted your head to catch him in the corner of your eye, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the bright red at the tips of his ears. “Hello there, Dr. Grace.” You spoke teasingly, only for his grip on your waist to tighten for a moment. You could hear his breath catch in his throat at your words, his eyes screwing shut as he shakes his head.

“...still not used to that.” He mumbled under his breath, before testing your name with the ‘Dr’ prefix just as you had moments before. You shuddered at the sound. He was right, it was definitely something to get used to.

You turned around to face him fully, and despite standing here naked together, his eyes still avoided your body, either staying locked with yours or drifting to the walls or ceiling. “Are you alright?” You asked quietly, pulling him under the shower with you. His shoulders almost immediately relaxed under the water, a shaky breath escaping him.

“...I didn’t come in here for sex.” He said suddenly, your eyes widening at his words, before you nodded with a small smile.

“That’s okay.” You spoke quietly.

“I just wanted to shower together.” Ryland continued, laying his forehead on your shoulder. Your hand instinctively comes up to pet the back of his head, nails scratching at his scalp. “Just ignore… y’know.” 

Of course you had noticed his little friend had been alive and kicking the moment he entered the shower, but out of respect, as well as an unspoken nervousness on your part, you had resisted every urge you had to just kneel and take it in your mouth. It sat so pretty, tip flushed and glossy.

You heeded his requests and focused on anything else, which wasn’t too difficult with his hands on you. No words were necessary as you began to help each other wash off the rain, your hands gently tugging at his damp, blond locks as you massaged shampoo into his scalp. It felt almost transcending when he did the same for you, something beautiful and bright blooming in your chest.

He was so unbelievably gentle with you, yet applying just the right pressure with his fingertips against your scalp, or when scrubbing you down. It was so sweet and domestic, something you hadn’t felt in years. In fact, you couldn’t even remember the last time someone made you feel this way. 

Finally, you rinsed each other off and turned off the water, Ryland pressing yet another kiss to your forehead.

“You’re a lot more affectionate than I expected.” You murmured as he dried you off with your towel, wrapping it around you.

“It’s surprising me too.” He admitted, wiping himself down and wrapping his own towel around his waist. “But I can’t help it.” He added, giving you a shy smile, “it’s been building up for a while.”

You spared him a questioning glance as you both made your way to your bedroom, “how long is a while?”

He avoided your gaze as you fished out some clothes for the both of you, a sheepish smile on his lips. “Do I have to answer that?” He sighed, sitting on your bed.

“Not really, but would you really deny me the satisfaction?” You raised an eyebrow as you shot him a winning smile, putting your underwear on under your towel. He groaned as he surrendered to your power immediately, falling backwards onto the bed as he threw on his own clothes, towel over his shoulders.

“A long time.” He mumbled through his palms, peeking at you through parted fingers as you sat on the bed next to him, wearing a fresh set of pyjamas.

“We’re scientists, Dr. Grace.” You joked playfully, “an exact measurement of time would be greatly appreciated.”

He sighed through his nose as he rolled onto his side to face you, pulling you down to lie next to him. “You have got to stop calling me that.” He said, voice lower than before. 

A sly smile curled at your lips as he stared at you with that familiar darkness in his eyes. “Oh?” You said breathlessly, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek, the stubble of his beard tickling your palm. “Is that not your name,” your tone was teasing, dangerous, as your thumb played at his bottom lip, “Dr. Grace?”

There was a shimmer of vulnerability in his eyes as he held your gaze, breathing steadily through his nose. Your name slipped from his lips in a low growl - more of a plea than a warning.

You sat up from the bed, swinging your leg over his hips to straddle his waist, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Is this okay?” You murmured against his skin, holding yourself up with palms against his broad chest. He failed to stifle the quiet whimper that hummed at the back of his throat, hands quick to find your waist.

“Y-Yeah…” He stammered, throwing his head back. “Fuck… careful, it’s been up for almost an hour.” He hissed as you gently rocked on his bulge, peppering kisses down his throat. “I-I’m sorry if I don’t last long.” Ryland mumbled as you went lower, lifting his shirt to kiss down his happy trail.

“Just relax.” You hummed soothingly, giving him a warm smile as you kissed his print through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants. “You can be selfish.” You uttered as you ghosted a palm over his shaft, relishing in the muffled groan he hides behind his forearm.

You slowly pull the fabric of his pants down, his member springing harshly from its confines, planting a soft kiss on the tip. Amusement blossomed in your chest at the sticky pre-cum that dripped over the head, his cock the hardest you’ve possibly ever seen it. He sat up, leaning back on his palms as you lay lazily between his legs.

“You…” He breathed, hand reaching out to caress your cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” His words had your heart racing, a bashful sort of emotion pulling your eyes away from his intense gaze.

In order to distract yourself from your pulse thrumming in your ears, you licked a stripe from base to tip, taking pride in the way that his breath stuttered at the stimulation. His cock twitched eagerly before you enveloped the tip within your mouth, tongue swirling over the head as you held onto the base with your dominant hand. 

“Ngh… shit…” He groaned through grit teeth, eyebrows tilted upwards as he stared down at you, chest heaving as his mind reeled. “So good… feels so good, baby…”

You’d forgotten just how thrilling it was to hear the sounds he made when you took control, the breathy whimpers and low groans - shyness overcome by pleasure. It always went straight to your core, and you could feel your underwear growing slick as you took him deeper, the tip nudging the back of your throat. Your hand moved up and down whatever length you couldn’t reach, and with the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head, you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

“W…Wait… f-fuck..” His hips stuttered, hand tangling in the roots of your hair, “baby, please…”

You pulled off of him with a ‘pop’, yet your hand still stroked him at a steady pace. “It’s okay, let yourself feel good for me.” You kissed his lower abdomen, your hand moving faster, slick with your saliva. 

Ryland released with a broken groan, beautiful whimpers of your name spilling from his lips as his seed spurted from his tip, droplets rolling over your knuckles as you slowly pumped him dry. Apologies fell from his lips in babbles, and you quickly silenced him with a kiss, heartfelt and passionate.

“Are you okay, darling?” You murmured against his lips, diverting to plant a kiss on his forehead. His breath shook as he came back to his senses, brow furrowed.

“Mhm..” he nodded slowly, catching your lips in yet another kiss. “‘m perfect.” He smiled against your lips as he gently nudged his nose against yours, “you’re perfect.”

You laughed quietly at his words, ignoring the way your heart soared. 

After wiping down the evidence of his pleasure with a damp cloth, he sat up, removing his shirt. You quickly found your place on his chest, only for him to shake his head.

“You think I’d let you rest without paying you back?” Ryland clicked his tongue in disappointment, hands working hastily on your lower garments. He laid back on the bed, facing the ceiling, “come take a seat, beautiful.” He murmured, and who were you to say no?

It wasn’t a position you’d done often, so you were hesitant as you straddled his face, knees digging into the pillows as you hovered tentatively over his face. 

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to be shy now.” He growled, before his fingers dug into your thighs, pulling your cunt shamelessly onto his mouth, clit catching on the tip of his nose.

He lapped at your core like a man starved, tearing a cry of pleasure from you like it was his job. Your hands found his hair in a second, roughly tugging at his scalp, only egging him on further. Ryland groaned against your pussy, tongue dipping into your entrance as you ground your hips against his nose.

“Tastes so good…” He hummed, drawing yet another moan from you as he sucked and licked desperately. Every flick of his tongue sent electricity up your spine, legs shaking with each wave of pleasure that he gifted to you. Your vision blurred, breathy moans spilling from your lips. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you…” A broken whimper tore from the back of your throat as he pulled you down to suck harshly on your clit, and despite all of your efforts to escape, his hands held onto you like a death trap. You were sure his fingers would leave bruises, but the thought only had you growing wetter.

Ryland was relentless in his ministrations, words becoming scarce as he honed in on his task, moans filling the room under the low lamp-light.

Sometimes you hated how well he knew your body, with the speed he had your orgasm coiling in your stomach. However, you knew you were lucky, and with the way your legs quivered and your walls tightened around nothing, the both of you knew you were close.

“C’mon…” He groaned against your core, keeping at his constant pace, “let go for me…” You didn’t know he could hold you even tighter, yet he was always proving you wrong.

Your hips twitched as your climax quickly approached, the coil winding further and further, Ryland’s name a mantra on your lips as you screwed your eyes shut. 

“Nono…” He mumbled. You cried out in protest once he pulled your hips off of his mouth, brow furrowed in desperation. “You gotta look at me when you cum.” He ordered, and once you nodded eagerly, only then did he continue.

It was dizzying, trying to maintain eye contact with Ryland as he stared up at you with blown out pupils, lust and adoration swimming in his eyes. There was no hope in holding back your whimpers as he continued to swirl his tongue between your folds, your orgasm picking up exactly where it left off, which just so happened to be at the edge. 

Your climax rippled through you unapologetically as you struggled to hold his gaze, hips quivering as your fingers scraped against his scalp, a guttural moan tearing from your chest. He continued to lap at you through your orgasm, slowing down with each aftershock. Your lungs heaved as you came back down to earth, shuffling back onto his chest as he stared up at you with a proud grin.

His hair was a mess, strands sticking in whatever direction they wished, as his chin and nose glistened with your slick. A laugh passed through him as his eyes scanned your blissed out state, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, illuminated by the warm light.

After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ryland sat up to pepper kisses across your collarbone and jaw, whispering praises under his breath. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against yours as you settled in his lap.

Much to your surprise, his cock was hard once again, your breath hitching at the way it stood tall between the two of you.

“We don’t have to keep going, if it’s too much.” Ryland mumbled in reassurance, nuzzling under your chin.

You sighed through your nose, pulling your pyjama shirt off with a small chuckle. “When have you known me to leave a job half done?” You rolled your eyes playfully, yelping as he flipped you over onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You didn’t even notice him remove his pants, only feeling his bare thighs against your ass as your ankles laid on his shoulders, where they belonged.

“Yeah?” He smirked at your startled expression, and you barely caught the flush of his cheeks in the low light. “I want to make love to you. Is that okay?” He asked quietly, hands stroking up and down your legs, peppering kisses along your calf as his heavy member rutted against your sensitive folds.

“Mmh.. yes, please.” You nodded, giving him an encouraging smile once you caught the vulnerability in his eyes. 

You breathed deeply as he sunk into your core, his cock sliding in effortlessly as your walls eagerly pulled him in. Curses caught in your throat as he pressed deeper, stilling once he was all the way in, his tip snug against your cervix. You could feel him pulse inside of you, his brow furrowed as his gaze hazed over, hands never staying in one place too long. You felt so unbelievably full, his size even more prominent now with the lack of movement.

Ryland dragged his cock all the way out but the tip, before slamming his hips down, sending your eyes rolling to the back of your skull with a shattered moan. He held himself there yet again, dropping your legs to nip at your throat, suckling at that sweet spot under your ear, a hand groping at your breast.

“P-Please..” You begged, your hips bucking against his. “Ry… don’t be a t-tease…” You whimpered as he left hickies down your neck, licking the bruises as he still sat seated deep inside of you.

“‘m sorry, baby…” He hummed against your skin, testing another deep thrust. “I’ll take such good care of you, I promise… let me savour you…” He mumbled, beginning to move his hips slowly, his abdomen grinding deliciously against your clit. He hit so deep every time, his tip bumping against your g-spot and kissing your cervix with each thrust.

You could feel him in your throat, head thrown back against the pillows as he consumed all of your senses: his clean scent from just getting out of the shower, yet underlined with his woody musk, the taste of him on your lips with every kiss, the sight of his face contorted in pleasure, eyes full of love, the sound of his moans reverberating in his chest as lewd noises filled the room.

He cursed under his breath as he went just a fraction faster, hands and lips all over you, it was almost overwhelming, if it weren’t for the quiet words of encouragement slipping from him with every thrust.

“That’s it, baby… taking my dick so well…” Ryland praised, your legs quivering. “Awh, my love… you got this, always so good for me…” 

Your nails scraped over his shoulders, one hand trailing up his nape to intertwine with his roots at the back of his head. He moaned quietly next to your head as his hips sped up even further.

“Y-You said I could be selfish… right..?” He mumbled in between moans, catching your lips in a messy kiss.

“M-Mmh… yes…” You confirmed, kissing back roughly. “What… fuck… whatever you want…” You could barely get your words out with all of the nasty sounds he pulled from you, playing your body like a fiddle.

Ryland growled as he bit roughly just above your collarbone, before pushing both of your knees up to your chest, into a mating press. The moan that tore from your throat was a sound you didn’t even know you could make, and if anyone told you he could fuck you even deeper, you wouldn’t have believed them, but by god he proved you wrong yet again.

You could barely form a coherent thought with the way he was ruining your pussy, cock bullying your g-spot as his lips never left your skin for even a second. Your mind was just full of him, just as your cunt was. 

The sounds slipping from your lips were nothing short of sinful, only encouraging Ryland to keep going, much to your dismay. Your orgasm was again quickly approaching, and with the way his cock twitched deep inside you, hips stuttering with every thrust, you could tell he was close too.

“Cum with me, baby…” He murmured against your throat, his grip on the back of your thighs bruising. “I’ve got you.” He pulled you into another kiss, yet this one felt different, so full of love that it had tears springing in the corners of your eyes.

The coil in your abdomen twisted tighter and tighter, before finally snapping with a jolt of your body, legs shaking. At the same time, he spilled deep inside you with a broken moan, forehead pressed against yours as he gave you shallow thrusts through both of your climaxes. It was a transcending experience, finishing together. It wasn’t something that had ever happened before, and in that moment, you had never felt more adored in your life.

Your lips found each other’s in the come down, moans subsiding through the aftershocks.

“I love you so much.” Ryland mumbled once the fog cleared, kissing away the tears in the corners of your eyes, your name slipping from your lips like something sacred.

“I love you too, Ryland.” You nuzzled your nose against his, giggling quietly.

A low moan escaped you as he pulled out, your whole body sore as he apologised with kisses. He quickly wiped you both down, catching his seed before it could spill out onto your bedsheets. Once he was satisfied, he laid by your side, and you slowly rolled over to face him, your muscles aching in protest.

His fingertips traced over your cheek and down your jaw, brushing lightly over your collarbone before laying his palm flat on your upper arm, stroking gently with his thumb. 

“Hello there.” You spoke quietly, suddenly feeling shy under his loving gaze. “You know… you never answered my question.” You recalled, giving him a small smile.

“Oh, right…” His eyes darted between yours as he hesitated on his words, lips parting to speak. “It was, uh, before we…” Ryland almost grimaced in embarrassment as your eyes continued to study him, tracing over each wrinkle in his expression, “...a month or so before our first time?”

You sat up in surprise, jaw dropped as you took his hand into yours. “What?” You spoke breathlessly, your fingers interlacing with his as he looked up at you with unadulterated adoration in his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“I swear.” He kissed your knuckles, raising his head onto his other hand. “A lot of people in our cohort had their eyes on you to be fair, I just happened to be one of them.” He confessed with a shrug.

“Lucky you.” You chuckled, laying back down.

“What about you?” He asked, “it’s only fair.”

You sighed as you thought about it, still fiddling with his fingertips. “Mine’s a lot more recent than yours.” You forewarned, avoiding his gaze. “I only figured it out recently, but I think I’ve been denying it for years.” Your voice was small, ashamed, only for him to laugh quietly. You looked up at him in confusion.

“That’s fine.” Ryland reassured you, gently squeezing your hand, “I would have been okay with just agreeing to be friends. Knowing you feel the same at all…” He paused, a bright grin on his face, “I’m on cloud nine.”

 You couldn’t help but mirror his smile, before your heart clenched painfully at reality coming back to bite you. You were still leaving in a week. “What now?”

“Hmm…” His smile never faltered, pulling you to his chest as he kissed the top of your head in comfort. He was silent for a moment, before he spoke up again, “why don’t I come with you?”

Your eyes widened at his proposition, head tilting to meet his gaze, “to Cambridge?”

“No, to space.” Ryland said sarcastically, yelping when you poked him in the stomach in retort. “Yes, to Cambridge.” He suddenly realised the weight of his words, stammering, “of course, that’s a huge step, and if you don’t want to live together yet, then we could always do long dist-”

You silenced him with a deep kiss, your arms wrapping around his head as his easily found your waist. “I… yes… I'd love that.” You confessed breathlessly, “you’d really come all the way to the UK for me? Leave everything behind?”

“You are my everything.” He said without missing a beat, thumb caressing your cheek.

Your mind went blank at his words, warmth blooming in your chest as you leaned into his touch.

“Oh, by the way…” Ryland spoke gently, kissing your forehead before gazing at you lovingly. “May I be your boyfriend?”

- - -

The following days you had never felt happier, planning your future together with your new boyfriend leading up to your departure date. Due to the late notice, Ryland had to get a plane a couple days later than you, and so here you stood eagerly at London Stansted Airport, amongst the crowd of people also waiting for their loved ones.

Nerves buzzed in your system as you stood with a sign with Ryland’s name on it, eyes scanning the people in the distance. Your heart raced as people began running into each other’s arms, a small smile on your face.

Minutes passed, and your heart dropped to your stomach as the crowd you stood with grew thin, a lump forming in your throat as you spotted the pilot and flight crew departing. Your knees felt weak as you checked your phone multiple times. This was his flight, no mistake about it, you had booked it together after all. 

In the midst of your panic, a staff member approached you with a concerned smile. “Are you alright?” They asked, to which you explained your situation to them

After double checking for his name in the passengers list, and confirming he was, in fact, supposed to be on that flight, the staff member gave you a heartfelt apology before leaving you to your own devices. You sat in that airport for hours, ringing his phone, messaging, but to no avail.

Ryland never arrived.

⋆𐙚

Your shop always felt most comforting at this time of day.

Golden light poured through the front windows, catching on glass vases and turning everything soft— lilies pale and delicate, eucalyptus casting pretty shadows across the counter. The air smelled fresh, alive, your silent reminder that something good could still exist in the world. You hummed along to the soft rhythm of your old beat up cd player, tying off the last bundle of stems with practiced hands.

“Okay,” you exhaled slowly, glancing down proudly. “That’s the last one.”

Your cat, Whiskers, barely acknowledged you.

He was stretched out in his usual spot—a patch of fading sunlight near the window—completely unbothered, orange tail flicking lazily as if he owned the place.

“You’re no help,” you added, stepping around him carefully. “You know that, right?”

He blinked at you once, slow and unimpressed, then settled his head back down. Typical.

You smiled faintly anyway, moving towards the door. This place—this little shop—it was all yours. You’d built everything from the ground up yourself and loved every second. Because, that way it wasn’t your father’s. It was not tied to his world or his rules or the constant, suffocating weight of everything he represented. There were no watchful eyes. No careful wording. No expectation to stand a certain way, speak a certain way, be a certain version of yourself for the sake of appearances.

Here, no one knew your last name unless you chose to give it. No one looked at you like you were something to be assessed, managed, or used as leverage. You didn’t have to smile for cameras or sit through conversations that weren’t meant for you but somehow always involved you.

Here, you were just—

You.

Quiet. Simple. Safe.

You reached for the sign, flipping it from OPEN to CLOSED as the last of the sunlight dipped lower, shadows stretching across the floor.

“Another day survived,” you muttered to yourself, making your way back over to the counter.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, snapping you out of your peaceful thoughts. You frowned and glanced up towards the entry way, “I’m so sorry, we’re actually—”

The words died in your throat.

It was obvious the man standing in the doorway didn’t belong there.

Dark clothing. Still posture. A presence that didn’t belong in the soft, warm atmosphere of the shop— like a shadow that had stepped out of a nightmare and into your world. His movements were deliberate, every step measured, silent on the hardwood floor. A mask covered his face, but you could feel the intent behind it— the way he scanned the room, the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long. There was a cold precision in him, an almost unnatural calm, that made the hair on the back of your neck rise and your chest tighten. Every instinct in you screamed that this was not just a stranger, but something dangerous. Something that existed purely to remind you that your sanctuary wasn’t safe at all.

Whiskers was on his feet instantly, fur bristling, a low hiss rumbling from his chest.

“I said we’re closed,” you tried again, quieter now, your voice shakier than you wanted it to be.

The man continued forward anyway. The door shut behind him with a click, a stark reminder that you were trapped in here with him. Alone.

“I’m not here to buy anything,” he said, simply.

His voice was calm. Far too calm for your liking. Your pulse began to pound.

“Then you need to leave,” you said, forcing steadiness into your tone as you took a small step back. “Now, please.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he looked around.

At the flowers. The counter. The light. The space you’d taken years to build so carefully.

“Nice place,” he said.

Something cold slid down your spine.

“Don’t,” you snapped, much sharper now. “Don’t touch anything.”

He reached out anyway.

His hand closed around a vase of roses.

For a split second, you naively hoped that he might just move it.

But he let it fall.

Glass shattered against the floor, the sound invading your eardrums and making you flinch.

Water and petals spilled everywhere, red scattered like something far less innocent.

You recoiled. “What the hell—”

Another vase hit the ground.

Then another.

“Stop!” you shouted, stepping forward without thinking.

He turned toward you.

And just like that, you paused.

His eyes were terrifying. Dark, unblinking, and impossibly sharp, as if they could see straight through you. There was no kindness there, no hesitation, only a cold calculation. They didn’t just look at you— they measured you, like you were a problem to be solved, and the thought of what he could do next pressed down on your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake.

He moved suddenly.

Fast.

The next vase he threw was aimed right for your head. Time seemed to slow as it sailed toward you, a blur of ceramic and water. You barely had a moment to duck behind the counter, chest pressed against the wood, as shards of glass exploded around you, some cutting into your arms and cheeks. Pain stung sharp and immediate, but worse was the sound. Whiskers yowled, claws skittering across the floor, then bolted underneath a shelf. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you pressed yourself impossibly close to the counter, breath catching, praying your little helper had found somewhere safe.

This wasn’t random. This was deliberate.

“Why are you doing this?” you choked out, voice shaking. You didn’t dare to get back up as you spoke to him.

He didn’t answer.

You could hear glass shattering all around you again. Your hard work being destroyed. The sound felt too loud in the small space, too violent against something that had always been gentle.

“Stop!” you shouted, standing up from behind the counter despite yourself.

He turned to face you slowly.

“Don’t,” he said. The word wasn’t loud but his tone froze you in place.

Your breath hitched. “What do you want?”

He studied you for a long moment, like he was confirming something.

“Nothing from you,” he said. Which somehow, you knew was far worse.

“Then why are you here?” you whispered, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it.

A pause.

“Because of who you belong to.”

Your stomach dropped, your face grimacing at his statement.

“I don’t—”

“Enough talking,” he cut in, voice flat.

You didn’t get chance to respond this time, he was walking around the counter towards you. You felt utterly pathetic that everything inside of you was screaming out to run, to fight, but your body completely frozen. You cowered in on yourself. Pathetic.

His boots crunched softly over the broken glass as his gloved hand yanked you roughly by the back of the head, jerking you upright. Before you could react, he slammed the side of your head hard against the edge of the counter. Pain exploded across your skull, sharp and searing, and your vision blurred, spots of light dancing across your eyes. You gasped, the air knocked out of your lungs, trembling as the world wobbled dangerously around you.

“You’re going to call him,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “and you’re going to tell him exactly what you saw.”

You whispered. “I’m not—”

“You will.” Not a threat. A certainty.

“You tell him,” he said, quieter now, “this is what happens when he forgets there are consequences.”

You couldn’t help but let out a scoff. “I don’t know what you think he’s done—”

“It doesn’t matter what you know. It matters that he understands.”

He released you, just enough to step back. But the message had been delivered. You wanted to cry about the wreckage around you— the splintered wood, shattered glass, wet tiles. The thought of your poor cat hiding somewhere, absolutely terrified. But you wouldn’t.

“This is the warning,” he said, calm, cold.

“And if he doesn’t listen?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

A beat.

“Next time,” he said, voice low, controlled, “we don’t send a message.”

Then, almost casually, he added:

“Make the call. Don’t keep him waiting.”

And like that, the man was gone.

The world spun around you, small shards of glass crunching under your feet as you staggered back. Pain throbbed in your head and side, hot and unrelenting, but it was the shock that made your knees weak, the cold, hollow panic crawling up your spine. You pressed your hands to your face for a moment, trying to ground yourself, to make the world stop tilting.

Then—Whiskers.

Your chest tightened as you called his name, voice trembling. “Whiskers! Come here, come to me!”

A faint yowl answered from beneath a shelf. Relief collided with fear as you crouched down, scooping him up immediately. His fur was ruffled, his tiny body shaking slightly, but he was safe. You hugged him to your chest, pressing your face against the soft weight, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him, trying to steady your own ragged breaths. “It’s okay, it’s okay… you’re safe, baby, you’re safe,” you whispered, fingers stroking his back as if that could erase the terror of the last few minutes.

Tears slipped unbidden down your cheeks. The anger, the utter shock, the fear—it all spilled over in quiet sobs. You pressed Whiskers closer, feeling his warm heartbeat against yours, grounding you.

Finally, hands still shaking, you grabbed your phone. Fingers fumbling over the screen, you dialed your father’s number, heart hammering in your chest. Each ring felt impossibly long.

“Hello?” His voice was calm, controlled, but sharp enough to make your stomach knot.

“I… someone…” Your voice broke, choked and uneven. “Someone came into the shop. They… they—” You gasped, trying to breathe through the panic and pain. “They destroyed it. They—Whiskers… I think he’s okay, but—”

“Slow down,” your father said, his tone even but alert, already switching into planning mode. “Are you hurt?”

You swallowed hard, trying to hold back another sob. “I… I think so. My head…”

“Stay on the line,” he said, voice clipped now, businesslike, no room for argument. “Help is on the way. I need to know everything. Every detail.”

You pressed Whiskers closer, clinging to him as your body shook. “Okay…” you whispered, tears blurring your vision. “Okay…”

When you stepped out of the car at the jewelry store, you almost started to think he was right. It felt like the heat was cooking you alive. Heat seeped through your flimsy t-shirt and shorts, straight into your muscles and bones. You wondered, for a moment, the logistics of moving to somewhere colder. Greenland, you decided, would work. Sure, you would probably have to learn a new language, and you’d never even been there before, but you were pretty sure it was cold there.

“You okay?”

Ryland stood beside you, hands slightly outstretched and ready to catch you at any given moment if you started to wobble.

“Yeah,” you said. You both knew you were lying, but neither of you said it. “I’m fine. Just… get me inside.”

The process of actually getting the rings was a lot easier than you’d thought. They were already paid for — dammit, Ryland — and were waiting behind the counter for you to try them on.

“It fits better than your paper ring,” you muttered, twisting the band around on your finger.

“Hey. I made that myself,” Ryland said. You didn’t have to look up to know he was smiling at you, your own smile starting to form as you moved the ring back into place.

“Would you like me to pack those back up for you?” the jeweler asked.

“Yeah, please.”

The jeweler disappeared into the back of the store to finish packaging them properly, and as you waited, you tried to act like your legs weren’t killing you. In reality, the combination of the heat, standing, and having spent the last few days just resting at home was starting to take a toll on you. You shifted your weight from your left foot to your right foot, shaking out the pain from your left leg. When you shifted again, Ryland’s hand came up to your waist, gently repositioning you so you could lean back against him. His chest was warm behind you, knee bent just enough for you to take some of the pressure off of your body. He didn’t say anything, and, for some reason, neither did you.

When you stepped back outside of the shop, you were still thinking about your ring. Maybe this wasn’t exactly how you’d expected your life to go, but now, you didn’t feel so bad about it. You were marrying Ryland, after all. Your Ryland. Ryland, who was unbelievably respectful and kind. The same Ryland who had taken care of you after you had sobbed in his arms over your ex breaking up with you, who had been the one to coax you back outside of the apartment under the guise of stargazing after you hadn’t left in a week. He was the same Ryland who could spot flare symptoms before you even could, so he’d start adding electrolyte packs to your nightly water bottle and making sure your pill container for the day was empty before you left for work.

You’d been the one to pull him out to the playground as kids. One day, when he’d been absolutely miserable, you told him that if he came out with you, you’d marry him under the slides. He’d perked up in a way you’d never seen before, and that day, you’d gotten married on the playground with Colt as an officiant. You’d kissed him on the cheek and his face had turned so red that your teacher was worried he’d gotten sunburnt.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered as you stepped off of the sidewalk, hand holding yours to keep you steady. “You’ve been standing for a while.”

“I’m okay,” you said. Still, you found yourself holding onto his hand as you walked through the parking lot. Something about the feeling of his hand wrapped around yours wasn’t just grounding, but… safe.

“We’re gonna go home.”

“What? I thought we were going to get lunch,” you said. “To, you know, celebrate buying wedding rings.”

“We’ll order something,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“Ryland, I’m fine,” you insisted.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember asking,” he said. He opened the door for your side of the car, holding it open as you stood there.

“You can’t just —“

“We’re going home,” he said. “I’m making the decision for you. We’ll go somewhere else later to celebrate. Now get in.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to insist that you were fine, that how dare he say you couldn’t do it, how dare he say you needed to rest —

“Sweetheart. Get in the car.”

You huffed.

You got in the car.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Ryland was right. You barely managed to walk up the stairs in front of your apartment building without crashing. He practically held you up the entire way before eventually depositing you onto the couch. Your body melted against the cushions, back popping in places you were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to pop.

“I think we should just stay in tonight,” Ryland said. His voice was gentle, now, far less stern than it had been outside the jeweler’s. “You should take a shower and get into bed.”

“I can’t move,” you groaned out. You shifted your hips slightly and felt them pop, wincing as they pushed themselves back into place.

“I’ll go get everything so you can take a shower,” he said. “Do you want your meds?”

You nodded weakly, and as Ryland stepped away to get them, it was then that you started to phase in and out of consciousness. You woke to take your meds, slept while he gathered a towel and some clothes for you. You woke again when he returned and picked you up to carry you to the bathroom, setting you down on the toilet seat lid so he could turn on the shower.

“Do you want help?”

The words barely processed in your brain before you started to nod. The idea alone of taking a shower was exhausting, but it felt easier if Ryland was there.

“Okay, I’ll be outside while you get undressed —“

“We’re getting married,” you interrupted. Your words were slightly slurred as you spoke through the pain, but you managed to lift your eyes to his. He peered at you from behind his glasses, tilting his head to the side.

“What?”

“We’re getting married,” you repeated. “I don’t care if you see me naked. I can’t shower alone right now.”

There was a stretch of silence where he just stared at you before you spoke again.

“Please.”

His hands were gentle as he helped you out of your clothes, trying to make sure it hurt as little as possible. When you were finally undressed, he got your hair brushed out as best he could and helped you onto your shower chair — which, as you so often did, you thought was the best product in the world right now — before undressing himself.

The warm water felt like heaven as it went down your body. Your muscles were able to relax under the temperature and pressure, and it felt like your joints were clicking back into place for the first time all day.

That still didn’t begin to touch the feeling of Ryland washing your hair. His fingers massaged against your scalp in slow, steady circles, rubbing the shampoo in. Neither one of you spoke, save for him muttering a few soft commands; he’d ask you to lean your head back, to close your eyes.

“Almost done, sweetheart,” he said. “Tilt your head back for me?”

You leaned your head back, eyes still open as you looked up at him. He was busy rinsing the conditioner out of your hair and didn’t seem to notice you staring at him.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

Your words were still slurred, coming out more as a jumbled up mess than an actual sentence.

“Calling you what? Sweetheart?” You nodded weakly. Ryland didn’t answer right away, his focus returned to washing your hair.

“Ryland,” you mumbled.

“I just think if we’re going to do this, we have to go all in,” he said. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug, his eyes avoiding yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” The word came out before your brain could even begin to answer him; your body just did it for you.

He smiled down at you, running his fingers through your hair one last time.

“Let’s get you out the shower, sweetheart.”

He was just as gentle getting you out as he was getting you in. He helped you change into the kind of clothes you always wore during a flare up, a baggy shirt and shorts that didn’t make you feel like you were crawling out of your skin. He did your hair, too, to the best of his abilities.

“We should get you to bed,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. ”I’ll make dinner after that.”

“I want to sit with you,” you said. Exhaustion was clear in your voice, but the pout forming on your face was, unfortunately, pretty convincing. “Come on, Ry. My medicine’s kicking in. I don’t hurt so much. I just want to stay and talk.”

Ryland hesitated for a moment, hands hovering over your hips. His eyes traced your face, moving back and forth behind his glasses like you were something to study.

“If I hear one sound —“ he started.

“I’ll go to bed, yes.”

He sighed, letting his hands fall onto your sides.

“Alright. Come on.”

“What do you think you’d say if you were actually proposing to someone?”

The kitchen was warm as you sat at the table, ring box open in your hand while Ryland cooked at the stove. You’d asked the question out of pure curiosity, really. You weren’t trying to make him feel bad about this not being real; you were just wondering.

“That depends,” Ryland replied. He glanced over his shoulder at you as he reached for a spice from the cabinet. “Who am I proposing to?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I have to know the backstory, don’t I?”

You tilted the ring towards the soft sunset lighting coming from the window, watching the gemstone sparkle and splash across the wooden table.

“Like… if this was real, I guess. If we were actually a couple.” It was an odd feeling, the one that came up at the idea. It was the same one you’d had back in your classroom a few weeks ago when the idea of getting married had even crossed your mind. You’d felt it a few times since then, too. You’d felt it when you were shopping for rings, when you were touring houses in the suburbs. You’d felt it when you were comparing income to mortgage rates, when you started a joint account to save up enough for a down payment.

It wasn’t an easy feeling to place. It almost felt like relief, in an unusual way. It wasn’t that you were relieved to make these steps in life — you’d never really set yourself a timeline — but that you were relieved you were doing it with Ryland. Nobody else could’ve picked up where you left off in the way that he could. Nobody else could’ve caught your eye and known that house wasn’t the one with just a glance. Nobody else would’ve done it the way you two did.

The realization smacked you so hard you felt like the world was spinning around you.

Longing.

The word you were looking for was longing.

The future had never been certain for you, and it surely had never been certain for Ryland. You’d always been afraid that you’d get married to a man who didn’t like Ryland, who’d make you stop talking to him every day or think there was something weird between the two of you. When you’d said you wanted to marry him as a kid, you weren’t playing pretend. You couldn’t imagine a life without him by your side.

Ryland’s voice, as it so often did, snapped you out of your spiral. You blinked a few times as your soul returned to your body, focusing back on the man in front of you. Feelings, you decided, could wait until later.

“I don’t know,” he said. His voice had shifted; in only a few moments, he’d lost the humorous tone. He spoke softly, now, as if he was actually about to propose to you. “I’d probably start with the fact that you’re my best friend, and that you’ve been my best friend for forever. I’d say that I love you more than you love my stupid shirts, and I’d say that getting to grow up with you and watch you become the person you are was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.

“I’d say something about the playground and the sunburn, I think, and I’d probably make a joke about Colt officiating again. I’d say that this was the only option I ever thought of, and that the idea of you saying no makes me so nervous I want to throw up. And then I’d ask you to marry me.”

You didn’t say anything. Fuck, what were you supposed to say? It was supposed to be a joke, but it sure as hell didn’t feel like a joke. It definitely didn’t feel fake.

Ryland cleared his throat a moment later. He cast you a quick look as he turned towards the cabinet again, reaching for a bowl. “Or something like that, I guess.”

taglist!! i am giving you all a smooch on the head ily'all. if you want to be added, just let me know :)

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

His life on Erid was far more familiar than he could have ever hoped, Rocky had made sure his scientist friends had given Grace every comfort he could think of. They even managed to replicate Skittles, alongside all the plants that had survived the trip. It was a long three years in the journey to Erid, but luckily Rocky and Grace had each other to keep company. He had been unbelievably lucky to get to Rocky in time, he couldn't imagine the grief of the alternative. That made a shiver crawl up his spine so he shook his head, changing his thoughts. 

It was also only after the fact when Grace had sent the Beetles to Earth did he realise they had more fuel than he thought they would and given how small they were with less mass to carry he deduced it would also only take them about three years to reach Earth instead of eleven. Which means... they would have arrived to Earth some months ago. By force of habit he looked up into the sky, except it wasn't a sky, it was a dome of sorts. Not that he could see it through all the bright lights and how high up it was. If it wasn't for the fact the gravity was stronger here, which weighed on his joints more, you'd have no idea this wasn't Earth.  

Grace had been here for a little over eight Earth months, the first few on Erid were a little touch and go as he didn't have a lot of food left and had been rationing. Luckily most of the plants and seeds survived but there were only so many cherry tomatoes and zucchinis they could produce. Thankfully, they all seemed to thrive on Erid, with the scientists creating a replica of Earth's soil and using UV lights for growth. Grace was thankful for the UV lights, he'd been low on Vitamin D for some years now, alongside a few other deficiencies. Still, he had you to thank for saving him from wasting away.  

That all too familiar pang in his chest grew tighter each time he thought about you. Seventeen odd years would have passed on Earth. You were twenty-six when he left Earth, so you'd be forty-three now. Grace was thirty-one but because of time dilation he'd only experienced seven years, now making him only thirty-eight. There was still a five-year age gap but now he was the younger one. It made his stomach churn thinking about the time lost.  

You still bewitched his dreams, dreams of every kind, even the kind that had him hard and aching. He could feel heat rising to his cheeks when he thought back to the three year only trip to Erid, there had been times he'd been so needy for you. A man has desires, damnit! And for the most part he'd been good at... keeping it from Rocky, only relieving himself thinking of you when Rocky was dead asleep. Except for that one time. That had been awkward to explain, especially to a species that doesn't necessarily have sex like humans do, let alone for fun and not strictly for reproductive reasons.  

That of course opened a whole can of worms and Grace had to come clean about you being his mate. Rocky, understandably, felt very guilty that Grace had chosen to save him instead of going back home to Earth. Grace had to keep reminded him too many years had passed on Earth anyway. Besides, Rocky needed help and Grace knew you would make the same choice. As would Yao and Ilyukhina.  

He looked up at his ‘tree’ that sat next to his house, it didn't have any leaves as it wasn't genuinely a real tree. Obviously, none of the seeds onboard had been trees, they'd all been vegetables. But it still touched his heart that Rocky and his team tried so hard to bring him more comforts from home. He looked down onto his pebble beach, he didn't have work today so he decided he'd have a swim. It took a few trials and errors to get the temperature right, but Adrian managed to get it to the perfect temperature; just a little on the cold side. The beaches in the bay area of Northern California weren't exactly warm so he liked to be reminded of home, though lucky the ‘surf’ here wasn't so rough.  

He had been apprehensive about arriving to Erid, for a multitude of reasons. But mainly that Rocky would be too busy to spend much time with Grace. It was stupid really, Rocky had his mate Adrian to come home to and the Erdians needed to find a way to get the Astrophage to Threeworld. He had said as much to Rocky when they were days away from Erid, but Rocky had reassured Grace that figuring out food and shelter for Grace would be a top priority. Erid had a much thicker atmosphere than Earth did so it was not as urgent to find a cure to their apocalypse as it had been on Earth. Still, there had been a separate team working with the Taumeoba and a separate team to work on Grace. They were able to get the Taumeoba to Threeworld without a hitch and Grace only spent a month or so on the Hail Mary until his ‘enclosure’ was ready, the Eridians sure work fast. Cloning his food was easy enough and they were even able to clone his own cells to make “me-burgers” as he called them. And above all, Rocky still visited Grace almost every day. Much to Grace's happiness.  

He was very despondent without his alien friend, probably not in a healthy way. But after all they had been through together it was to be expected. Though, Grace got on well enough with the other Eridians he met, including Adrian. Rocky and Adrian had some ‘pebbles’ as Grace liked to call them not long after they arrived. Seeing tiny Eridians was cute beyond words, Rocky was proud of his little offspring. Plus, Grace loved his students, loved having a classroom again. It was nice having purpose again but not having two whole entire worlds’ survival weighing on his shoulders.  

Because Erid's atmosphere was so thick, spaceships could not take off or re-enter and instead a space elevator of sorts was used. It still boggled his mind thinking about it, he can't imagine such a structure working on Earth. It took a few hours to use and was one of the most nerve-wracking things Grace had ever been on, and he'd done some dangerous spacewalks. Still, it enabled the Eridians to work on the Hail Mary and refuel it and recalibrate it. Only three months into living on Erid did Rocky tell him the Hail Mary would be able to go home to Earth, but that would involve travelling for sixteen years. Besides, there was no way of knowing if Earth had used the Taumeoba to control the Astrophage, being lightyears away the Eridian astrophysicists wouldn't be able to see Sol brighten for another sixteen years from now. Of course because of time dilation, Grace wouldn't experience sixteen years, it would be closer or six or seven, but that was a long time to stay in a coma. And what if the coma went wrong again? Grace theorised that because he was induced early and hooked up to the Hail Mary before leaving Earth's orbit that he was induced properly. With Yao and Ilyukhina inducing themselves... maybe that's where things went wrong. Though Yao clearly died some time before Ilyukhina did...  

He flexed his fingers in discomfort. Thinking about his crewmates demise never got any easier. There was never a doubt in his mind that they wouldn't do what Grace did: save Rocky. Yes, they had families back home, but they were brave and would do the right thing. A pang of guilt washed through Grace as he thought about his initial refusal. He wasn't willing to give up his own life for eight billion people, including you, but he had been willing to do it for Rocky. Sure, there was Erid too... but it was Rocky that drove his decision. His crewmates wouldn't have hesitated to help Erid. What would they have thought of life on Erid? How would they have rationed the food between them on the way here? He winced at the thought, they would have been on the verge of starvation in the three years it would take it get here. He idly wondered if Taumeoba was edible, it was an organic life form that didn't appear to have any toxins. He was lucky it didn't come to that – except lucky wasn't the right word as it meant two of his crewmates had died. Did volunteering to save Rocky and therefore Erid atone him for his sins? Did it undo his refusal to save Earth? Did it make him less selfish?  

Before guilt and anxiety could fester any longer, he made his way down the steps that lead to the beach. It wasn't a particularly ‘sunny’ day, instead it was raining ever so lightly thanks to the sprinkler-esque system Adrian had developed, but that was how Grace liked it. That was how you liked it too. On a day like this he should surely be inside curled up with a book, well, a digital book on his tablet. You had always said rainy days were perfect book reading weather.  

He stripped down to his trunks and before he could sike himself out he got into the water, it was cool enough that it most certainly woke up his senses. He thought about warp speed in Star Trek, about how their warp drive had different levels to it. Each level going fast and faster than the speed of light. Also artificial gravity without the need for centrifuge force. Crazy stuff. Of course, thinking of superluminal speed had his thoughts wandering back to you, back to that smile of yours that crinkled the corners of your eyes. It was a picture though, that was fading. And it alarmed him a great deal. Sure, his brain was still a little mushy from the coma and induced amnesia in some regards, but seven years had passed since he last saw you in person. He replayed your video over and over, enough that he knew exactly what words would come out of your mouth. But still... picturing you... remembering you... It was getting fuzzy at the edges, almost out of focus. He was forgetting what it was like to touch you, to hug you and to kiss you. It broke his heart.  

“Grace?” Came Rocky's sing-song voice. Thankfully, Grace was fluent in Eridian, though of course he replied in English. 

Grace opened his eyes and stopped floating, opting to swim towards Rocky on the beach. “Yeah, Pal?”  

Rocky was standing in his little body suit enclosure and at the edge of the waves. “Why are you swimming in the rain? I thought humans only did that when the weather was clear. Do you want Adrian to change to sunny weather?”  

It was nice in the water, now that his body was used to the temperature, so he opted to stay in just enough to crouch. “No, I'm okay Rocky. Sometimes we swim in the rain, we're getting wet anyway.”  

Rocky made a disapproving noise. “Do not get too cold and get sick. Or I'll be pissed.”  

That made Grace laugh a little. “Don't worry, pal. I won't be out here for much longer.”  

“You should come out now. Do you remember that probe that was in Erid's orbit three months ago?” 

He did in fact remember that. There had been some type of very small spacecraft darting around Erid's orbit, though it hadn't stayed long before it left. It has taken great interest in the Hail Mary, hovering around it for longer than anything else. It seemed to also be also powered by Astrophage, the IR signal the scientists found was unmistakable. That made Grace frown, heart stuttering. “I do. Why?” He got out of the water, grabbing his towel out from his waterproof bag. 

“Well, there is a bigger spaceship in orbit now. They think it is from Earth.” Rocky's voice was stern.  

Grace froze, unable to really process what he just heard. “Wait, wha– what?! A spaceship!?” Blood was rushing through his ears, causing them to ring loudly as his heart thundered in his chest. “From Earth?!”  

Rocky was nervously fidgeting with a handful of pebbles. “Affirmative. Though it looks as if no one is onboard from the echolocation, but markings on the outside are in English. They have not yet opened it.”  

Grace couldn't think straight, couldn't begin to decipher what this meant. An unmanned spaceship from Earth? “Do they want me to look?”  

“Only if you feel that you are able. Your spacesuit is working fine and I can go with you. There will be some scientists who can come too.” Rocky's voice sounded a little worried.  

“What did it say on the outside?” Grace's voice was breathless.  

Rocky paused for a short moment before answering, “There was a diagram of your solar system and the words: Project Prometheus.”  

That made Grace frown deeply, “Prometheus...? The Greek Titan who stole fire?” That puzzled him deeply.  

“Why would they name it after him?” Rocky asked, just as baffled as Grace was.  

“By giving fire to the humans he effectively started civilisation and was punished by the gods for it... he selflessly saved humanity.” If this was a spaceship sent to bring him home... he didn't dare have too much hope on the thought. But the name didn't make sense to Grace, he didn't volunteer. They had to give him short-term amnesia to make sure he wouldn't sabotage the mission. Though, he knew he wouldn't have been able to do that. But then there was Rocky and Erid – he had risked his life to save them too. “Prometheus was later saved by Herakles.” He remembers you vividly complaining about the use of ‘Hercules’ instead of ‘Herakles’ in Greek mythological films. 

Give yourself grace – Dr. Grace, your voice rushed through his mind. He felt as if he was going to collapse.  

Authors note: Sorry for the shorter chapter, the next one will be much longer (eek!). Also the whole things with the Beetles was a circumvention, we can't wait 11 years for them to get to Earth lmao Tags (lmk if you want to be added): @shittyprofilebutfuckit