Lovely Things

Your crush on Dr. Michael Robinavitch has been an open secret to everyone except the man himself.

Which feels statistically improbable, given the number of people involved, but here you are.

You try subtle.

Very subtle.

Subtle in the way a moth is subtle when it keeps reappearing near the same porch light.

You find reasons to be within arm’s reach when he dictates orders—close enough to hear the quiet rasp at the back of his voice when he’s been awake too long, close enough to smell antiseptic and coffee and whatever soap he uses that smells aggressively utilitarian.

You pass him instruments before he asks. You’re already holding the chart when he turns. You anticipate him the way nurses do when they’ve worked with someone for a decade—or the way someone does when they’ve been paying far too much attention and need to maybe go outside and touch grass.

You tell yourself it’s professional. You tell yourself you’re just good at your job. You tell yourself a lot of things, actually. You’re very articulate in your own head.

In your head, you’re devastatingly charming.

Out loud, you mostly nod.

The ER hums the way it always does: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to everything.

You lean in as Robby dictates discharge instructions, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that makes him look perpetually one bad cup of coffee away from homicide.

You hand him the pen before he asks.

He doesn’t even look at you. Just takes it, continues talking.

Which is fine. Totally fine. This is how professionals behave. This is normal.

Dana watches you clock out at the end of the shift, arms crossed, expression sharp with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing too much.

“You keep orbiting him like that,” she says mildly, “someone’s going to start calling it gravitational.”

You pause mid-bag-shoulder-sling. “I’m being subtle.”

Dana snorts. It’s inelegant. It’s devastating. “You’re being invisible.”

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

So you decide to take matters into your own hands.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You start with caffeine, because caffeine is universal. Reliable. Non-threatening. Also, if nothing else, it will keep him alive long enough to notice you, which feels like a reasonable goal to set for yourself. Manageable. Achievable. Low emotional risk.

You learn his coffee order by observation alone. A little milk. No sugar. Strong enough to raise the dead. You learn this the way one learns all dangerous things: quietly, carefully, without admitting to anyone—including yourself—that you’re doing it.

You begin making sure it appears on his desk during shifts.

Not announced. Not labeled. Just there. Steam curling faintly in the air. A benevolent force of nature. Like weather. Or fate. Or a very tired nurse with poor impulse control.

The first few times, he doesn’t comment. He just drinks it. Which feels… promising? Maybe? You try not to read into it. You read into it anyway. You read into everything.

One night, on a whim—on a deeply questionable whim—you write his name on the cup.

You stare at the blank cardboard for a full thirty seconds, marker hovering. You weigh the pros and cons. The pros: he might notice you. The cons: you might die from embarrassment.

You add a tiny smiley face.

You immediately regret it. You commit anyway.

You set the cup down and walk away like nothing in your life has ever mattered less.

He picks it up without comment.

You pretend to reorganize a drawer you reorganized an hour ago. You are very busy. Extremely focused. A paragon of productivity.

“Who made this?” he asks the room.

Your heart does something profoundly unprofessional.

“I did,” you say, leaning against the counter, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strained confidence. You meet his eyes. You give him a look you are certain could crack glass, or at least communicate hello, I exist, please acknowledge this fact.

He studies the cup. The name. The smiley face. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

“Good call,” he says. “Saved my life.”

And then he turns back to his computer.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No lingering glance. No dawning realization that you are, in fact, a person with a face and a personality and a truly alarming amount of affection for him.

You wait.

You linger.

You give him another look, this one sharper, more deliberate, the kind that has historically been effective on bartenders and one regrettable ex.

He doesn’t get it.

He never gets it.

You sigh internally, telling yourself—again—that this is fine. That this is just a crush. That you are a grown adult with a job and a life and absolutely no business falling for a man who doesn’t notice smiley faces on his coffee cups.

Later, you overhear him tell an intern:

“The nurses here really look out for you.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand wrapped around a stack of IV kits, the other hovering uselessly in the air like you’ve forgotten what hands are for.

Really look out for you.

Nurses.

You stare at the supply room door in front of you, the beige paint chipped from years of gurneys clipping the frame, and seriously consider screaming directly into it. Not a polite scream. Not a dignified one. A feral, banshee-level howl that might echo all the way down to radiology.

You don’t. You are, tragically, an adult.

Inside your head, however, you are already screaming.

Nurses. As if the coffee just materialized out of thin air. As if caffeine itself clocked in for the shift and decided he looked especially exhausted. As if a disembodied union of scrubs and competence collectively decided to adopt him.

You picture the smiley face on the cup. The tiny one. The one you debated like it was a life-altering moral decision.

Apparently, it died for nothing.

You retreat to the nurses’ station, jaw tight, brain buzzing with the static of unspent emotion and overthinking. Dana clocks you instantly, because of course she does. She’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. She can smell romantic distress the way some people smell rain.

She leans back in her chair, arms folded, eyes bright with restrained amusement.

“Oh no,” she says. “You heard it.”

“He thinks I’m a collective,” you say flatly. “I’ve been absorbed into the nursing hive mind.”

Dana snorts. “At least he appreciates the hive.”

You drop into the chair beside her, spin it once, stop abruptly. Your leg bounces. You cannot stop it.

“I wrote his name on the cup,” you say quietly. “There was a smiley face.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb. “Bold.”

“I lingered,” you continue. “I linger. I make eye contact that should legally require a warning label.”

“And yet,” Dana says gently, “here we are.”

You scrub a hand down your face. The ER hums around you—monitors chiming, a trauma bay curtain snapping shut, someone arguing in triage. The world continues on, indifferent to your suffering.

“He’s not being dense on purpose,” Dana says, still watching you spiral. “He’s just… like that.”

You glance at her. “Like what?”

She tilts her head, considers. “Oblivious to romance. Exceptionally competent about everything else.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the worst possible combination.”

“Tell me about it,” Dana says. “Brilliant hands. Terrible radar.”

You glance down the hallway where he’s standing now, shoulders hunched slightly as he listens to the intern, nodding along, offering calm, precise advice like the very embodiment of competence and control. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Something in your chest softens despite yourself.

“That man could diagnose a patient through a wall,” you mutter, “but can’t recognize a crush if it hands him coffee with a smiley face.”

Dana hums. “To be fair, you’re very subtle.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m being strategic,” you say. “This is a slow burn.”

“Sure,” she says. “Just know you might have to light the match.”

You don’t respond right away. You watch him laugh at something the intern says, just a brief huff of sound, gone almost as soon as it appears. It does something deeply inconvenient to your internal organs.

You sigh.

“Next time,” you say, resigned, “I’m drawing a heart.”

Dana grins.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You abandon subtlety.

Not dramatically—no grand declaration, no sudden hand on his chest in the middle of the trauma bay. Just the quiet, weary realization that implication is a language he does not speak. Or if he does, it’s one he refuses to acknowledge out of stubbornness, self-preservation, or a tragic devotion to professional boundaries that borders on ascetic.

Fine. Words it is.

The ER hums around you in its usual state of controlled chaos: monitors chirping like anxious birds, the low murmur of nurses exchanging vitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant clinging to everything, including your clothes. You’re leaning against the counter near the charting station, arms folded loosely, watching him finish dictating notes from the last trauma.

He’s still riding the aftershock of it—adrenaline not quite spent, shoulders tight beneath his scrubs, hair a little mussed in that irritating way that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine titled Overworked But Competent. Blood stains have been scrubbed from his forearms, but you can still see faint water marks where he rushed through it.

You clear your throat.

“You were incredible in that trauma,” you say, tone deliberately even, like this is a completely normal thing colleagues say to each other all the time and you’re not testing a hypothesis.

He looks up, startled just enough to notice. His expression softens into something easy, open.

“Thanks,” he says. “Good teamwork.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to point out that teamwork does not usually involve him giving orders with surgical precision while you anticipate them half a second before he speaks. Teamwork does not usually make your pulse jump when he looks at you like that—focused, trusting, utterly unaware of the effect.

“Right,” you say instead. “Teamwork.”

He’s already turned back to the computer, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Compliment absorbed, neutralized, filed away under Professional Affirmation. You feel a strange mix of irritation and grudging fondness. Mostly irritation.

Fine.

You try again later.

Different shift. Different light. Same him.

It’s quieter—one of those rare lulls that feel like borrowed time. The overhead lights have been dimmed slightly, casting everything in a flatter, softer glow. He’s standing near the med room, sipping vending machine coffee like it’s a necessary evil rather than a beverage, shoulders slumped in the particular way of someone who has been awake too long but refuses to admit it.

You approach with intent.

“You look good today,” you say, deliberately casual, as if you’re commenting on the weather or the state of the supply room. You don’t smile. You don’t soften it. You just let the words sit there between you, unadorned.

He blinks.

Once. Twice.

“Oh. Uh.” He glances down at himself, like the answer might be written somewhere on his scrubs. “Long shift,” he says. “Probably just the lighting.”

You stare at him.

Not glaring—no, this is worse. This is the slow, incredulous stare of someone watching a grown man walk directly into a glass door and then apologize to it. You feel deeply, personally offended. By his humility. By his complete inability to parse meaning. By the fact that you have now complimented him twice and he has somehow managed to dodge both like they were incoming projectiles.

The lighting.

Right.

“Sure,” you say. “The lighting that makes you look… competent.”

He frowns, confused. “Is that—”

“It’s a compliment,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. You can feel heat creeping up your neck, annoyance prickling under your skin. You’re not embarrassed—no, that would imply regret. This is more like being thwarted by an unexpectedly dense puzzle.

“Oh.” He smiles then, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There it is again. That smile. The one that makes you forget, briefly, why you’re annoyed at all. It’s open and unguarded, like he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone would look at him and see something worth commenting on.

Which is absurd. Objectively.

You turn away before you do something reckless, like point out the exact list of reasons he looks good today—broad shoulders filling out those scrubs, the silver streak in his beard and on his temples, the way his voice drops when he’s tired.

Still, you don’t stop.

If anything, you escalate.

You start finding reasons to be near him—charting beside him, handing him supplies he didn’t ask for, lingering just long enough to say things like, “Nice call back there,” or “You’re really good with patients,” or, once, when he manages to de-escalate a particularly hostile family member, “You have a calming presence. It’s annoying.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” he says, amused.

“It is,” you reply. “I’m just mad about it.”

He laughs at that—actually laughs—and for a moment you feel like you’ve cracked something. Like maybe, finally, he’s seeing it. The intent beneath the words. The way you’re watching him, not just as a colleague, but as someone who is increasingly, inconveniently important.

Then he says, “You’re good too, you know. Really sharp. Patients trust you.”

And just like that, it slides back into safe territory.

Professional. Neutral. Mutually assured restraint.

You smile, because you’re not cruel. Because you do like him. Because part of you suspects that if you pushed any harder, he’d retreat entirely, and you’re not ready for that yet.

But as you walk away, you can’t help thinking:

This shouldn’t be this hard.

You’ve stopped hinting. You’re using words now. Clear ones.

If he still doesn’t catch on?

Well.

You’ll figure out something else.

You escalate further.

Not recklessly—no, this is a calculated escalation. A measured one. You’ve ruled out subtlety, exhausted compliments, survived the humiliation of watching him interpret flirtation as atmospheric lighting. This is the next logical step: honesty, softened just enough to be deniable if it goes poorly.

It’s late. Of course it is. The kind of hour where the ER finally exhales after hours of holding its breath. The trauma bays are quiet, the monitors mercifully steady, the fluorescent lights humming with that faint electrical buzz that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Your feet ache in a deep, structural way. Your coffee has gone cold twice.

He’s at the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, reviewing labs with the concentration of someone who refuses to half-do anything. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear. You notice it. You always notice stupid things like that.

You hover. Casual. Definitely casual.

“You know, I like working with you,” you say.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. Less banter, more… something else. You hate that you can hear it. You hate more that he can too.

He looks up immediately. That part is promising. His expression warms, easy and genuine, like you’ve just handed him something uncomplicated.

“Likewise,” he says without hesitation. “You’re one of our strongest nurses.”

There it is.

You feel something inside you shrivel politely and die.

Strongest nurse.

Not favorite person to share a shift with. Not I feel steadier when you’re here. Not even I like you too in the dangerous, human way. No—this is a performance review. This is the sentence that gets written in emails to administration.

You blink once. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you might scream.

“Wow,” you say, because silence would be suspicious. “High praise.”

He smiles, entirely sincere, entirely oblivious. “I mean it. You anticipate needs, you keep your head under pressure. Patients respond to you. Makes a difference on shifts like this.”

You nod, because that is objectively nice. Because he is being kind. Because it is not his fault that every word he says lands half an inch to the left of where you need it.

Inside your head, you are already standing on a bridge.

The Allegheny is cold, you think distantly. Efficient. A little dramatic, but honestly? Fitting.

“Yeah,” you say aloud. “Teamwork.”

Again with the teamwork. You are haunted by this word.

He glances at you, brow furrowing just slightly. “You okay? You look… tired.”

That does it. That’s the final insult. You have bared your soul—with softened honesty—and he has diagnosed you with fatigue.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. “Just contemplating my life choices.”

He chuckles, assuming this is a joke. You let him. It’s easier.

“Join the club,” he says. “I’ve been doing that since med school.”

You imagine explaining it to him. Laying it all out. When I say I like working with you, I mean I like the way you look at me when we’re in sync. I mean I trust you with my back and my heart, apparently. I mean I’m flirting so hard I should get written up.

Instead, you straighten, plaster on a professional smile, and push off the counter.

“Well,” you say, already retreating, “thanks for the feedback. I’ll add it to my annual self-worth assessment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You pause mid-step, glance back at him.

“You have no idea,” you say.

He watches you go, still smiling, still clueless.

You walk toward the supply room, toward the locker area, toward literally anywhere that is not within conversational distance of him. Your chest feels tight—not painfully, just enough to register as something you’ll unpack later, preferably with snacks.

Strongest nurse, you think.

Fantastic.

At this rate, you’ll confess your feelings outright and he’ll hand you a commendation certificate and ask if you’d like to precept next semester.

The Allegheny River continues to call to you.

Later, Dana finds you aggressively restocking gloves.

Not restocking in the calm, methodical sense. This is personal. Boxes are being yanked open with more force than necessary, gloves shoved into dispensers until they bulge slightly, like they’re being punished for something they personally did to you. The nitrile snaps sharply every time you pull a pair free, a sound that feels far too satisfying.

You’re on your third dispenser when Dana leans against the supply room doorframe, arms crossed, eyes bright with the particular interest of someone who has clocked everything.

“You know,” she says mildly, “those gloves are innocent.”

You don’t look at her. “They know what they did.”

She hums, watching you for a moment longer than strictly polite. The supply room smells like cardboard and antiseptic. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Of course it does. Even the building is tired.

“I’ve known him fifteen years,” Dana says finally. “You could flirt by skywriting and he’d ask about air traffic regulations.”

That gets you.

You stop mid-shove, one glove dangling uselessly from your hand. You turn slowly, staring at her like she’s just delivered a formal diagnosis.

“…That’s the most upsetting thing anyone has said to me tonight,” you reply.

She grins. “Accurate, though.”

You exhale, dropping the glove back into the box with a defeated little flick of your wrist. “I told him I like working with him.”

Dana winces in sympathy. “Oof.”

“And he said I’m one of the strongest nurses,” you continue flatly. “Strongest, Dana. Like I’m a structural beam.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “you are load-bearing.”

You glare at her. She holds up her hands. “Hey. Compliment. Sort of.”

You lean back against the shelf, arms crossing tight over your chest. The irritation is still there, buzzing under your skin, but now it’s mixed with something else—relief, maybe. Validation. The comforting knowledge that you are not, in fact, losing your mind.

“So it’s not me,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Dana replies. “He’s just… like that. Emotionally illiterate unless feelings arrive with a consent form and a peer-reviewed study.”

You snort despite yourself. “That tracks.”

She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now. “You’re actually trying, though.”

You hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Apparently that was my first mistake.”

Dana’s expression softens—not pitying, but kind. She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, lowering her voice even though no one else is around.

“He notices things,” she says. “Just not the things people usually mean.”

You pick at the edge of a cardboard box. “Great. So I need to flirt in bullet points.”

“Clear objectives,” she agrees. “Minimal subtext.”

You consider this. The idea of looking him dead in the eye and saying I am attracted to you and this is not about teamwork makes your stomach do something unpleasant and acrobatic.

“Or,” Dana adds, smirking, “you could just keep escalating until he accidentally figures it out.”

You laugh, short and breathy. “At this rate, I’ll propose marriage and he’ll ask if this is about shift coverage.”

She laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. Then she glances back toward the hallway, where voices echo faintly—his voice among them.

“You okay?” she asks more quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Dana bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes. “Good. Because watching you flirt with him is the most entertainment I get on days like this.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now.

When she leaves, you finish restocking the gloves—this time with less hostility. Your pulse has steadied. The sting has dulled into something manageable. Almost fond.

You straighten the last box and take a breath.

Skywriting, you think. Air traffic regulations.

Fine.

If implication won’t work, and escalation keeps getting rerouted into professionalism, then eventually there will only be one option left.

You grab a pair of gloves and snap them on, resolve settling in your chest.

Next time, you won’t let him miss it.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You decide—foolishly—that if directness failed yesterday, then banter will surely succeed today.

Because banter is safe. Banter is deniable. Banter lets you pretend you’re not standing one ill-timed heartbeat away from emotional free fall.

The ER hums around you, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. It’s late enough that the adrenaline has softened into something duller, heavier. The kind of hour where everyone’s shoulders slope forward and voices drop without anyone consciously deciding it.

He’s standing at the counter, reviewing labs on the computer, brows knit in concentration. One hand braces against the laminate, the other scrolls absently, as if his body knows this ritual so well it no longer requires supervision. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms. You notice this. You always notice this. You tell yourself it’s purely observational. Anatomical. Clinical.

Liar.

You approach under the pretense of dropping off a coffee and a protein bar—again. This has become a pattern. You tell yourself it’s because he forgets to eat. Which is true. You also forget to eat, yet somehow no one is shepherding you with snacks like a feral cat.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice. Casual. Easy. Playful.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head just enough to suggest mischief, “if I keep saving you coffee and snacks, people might start thinking I like you.”

There. Light. Teasing. A line with plausible deniability baked right in.

You wait.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just hums thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the screen.

Then he snorts.

Actually snorts.

“They should,” he says easily. “You’re excellent at your job.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalls like a car refusing to turn over in winter.

“…That’s not what I meant,” you say, because apparently today you’re choosing honesty in the most pathetic increments possible.

He finally glances at you then. Just briefly. A faint smile tugs at his mouth—not smug, not teasing. Earnest. The kind of smile that suggests he truly believes what he’s saying.

“Still true,” he says, then turns back to the screen as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

Naturally.

You stand there for a half second too long, holding a coffee you suddenly resent deeply. Your internal monologue is a mess of static and profanity and the slow, dawning realization that you have once again underestimated just how profoundly literal this man is.

You wanted subtext.

He handed you a performance review.

You force a smile that probably looks more like mild indigestion and slide the coffee toward him.

“Well,” you say, voice pitched professionally neutral now, “drink that before it turns into a science experiment.”

“Already halfway there,” he replies absently.

You pivot on your heel and walk away before your soul physically exits your body.

As you pass the nurses’ station, you can feel your face burning. Not a cute flush. A full-body betrayal. Your brain helpfully replays the exchange on a loop, annotating it with commentary like bold of you to assume.

You duck into an empty supply alcove and lean back against the cool metal shelving, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Great. Fantastic. You tried flirting and somehow managed to sound like an HR email.

The worst part—the truly unforgivable part—is that he meant it. He wasn’t dodging you. He wasn’t deflecting. He just… answered the question he thought you asked.

And some traitorous, inconvenient part of your chest tightens at that. Because sincerity like that is dangerous. It doesn’t bounce off you cleanly. It lodges.

You straighten, roll your shoulders, and plaster professionalism back into place. You’ve survived worse than this. You will survive a man who cannot, under any circumstances, read a room.

Still, as you step back into the noise and motion of the department, you can’t help thinking—

Next time, you’re bringing diagrams.

You make the executive decision—questionable, but bold—that the previous disaster was a fluke.

Everyone deserves a second attempt. Possibly a third. Science demands replication.

The day has settled into that strange ER lull where chaos hasn’t stopped, exactly, but it has learned to whisper. Monitors beep softly. The overhead lights feel harsher when you’re tired enough to notice them.

He’s at the charting station again—of course he is—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw set, glasses pushed higher on his nose than necessary. He looks… focused. Grounded. Annoyingly competent.

You approach with the confidence of someone who has not yet learned.

He’s typing when you stop beside him. You lean your hip against the counter, deliberately invading the edge of his personal space. Not aggressively. Just enough to be noticeable. You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head.

“So,” you say lightly, “do you always look this intense while charting, or is this a special occasion just for me?”

This time, he does look up.

Progress.

He studies your face for a beat, expression thoughtful. Analytical. As if he’s running differentials on your sentence.

Then he nods.

“Usually worse,” he says. “Tonight’s actually been decent.”

You stare at him.

He goes back to typing.

You wait.

Nothing. Incredible. Truly. A masterclass in missing the point.

You try again. Because you are nothing if not persistent.

“Well,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “I was hoping I was at least partially distracting.”

He pauses mid-keystroke.

Looks up again.

Brows furrowed.

“Oh,” he says. “No, you’re fine. You’re not distracting at all.”

You feel something in your chest give a little cough and die.

“Great,” you say weakly. “That’s… reassuring.”

“I mean that positively,” he adds, earnest to the core. “You’re very focused. It’s good in a high-acuity environment.”

You nod slowly, the way one does when absorbing devastating news.

“Right. Yes. God forbid I interfere with the sanctity of the high-acuity environment.”

He blinks.

“You okay?”

You smile. Bright. Artificial. The kind of smile you could hang on a wall and call decor.

“Never better.”

A nurse passes behind you and gives you a look. Not subtle. A look that says girl, I saw that and wow, he’s dense in equal measure. You pointedly ignore her.

You straighten, tapping the counter once.

“Well,” you say, regrouping, “if you ever need a distraction, I take requests.”

He nods seriously, filing this away like a note for future reference.

“Good to know,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind if we have a mass casualty.”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

Decide against speaking for the good of everyone involved.

“Fantastic,” you mutter. “I’ll bring juggling pins.”

He hums, already back in his chart.

“That’d probably violate policy.”

You walk away.

Again.

Your footsteps echo louder than necessary as you retreat, dignity fraying at the edges. You pass the supply room, the trauma bay, the break room where someone has abandoned a half-eaten sandwich like a cry for help.

You stop near the medication fridge and lean your forehead briefly against the cool glass.

Okay, you think. New hypothesis: he is either completely oblivious or clinically immune to flirtation.

Possibly both.

And the truly infuriating part—the part that makes this worse instead of easier—is that none of it feels intentional. He isn’t deflecting you. He isn’t uncomfortable. He’s just… honest. Straightforward. Utterly unguarded in a way that makes your carefully calibrated attempts at subtlety bounce right off him like rubber bullets.

You exhale, lifting your head.

Fine.

You can play the long game.

Or—alternatively—you can accept that if you want him to understand what you’re doing, you might eventually have to use actual words.

You grimace.

God help you both.

The breakroom hums softly, a refrigerator rattling in protest, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make you vaguely homicidal. Someone has burned popcorn at some point in the recent past, and the smell has settled into the walls like a warning.

You’re sitting at the small table, elbows braced, staring at the far wall with the intensity of someone hoping it might blink first.

It does not.

Your coffee has gone cold. Again. You don’t drink it. It feels symbolic now.

Your brain replays the night in unwanted highlight reels—every missed cue, every earnest response that landed like a perfectly executed dodge.

You’re contemplating whether you could feasibly fake a page to Radiology just to escape your own thoughts when Dana appears in your peripheral vision, plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand, eyes sharp with recognition.

She takes one look at you and snorts.

“Oh,” she says. “That’s the stare.”

You don’t respond. You don’t blink. You might be dissociating slightly.

She drops into the chair across from you and leans back, studying you like a fascinating case study.

“At this point,” she says, peeling open her sandwich, “you could flirt by interpretive dance.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And he’d ask if I needed an ortho consult,” you mutter.

Dana chokes on a laugh.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You’re not wrong.”

You finally look away from the wall, rubbing a hand over your face. Your palm comes away faintly smelling like antiseptic.

“I tried,” you say. “I really tried. Banter. Tone. Proximity. I leaned. I lowered my voice, Dana.”

She winces sympathetically. “Damn. You lowered the voice?”

“I lowered the voice.”

“That’s serious.”

“I told him people might think I like him.”

“And?”

“And he told me I’m excellent at my job.”

Dana slaps her sandwich down on the table.

“No.”

“Yes.”

She stares at you, appalled.

You sink back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling now, because the wall has judged you enough for one night.

“I swear,” you say, “if I straight-up said, ‘I’m flirting with you,’ he’d nod and ask if I wanted feedback.”

Dana is fully cackling now, shoulders shaking.

“He’d be like, ‘Noted. Thank you for the clarification.’”

You close your eyes.

“Kill me.”

“No,” she says cheerfully. “This is too entertaining.”

You open one eye, glaring at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” she says. “But also—this is incredible. You’re watching a masterclass in emotional obliviousness in real time.”

You sigh, long and theatrical.

“The worst part,” you admit quietly, “is that he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just… sincere.”

Dana softens a little at that. She tilts her head.

“Yeah,” she says. “That tracks.”

You drum your fingers against the table, frustration buzzing under your skin. “I don’t know how to flirt with someone who treats everything like a chart note.”

She considers this.

“You could be direct.”

You recoil. Physically.

“No.”

“Blunt,” she corrects. “Clear. Use words.”

“I am using words.”

“You’re using riddles,” she says. “Sexy riddles.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands.

Dana grins. “Hey. Look on the bright side.”

You peek up at her.

“What bright side?”

“If he ever does figure it out,” she says, “you know he’ll mean it. No games. No bullshit.”

You lean back again, chewing on that despite yourself.

Great. Fantastic. Even your consolation prize is emotionally sound.

From somewhere down the hall, you hear his voice—calm, steady, calling out an order. Your stomach does an unhelpful little flip.

Dana watches your face with interest.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “You’re screwed.”

You close your eyes.

“Interpretive dance it is,” you mutter.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You escalate to touch.

Not inappropriate. Not anything anyone could point to in a deposition or whisper about over bad coffee. Just… intentional. Precise.

The ER hums the way it always does. You move through it on muscle memory and caffeine, your body already angled toward the next task before your brain finishes naming it.

He’s at Trauma Two, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans over the gurney, hands moving fast and steady. There’s blood on his gloves, a smear on the cuff of his scrub top. Someone’s yelling out vitals. Someone else is fumbling with suction. It’s loud, it’s tight, it’s controlled chaos.

You step in close—closer than necessary—and reach for the collar of his gown.

“Hold still,” you murmur, already doing it.

Your fingers catch the edge of the fabric, tugging it back where it’s twisted awkwardly against his neck. It’s nothing. It’s practical. Except you let your hand linger just a beat too long, knuckles brushing warm skin at the base of his throat. You feel the heat of him there, solid and alive beneath your touch.

He doesn’t react. Not even a flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

You withdraw your hand like you meant to all along, turn smoothly to grab another pair of gloves. Your heart is doing something stupid and unprofessional in your chest, but your face stays neutral. Calm. Competent.

Congratulations, you think dryly. You’ve officially flirted with a man mid-code.

Later, the hallway outside triage is too narrow, bodies passing in both directions like blood cells through a clogged artery. You spot him coming toward you, tablet in hand, brow furrowed in that way that means he’s already thinking three steps ahead.

You don’t sidestep.

You brush past him instead, shoulder to chest, close enough that you feel the solid press of him through scrubs. No apology. No “sorry—excuse me.” Just the brief, undeniable contact of two people occupying the same impossible amount of space.

“Hey,” he says automatically, half-turning as if to check whether he’s collided with equipment instead of a person.

You keep walking. You don’t look back.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself.

That one might’ve been a little obvious, you think. If he were anyone else.

But he isn’t. He’s still standing there, already absorbed. l

The blood draw is quieter. Routine. The patient is anxious, veins skittish and hiding deep. He’s focused, eyes narrowed slightly as he palpates, searching.

“Here,” you say softly, stepping in.

You place your thumb gently against the inside of his wrist, just below the glove line, steadying his hand. Your thumb rests right over his pulse, warm and unmistakable. You feel it there—strong, regular, a living metronome beneath your skin.

It’s intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. You’re acutely aware of how close you are now, how your arm brushes his, how the space between you has vanished entirely.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice low, pitched for him alone.

He glances at you, surprised, then gives a small, almost sheepish huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Why?”

Because I’m touching you like this on purpose, you think. Because I noticed your hands are warmer than mine. Because I wanted to see if you’d notice.

Out loud, you just smile.

“Just checking,” you say, and release him once the needle’s in, smooth and clean.

The rest of the shift passes in fragments—rooms, patients, clipped exchanges—but you’re hyper-aware now. Of proximity. Of angles. Of how easily your hand finds his arm when you pass something over, how naturally you stand just a little too close when you talk.

None of it draws comment. None of it earns even a flicker of suspicion.

That should be comforting.

It isn’t.

Later—much later—the department finally exhales. The noise drops a register. The adrenaline fades into bone-deep fatigue. You’re both charting at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, the glow of computer screens painting everything in tired blue light.

He stretches, rolling his neck once before glancing your way.

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For?” you ask, already bracing yourself.

He smiles, sincere and unguarded in a way that feels almost cruel.

“You’re very attentive,” he says. “Makes a difference.”

There it is. The gentle praise. The professional gratitude.

You stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, then nod.

“Part of the job,” you reply lightly.

Inside, something collapses with horrifying clarity.

He thinks this is excellent nursing.

Not flirting. Not tension. Not you very deliberately closing the distance inch by inch like you’re testing a weak point in a wall.

Just competence. Just teamwork.

You swallow a laugh that borders on hysterical and go back to typing, your fingers flying with unnecessary force.

Okay, you think. New plan.

You’re going to have to try harder.

Or accept that this man could be hit over the head with a metaphorical brick labeled as and ask if he needed an ice pack.

You keep going.

Carefully. Methodically. Like everything else you do.

The trick, you discover, is making every touch defensible. Plausible. Something you could justify to yourself in a court of law—or at least to a charge nurse with a raised eyebrow.

You hand him things directly instead of setting them down. Syringes placed into his palm instead of the tray. Your fingers brush his—accidentally, obviously—and linger just long enough to register heat before pulling away.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

Incredible, you think. Truly. A marvel of selective perception.

The department is crowded again, bodies stacked too close, sound bouncing off tile and glass. You stand beside him at the central station, reviewing labs. He leans in to look at your screen without asking, shoulder nearly touching yours.

You don’t move away.

Instead, you shift closer under the pretense of making room for someone else. Your arm presses lightly against his, the contact steady, unbroken. You can feel the solid warmth of him through thin fabric, the subtle tension in his muscles as he focuses.

He squints at the numbers.

“Creatinine’s climbing,” he says. “We should—”

Your hand comes up without conscious permission, resting briefly against his forearm as you interrupt.

“—switch fluids,” you finish. “Already paged nephro.”

Your thumb presses, just slightly. Not a stroke. Not a caress. Just… contact.

“Oh. Good catch,” he says, nodding.

You drop your hand like you never meant to put it there in the first place.

Inside, you are screaming quietly.

Later, a patient’s IV pump alarms—shrill, insistent. You step in before he can, silencing it with practiced ease.

“You’re hovering,” you tell him mildly.

“Am I?” He leans back, giving you space. “Sorry.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling faintly, relaxed. Comfortable. Entirely unbothered by the fact that you are very deliberately standing close enough that your hip brushes his thigh when you turn.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I like hovering.”

That earns a short laugh.

“Good,” he says. “Because I do it constantly.”

We are not talking about the same thing, you think.

You start finding excuses.

You smooth wrinkles from his sleeve when he rolls it up hastily. You reach past him to grab supplies instead of asking him to move, your chest brushing his arm, your breath briefly catching against his shoulder.

Once, when he startles slightly at a sudden alarm, you steady him with a hand to his back—broad, warm, undeniably there.

“Sorry,” you say reflexively.

He shakes his head. “All good.”

No comment. No pause. No awareness that your hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before you pull away.

I could probably hold his hand for a full minute, you think, deadpan, and he’d thank me for emotional support.

The most egregious one happens near the end of the shift.

He’s tired. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs at his neck absently while reading a chart. You step behind him, ostensibly to look at the screen over his shoulder.

Your fingers lift, then settle at the base of his neck, just where tension knots.

“You’re carrying this up here,” you say quietly.

Before he can respond, you press your thumb in gently, circling once. It’s not a massage. Not really. Just pressure. Helpful. Kind.

He exhales.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. That’s—thanks.”

You keep your hand there for another heartbeat. Then another.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t comment. Just keeps reading, calmer now, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You withdraw slowly, heart pounding.

He glances at you afterward, smiling faintly.

“You’re very good at that,” he says. “You should teach residents stress management.”

You stare at him.

“I’m managing something,” you reply, because if you don’t make a joke you might actually combust.

He laughs, already moving on.

When he finally leaves for the night, you watch him go with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

You have brushed, steadied, lingered, hovered, pressed, leaned, and touched him in every socially acceptable way short of writing THIS IS FLIRTING on your forehead.

And he remains serenely, profoundly unaware.

You rest your head briefly against the cool counter and close your eyes.

Fine, you think. If subtlety isn’t working, that’s on him.

Then you straighten, pick up your tablet, and follow—already planning the next escalation.

Dana finds you in the supply room.

Of course she does. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and Dana is apparently its chosen instrument.

You’re standing in front of an open cabinet, staring at a row of saline bags like they personally betrayed you. One hand is braced on the shelf, the other rubbing at your forehead as if you might physically knead the frustration out through bone.

Behind you, the door swings shut with a soft click.

You don’t turn around. You already know.

“So,” Dana says pleasantly, far too pleasantly, “how's it going with Robby?”

You exhale through your nose. Slowly. Carefully. Like a person trying not to commit a felony.

“If you say one more word,” you tell the saline bags, “I’m going to fake my own death and transfer to dermatology.”

Dana hums, delighted.

“That bad, huh?”

You finally turn. She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression bright with the kind of interest people usually reserve for reality television or particularly messy breakups. Her badge swings slightly as she shifts her weight, catching the fluorescent light.

“He thanked me,” you say flatly.

“Ouch.”

“For being attentive.”

“Ouch,” she repeats, stronger this time.

You drop your head back against the cabinet with a dull thunk.

“I adjusted his collar. Dana. During a code. I brushed his wrist. I held his pulse. I practically massaged his neck.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb higher with every itemized sin.

“And?”

“And he suggested I teach a seminar on stress management.”

She bursts out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained snort. A full-bodied, hand-to-mouth, shoulders-shaking laugh that echoes off the shelves.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Oh my god.”

You glare at her. “I’m glad my emotional ruin is entertaining.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “I just—wow. I mean. Wow.”

You cross your arms, suddenly aware of how keyed-up you feel, how your skin still remembers every accidental-on-purpose point of contact.

“I am being obvious,” you insist. “I am flirting like a human woman with intent.”

Dana wipes at her eyes. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Then why—” You gesture vaguely toward the rest of the ER. Toward him. Toward the problem. “—is he still acting like I’m just exceptionally good at my job?”

Dana straightens a little, studying you now with something like fondness layered over her amusement.

“Because,” she says gently, “he is spectacularly oblivious.”

You groan.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Oh, I’m not done.”

She pushes off the counter and steps closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“Everyone knows.”

You blink. “Everyone what.”

“Everyone,” she repeats, smiling. “That you’re into him.”

Your stomach drops.

“…Everyone?”

Dana nods. “Nurses. Residents. I’m pretty sure at least one paramedic has money riding on it.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am not.” She tilts her head. “You literally orbit him.”

“I work with him.”

“You glow,” she says. “Like. Physically. It’s unsettling.”

You press your lips together, processing this. Replaying the last several shifts in your head through a new, horrifying lens.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “But surely he—”

Dana’s smile turns sharp. Victorious.

“Except Robby.”

Of course.

Of course.

You sink down onto a stool, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.

“I hate this,” you mutter.

Dana perches on the counter across from you, swinging one leg.

“He genuinely thinks you’re just very competent and kind,” she says. “Which, to be fair, you are.”

“That’s not the goal.”

“I know.” She pauses. “Have you considered words?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her.

“I have used words.”

“You’ve used adjacent words.”

“I complimented him.”

“You complimented his teamwork.”

“That was vulnerable!”

Dana snorts. “That was a performance review.”

You slump again.

“He’s not doing this on purpose,” Dana adds, softer now. “He’s just… wired wrong. Or very carefully wired.”

You think of the way he moves through the department. Focused. Earnest. Entirely present with patients. How he accepts touch as support, not signal. How safe he seems inside his own assumptions.

Your frustration dulls, replaced by something warmer. More complicated.

“That almost makes it worse,” you admit.

Dana studies you for a moment, then smiles—less teasing now, more knowing.

“Look,” she says. “You’re not subtle anymore. You’re just… quiet about it. And when it finally clicks for him?”

She grins.

“It’s going to hit like a truck.”

You huff a weak laugh despite yourself.

“Great,” you say. “I’ll make sure to stand clear.”

Dana hops down, squeezing your shoulder as she passes.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “this is the most entertained I’ve been in months.”

She leaves you there with the saline bags and your spiraling thoughts.

You sit for a moment longer, breathing in antiseptic air, heart still stupidly hopeful.

Okay, you think. If everyone knows…

You stand, straighten your scrubs, and head back out.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

Late shift has a way of stretching time until it feels elastic, thin as pulled sugar.

Rain taps steadily against the ambulance bay doors—soft at first, then harder, a persistent percussion that seeps into the bones of the building. The ER is quiet in a way that makes your shoulders tense instead of relax. Not asleep. Just… waiting.

This is the hour where everything feels too intimate.

You sit at the nurses’ station beside Robby, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. Paperwork sprawls between you in a messy truce: charts, lab printouts, half-scribbled notes. Someone’s abandoned a pen with bite marks near the cap. Probably not a patient. You try not to think about it.

He slides half a granola bar toward you without looking up.

No comment. No eye contact. Just the soft scrape of wrapper against laminate.

You blink at it.

Domestic, your brain supplies immediately. Suspiciously so.

You eye the bar like it might explode. Or confess something.

“You’re aware,” you say, dryly, “that sharing food is how relationships start in prison movies.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. More like a concession.

“Eat it or don’t,” he says. “I’m not proposing.”

Shame, you think, and tear the wrapper open anyway. The bar is slightly stale, aggressively oat-forward, and somehow still comforting. You chew, glancing sideways at him.

Robby is hunched over a chart, glasses perched low on his nose, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like they’ve been earned through long, grueling labor—which, to be fair, they have. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms corded and pale under fluorescent light, a faint smear of ink near his wrist. You wonder, not for the first time, if he ever sleeps long enough to fully wash the hospital off himself.

The quiet presses in. You can hear rain hitting metal, distant thunder grumbling like an old man with complaints. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps once and stops. No one runs.

Rare. Dangerous.

You decide to poke the bear.

“So,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless, “do you ever do anything outside this place?”

He doesn’t look up.

“Sleep,” he says.

You wait. He keeps reading.

“…That’s it?” you prompt.

A beat.

“Sometimes read.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Thrilling. You must be a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

That earns him a small smile, the corner of your mouth ticking up before you can stop it. You scribble a note on the margin of a chart just to have something to do with your hands.

“What do you read?” you ask.

“Whatever’s around.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Bold assumption. Maybe I’m deeply invested in your inner life.”

This time, he does look at you.

Just briefly. Assessing. Sharp eyes that miss very little. You feel that look like a fingertip pressed to your sternum—light, but intentional.

“Why?” he asks.

There it is. Not why are you asking, but why do you care. Subtle difference. Annoying man.

You shrug, deliberately loose. “Because we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder sharing granola bars while the rain stages a dramatic monologue outside, and it feels rude not to.”

He snorts despite himself, then goes back to the chart.

“History,” he says after a moment. “Biographies. Medical journals. Sometimes fiction if I’m too tired to think.”

“What kind of fiction?”

He hesitates. Barely perceptible. You catch it anyway.

“Does it matter?”

You glance at him. “No. But I’m curious.”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever’s already on the shelf.”

You grin. “You’re allergic to specificity.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re evasive.”

“That too.”

The rain intensifies, drumming louder against the bay doors. A gust of wind rattles them slightly, and you both glance up out of instinct. Old habits. The kind that never really leave.

You finish the granola bar and brush crumbs from your scrub pants. Your shoulder bumps his—light, accidental, but you don’t move away immediately. Neither does he.

You become acutely aware of the warmth there. The solid presence of another person in the quiet. It’s… unsettling. And, annoyingly, a little grounding.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “What about me?”

“Outside this place.”

Ah.

You lean back in your chair, considering the ceiling tiles like they might offer a safer answer.

“Sleep,” you echo.

He arches a brow

“Sometimes draw,” you add. “Occasionally forget to eat. Once tried pottery. It was a disaster.”

“I can imagine.”

“Rude.”

He shrugs. “Accurate.”

You laugh quietly, surprised by it. The sound feels too loud in the hush, so you rein it in, pressing your lips together. Something in your chest loosens anyway.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less sharp. More… companionable. You return to your paperwork, pen scratching softly. He flips a page. The rain keeps time.

You glance at him once more, unguarded this time.

He’s still here. Still steady. Still offering half his granola bar without ceremony.

And for reasons you don’t entirely trust, that feels like something worth noticing.

You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound vibrating somewhere in the back of your throat.

It’s a stall tactic and you know it. Your brain is rifling through safer topics—weather, lab values, literally anything that won’t get you emotionally maimed at the nurses’—but your mouth has already decided it’s feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Possibly both.

“You should let someone take you out sometime,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless optimism. “Dinner. Drinks. Sunlight. Normal human things.”

The words hang there, fragile as blown glass.

For half a second, nothing happens. Then he looks at you.

Really looks.

Not the quick clinical glance he gives patients or the sharp evaluative scan he uses on interns. This is slower. Focused. His eyes lift fully from the chart and settle on your face like he’s actually taking inventory—expression, tone, intent.

Your heart trips over itself.

Full-on stumbles. Misses a step. Does that awful little flutter that feels suspiciously like hope and dread shaking hands.

You keep your face neutral through sheer force of will, like this isn’t the emotional equivalent of standing in the middle of traffic and daring the cars to stop.

“That’s good advice,” he says.

Earnestly.

No teasing. No deflection. Just calm, thoughtful agreement.

“Burnout sneaks up on you.”

And just like that, he looks back down at the chart and keeps writing.

Pen moving. Page flipping. Crisis averted. Life goes on.

You stare at him.

Actually stare.

Your mind scrambles, skids, tries to regain traction. That was not—not—the response you were braced for. You’d prepared yourself for a brush-off, maybe a sarcastic quip, possibly even gentle discomfort. You had not prepared for him to accept your suggestion like a continuing medical education module.

You blink once.

Twice.

Right. Of course. He thought you were talking about self-care.

You feel something inside you deflate with a quiet, undignified wheeze.

“Yeah,” you say, because silence would be suspicious and screaming would be frowned upon. “Very… sneaky. Burnout.”

He nods, still focused on the chart. “People don’t notice until they’re already exhausted. Or angry. Or making bad calls.”

You tilt your head, watching him. The way his jaw tightens just slightly. The faint crease between his brows that never quite leaves anymore.

“And you?” you ask lightly. “You noticing anything?”

He pauses, pen hovering.

For a moment—just a moment—you think he might actually answer honestly. That he might look up again, say something real. Something unguarded.

Instead, he shrugs.

“I’m fine.”

Ah. There it is. The universal lie of overworked physicians everywhere.

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Compelling. I’ll write it in your chart.”

He glances up again, this time with the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Very professional.”

“I contain multitudes.”

He hums in acknowledgment and goes back to writing.

You turn back to your own paperwork, pen dragging a little slower now. Your pulse is still loud in your ears, refusing to calm down, like it’s offended by the misunderstanding.

You told him to let someone take him out.

You had meant—well.

You sigh softly through your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

Of course he didn’t hear it that way. Of course he didn’t. This is a man who can triage three traumas at once and still miss a blatant invitation sitting three feet away sharing his granola bar.

You glance at him again, irritated and fond in equal measure.

“Burnout,” you think dryly. “Right. That’s definitely what I was diagnosing.”

The rain keeps tapping against the ambulance bay doors. The ER remains suspended in that quiet, intimate lull. He charts. You chart.

And you sit there, shoulder to shoulder, wondering how someone can look straight at you and still not see a thing.

Later, the lull breaks.

Not with sirens or shouting or a trauma rolling in at full speed, but with the soft return of movement—phones ringing, footsteps quickening, the ER shaking itself awake like a dog coming out of water. The rain outside eases into a steady drizzle, less dramatic now, like it’s gotten whatever it wanted out of the night.

Robby disappears down the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm, already halfway back inside his own head. You watch him go for half a second longer than strictly professional, then turn back to the nurses’ station and pretend your notes suddenly require your full, undivided attention.

They don’t.

Dana materializes beside you the way she always does—silent, efficient, terrifyingly perceptive. She’s got a coffee in one hand and a look on her face that says she’s been waiting patiently for this moment.

She doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“You practically handed him an invitation,” she says, voice pitched low but delighted.

You don’t look up. You highlight a line on the chart you’ve already highlighted once.

“I opened the door,” you reply calmly. “He walked into a wall.”

Dana snorts. “A wall?”

“A very sturdy one,” you say. “Possibly load-bearing.”

She leans an elbow on the counter, watching you with open amusement. “You told him to let someone take him out.”

“I did.”

“And he gave you a lecture on burnout.”

“He did that too.”

Dana takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving you. “You know he’s not dense about most things.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you mutter. “That’s what makes this so impressive.”

You finally glance up at her. She’s grinning now, the kind of grin that says she has Opinions and none of them are kind.

“You okay?” she asks, tone softer beneath the teasing.

You consider that. The question lands heavier than expected.

You roll your shoulders once, loosening tension you hadn’t realized was there. “Yeah. I mean—yes. It’s fine. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” Dana agrees. “He just completely missed you flirting with him like it was a pop quiz he didn’t study for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s generous. I think he thought I was offering a continuing education course.”

Dana chuckles, shaking her head. “I’ve worked with him a long time.”

“Congratulations,” you say. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“High, but manageable,” she replies cheerfully. Then, more seriously, “He doesn’t clock that kind of thing easily. Especially when it’s aimed at him.”

You angle your body slightly away from the station, lowering your voice. “So you’re saying this is a known… condition?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dana says. “Man can diagnose a ruptured spleen from across the room. Romance? Entirely different department.”

That shouldn’t make you feel better.

Annoyingly, it kind of does.

You glance down the hallway again without meaning to. Robby’s nowhere in sight now—swallowed up by exam rooms and corridors and responsibility.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

Dana raises an eyebrow. “No. You were brave.”

You make a face. “Don’t rebrand it. I’m trying to be embarrassed in peace.”

She laughs softly. “Look, if it helps—he did look at you. Really look. I saw it.”

Your heart does that stupid little stumble again.

You shoot her a look. “You’re not allowed to say things like that without evidence.”

She shrugs. “I’ve got eyes. And decades of experience watching idiots fall in love at work.”

“Comforting,” you deadpan.

Dana straightens as a call light flicks on down the hall. “Give it time,” she adds lightly. “Eventually, it’ll click.”

“Or,” you say, “I’ll die of secondhand humiliation.”

“Also possible.”

She squeezes your shoulder once—warm, grounding—before heading off toward the noise.

You’re left at the station again, the hum of the ER settling around you. You exhale slowly, tapping your pen against the counter.

You hadn’t planned on wanting anything from him. Certainly not this. Not the way your chest tightens when he looks at you, or the way you replay his earnest tone in your head like it’s evidence in a case you can’t stop building.

Burnout sneaks up on you.

You shake your head, a rueful smile tugging at your mouth.

“Yeah,” you murmur to yourself. “Apparently so does obliviousness.”

You pick up your chart, square your shoulders, and step back into the noise—already bracing yourself to try again, someday, when you’re feeling just reckless enough.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

The breakroom smells like coffee and antiseptic and someone's reheated dinner.

Someone has left a protein bar wrapper on the counter like a crime scene marker. The microwave hums ominously, as if it, too, is judging your life choices. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.

Robby stands at the counter, pouring coffee he absolutely does not need into a mug that reads WORLD’S OKAYEST DOCTOR. You bought it as a joke. He uses it earnestly. This alone should have tipped you off months ago.

You lean back against the table, hip pressed to the edge, arms crossed loosely—not defensively, just… strategically. Your badge swings forward, taps lightly against your sternum. You don’t move it out of the way. You absolutely notice.

“So,” you say, casually. Too casually. “You ever notice how we’re always alone in here together?”

He doesn’t look up. “Statistically unlikely,” he replies. “Breakroom traffic peaks around twenty past the hour.”

You blink.

Of course he’s done the math.

You try again.

You step closer—inside his personal space now, deliberately so. Your arm brushes his when you reach past him for the sugar packets you do not need. Your fingers linger against his wrist for half a beat too long. Pulse. Warm. There.

He glances at you. Smiles, faint and distracted.

“You want the last creamer?” he asks.

You stare at him.

“I want you,” you think.

You say, “No, I’m good.”

You watch him stir his coffee. You watch the tendons in his forearm shift. You have watched those tendons save lives. You have also imagined biting them, which feels like something a better-adjusted person would unpack in therapy.

You sigh.

“Robby,” you say, lightly, “if I leaned any closer, HR would materialize out of the vents.”

“Hm?” He takes a sip. Grimaces. “God, this is awful. Did they switch brands?”

You close your eyes.

Count to three.

This is not happening—

You snap them open.

That’s it.

You straighten, heart kicking hard enough to be rude.

“Robby,” you say, and this time your voice is steady only because sheer force of will is doing most of the work, “I’ve been trying to flirt with you for months.”

Silence.

Actual, physical silence. The microwave clicks off somewhere behind you like punctuation.

He freezes.

Mid-motion. Mug halfway to his mouth. Eyes flicking to you like his brain is trying to reorient gravity.

You don’t soften it. You refuse. You’ve earned this moment.

“The coffee,” you continue, ticking it off with your fingers. “The compliments. The touching. The lingering. All of it.”

His mouth opens slightly.

Closes.

You can practically see the internal slideshow start playing. Frames flashing past his eyes: you leaning in too close, your hand on his arm, your voice going softer when you say his name, the way you always find him during shifts like it’s coincidence and not muscle memory.

Understanding crashes into him all at once.

“…Oh,” he says.

Stunned. Genuinely. Like someone who has just realized they’ve been standing in the rain for an hour.

You exhale, sharp and humorless.

“Yes. Oh.”

He sets the mug down slowly, like sudden movements might break something fragile and expensive between you.

“You were—” He stops. Tries again. “You were flirting.”

You tilt your head. “Gold star.”

“I thought you were just… friendly.”

Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. Dry. Almost hysterical.

“Robby, I don’t touch friends like that.”

His ears turn red.

Actually red.

He rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well. His eyes don’t quite meet yours yet.

“I—” he starts, then stops. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s admirable,” you say. “In theory.”

“In practice,” he says quietly, “I might be an idiot.”

You consider this.

“Debatable,” you say. “But not because of this.”

There’s a beat. Another. The air feels thicker now—charged, buzzing, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “If I made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in. Softer now, despite yourself. “You just… didn’t see it.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not distracted, not half-thinking about labs or consults or the next disaster waiting to happen.

You feel suddenly exposed. Like you’ve taken off armor you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I see it now,” he says.

Your pulse stutters.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “you’re… very good at it.”

He’s still looking at you like the room has tilted and he’s trying to stay upright.

Something in you snaps—not angrily. Not dramatically. Just… decisively.

You step closer.

Not rushed. Not reckless. One measured step that puts you well inside his space, close enough that you can smell the coffee on his breath, feel the warmth coming off him like a steady current.

He goes very still.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You rise just enough onto the balls of your feet and kiss him.

It’s brief. Controlled. No teeth, no urgency—just your mouth fitting to his with unmistakable intent. Your lips are soft but deliberate, pressing once, twice, as if punctuation matters.

For half a second, he doesn’t move.

Then his breath catches—audibly, embarrassingly—and he kisses you back.

Not clumsy. Not hesitant. Just… surprised into honesty.

His hand comes up, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, fingers warm and sure against your jaw, thumb resting just below your ear. He pulls you a fraction closer, enough that your chest brushes his, enough that your carefully maintained composure dissolves into something warmer and far less clever.

You melt.

Annoyingly. Completely.

The kiss deepens—not longer, just fuller—his mouth moving with yours like he’s finally caught the rhythm you’ve been offering him for months. There’s no rush, no hunger yet, just confirmation. Yes. This. You weren’t imagining it.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

Your forehead nearly touches his. Your pulse is loud in your ears, traitorous.

“That,” you say, voice steady despite everything, “was me asking you out.”

For once, there’s no confusion on his face. No mental math. No missed subtext.

His breath stutters.

“Oh,” he says again—but this time it’s different. Softer. Warmer.

Then he smiles. Small. Genuine.

“I’d like that,” he says quietly. “Very much.”

Something settles in your chest. Not fireworks—something better. Something solid.

You step back before either of you does something that will absolutely require paperwork.

Later—much later—Dana catches your eye from across the ER. She doesn’t say a word. Just gives you a slow, deeply satisfied nod, like someone watching a long-running bet finally pay out.

You smile to yourself, turning back to your chart.

Some people, you think, really do need things spelled out.

Clearly.

Directly.

And preferably with mouth contact.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The ER noise swells and recedes around you. Monitors, distant voices, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Jack watches the department the way you do when you’re exhausted but still responsible for everything, alert, present and steady. 

He reaches for the coffee cup he must have abandoned on the counter earlier in the night, frowns at it. It’s cold by now. He knows that, and so do you, warm coffee is a rare luxury when working in the ER.  

“How’s it been tonight?” you ask, eyes on the chaos down the hall.

He exhales slowly. “Busy, like always.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Like fucking always.”

“You’re off after tonight, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Four days.”

“Good,” he says, immediate. “You need it.”

You give him a deadpanned look. One eyebrow lifts, unimpressed, exhausted, painfully aware of the irony. “Wow,” you say flatly. “What gave it away? The bags under my eyes, or the fact that I just almost began to chart on the wrong patient?”

He smiles, just a little, the kind of expression that makes him dangerous in the way he can break your focus with nothing more than a look. You are mature enough to admit to yourself that you have a crush on him, as immature as it feels, and as impractical as it definitely is. 

“You deserve it, is what I meant,” he adds, softer than before, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

The words land differently. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no easy smirk to hide behind. Just that steady, unreadable look he gets when he means something and isn’t sure how it’ll be received.

You swallow, because somehow that is the thing that almost cracks you, the gentleness of it. Not you’re tired, not you look like hell, but you deserve a break. Like rest is something you’ve earned instead of something you have to justify.

“So do you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He doesn’t answer that, he just studies you for a long moment, something unguarded flickering across his face before he reins it in.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Maybe.” It’s not dismissal, though it’s not agreement either.  

The moment stretches, at least as long as a moment can stretch in a place that never really allows stillness. 

You really are looking forward to a break from this place, four days for just you and your little girl. Four days of pancakes shaped vaguely like hearts. Of bedtime stories read twice because she insists she wants to hear it again. Four days where the world shrinks down to something soft and manageable. 

Your parents have been wonderful, they have her on the nights you work. The perks of working at night is that she is sleeping when you’re working, and you are sleeping when she is at daycare, and you get more control to pick your shifts, so some weeks you work a lot and others you have more days off, you guard those days like treasure. You can keep her home on those days and give her all the attention in the world.

It’s not the life you pictured once, but it’s a life that fits. Mostly.

Jack shifts beside you again, subtle, like he doesn’t want to startle you out of wherever you’ve gone. Then, with a faint tilt of his head toward the board, “You see bed twelve? They finally cleared it.”

“Thank God,” you mutter. “That guy was ringing his call bell every two minutes.”

Jack lets out a low breath that might almost be a laugh. “I swear, if one more patient tells me they ‘never wait this long at other hospitals’.” 

“I would start telling them to keep to that hospital,” you say dryly. “Sounds magical.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but relieving. The spell breaks when the automatic doors slide open with a sharp hiss. The sound cuts clean through the noise. You both turn instinctively.

A little girl, dwarfed by the fluorescent lights is being rolled in, she is sitting up and is alert, which should mean it isn’t that serious, but the look of her still makes all the air leave your lungs for a second.  

Your heart stutters. She looks so small on the gurney, in her pink and white striped pajamas, a spot of dried blood on the breast pocket. She holds a butter yellow hand towel to her left brow like someone had told her to and she’s now taken it very seriously. She holds her other arm close to her body, like she is instinctively trying to prevent it from bumping into anything, like it’s hurting.  

You call out her name and her head turns, she peeks out from behind the towel. “Mommy,” she exclaims, voice breaking on the word like she’d been holding it in her chest the entire ride over.

You’re at her side in an instant. Your own mom is already right behind the gurney, her voice cuts through the noise before you even fully register her presence.

“She fell on the stairs,” she says breathlessly, one hand still gripping the rail like she’s afraid letting go might mean she loses sight of her granddaughter. “I woke up to the thud and her crying. She was supposed to be asleep—”

“Mom,” you say gently but firmly, the word grounding both of you. “It’s okay. She’s here, we’ve got her.”

Your daughter’s fingers tighten around yours the moment she recognizes you fully, relief flooding her face now that the pieces have connected. Grandma, hospital, you.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” she blurts out immediately. “I was trying to get my water.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, brushing hair back from her damp forehead. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody did.”

Jack is there without announcing himself. Of course he is. He steps in close enough that you can feel him at your back, steady and calm, his presence like an extra set of hands holding everything together. 

“Peds is clear,” Jack says quietly, already reaching for the side rail. Not rushed, not loud. He says it almost like this is just another patient, except the way his voice dips careful, betrays that he knows it isn’t. 

Your daughter looks up at him with wet lashes, half her face still covered with the tower, and her voice wobbles. “Hello,” she says, both a little shy and a little wary, her small voice barely audible over the hum of the ER, still clutching the towel like a shield.

Jack smiles at her and crouches slightly, bringing himself to her level. His voice is soft, steady, and deliberate. “Hey there, kiddo. I’m Jack. You took a pretty good tumble, huh?”

​​Your daughter glances at him, her wary melting away, though the shyness still lingers around the edges. You notice that he introduces himself as Jack, not Dr. Abbot, the casual warmth of it settles the room, as well as something within yourself. 

“Yeah,” your little girl says, her voice quieter now, the edge of fear softened by the calm way Jack crouches to meet her eye level.

“Can I see your forehead for a second?” Jack’s voice is gentle, and your daughter hesitates only for a heartbeat before slowly lowering the towel. 

Your heart twists as you see the blood on her little face. 

“Alright,” Jack says as he takes a look at her split brow, the soft hospital light catching the worry lines on his face in a way that makes you realize how present he is, how focused, without being overwhelming. “Thank you for the look,” he then says before he straightens up again. “We are gonna take you to your own room now, so we can fix you up, is that okay?” Jack continues, his voice still soft, calm, like he’s guiding her through a storm she didn’t want to be in.

She nods with all the bravery a four and a half year old can muster, clutching your hand a little tighter. The gurney starts rolling. You walk alongside it, one hand never leaving your daughter’s. Your mom falls in step just behind. 

Your mom, who is usually a calming presence, seems just as tense as you are, her brow furrowed slightly. “I should have heard that she had gotten out of bed,” she says, and you know that she is just worried, and that she is blaming herself for an accident that isn’t really her fault, but her worry is slightly stressing you out. 

When the door to the pediatric room closes you feel it then, the way the room tilts just slightly. The collision of roles. Nurse, mom, daughter. All stacked too tightly inside your chest.

Jack notices immediately, of course he does. “Why don’t you sit with her,” he says quietly to you, though not really as a question. “Then I’ll run the exam.”

You hesitate, instinct fighting training, but he meets your eyes with that steady look that says I’ve got this. You don’t have to be everything right now. So you nod.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, Jack lifts your daughter from the gurney, very mindful of her hurt arm, and places her on your lap. 

Your little girl practically melts into you, she settles against you like she’s been wound too tight and is finally allowed to loosen, her cheek pressing into your chest. You instinctively brace her with one hand at her back, the other cradling her carefully away from the injured arm. She’s warm, solid and here.

“She didn’t lose consciousness,” your mom says again, like she needs to say it out loud. “She cried right away.”

“That’s good,” Jack replies. “You did exactly what you should’ve,” he then says, his words now directed at your daughter. That makes her smile, and you feel your chest tighten with a rush of pride so sharp it almost hurts.

Your moms phone begins to ring in her bag, your mom startles, trying to find it with shaking hands. “Sorry, that’s probably your father, he dropped us off at the entrance,” she says, voice unsteady, already halfway apologizing for answering it.

“It’s okay, you can go find him,” you tell her gently. “I’ve got her.”

Your mom hesitates, eyes flicking between you and your daughter, guilt written all over her face. 

You soften your voice even more, the way you do when you need someone else to borrow your calm for a second. “Mom,” you say quietly. “She’s okay. I’m right here. Go find dad, he’s probably pacing a groove into the sidewalk.”

That earns a fragile, breathy laugh out of her. She exhales, shaky, then leans in and presses a kiss into your daughter’s hair, lingering there like she’s imprinting the moment.

“See you later, love,” your mom whispers, half to you, half to her. 

Your daughter nods against your chest, already half-burrowed into you again. 

The door closes softly behind her, and the room exhales. The silence that settles afterward feels earned.

Your daughter’s breathing evens out against you, small and warm and real, her weight anchoring you to the bed. One socked foot dangles, slowly swinging, the adrenaline ebbing out of her system now that the danger has been named and contained. She smells like sleep and soap and that faint metallic tang of blood that makes your stomach tighten if you think about it too long. Not because you aren’t used to blood, but because it’s hers. 

Jack stays quiet for a moment, giving the room time to steady itself while he gloves up. 

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I need to get a better look at your eyebrow now.” 

She nods again, trusting him with the kind of trust that feels enormous when you witness it. She shifts slightly in your lap but doesn’t pull away. One small hand fists into the fabric of your scrub top. The other stays tucked protectively against her side.

“I’ll be really gentle,” Jack adds. He leans in, gloved fingers steady as he cleans the dried blood away. He talks the whole time, narrating just enough to keep your daughter engaged, not scared.

Jack keeps his voice low and even as he works, like he’s smoothing the edges off the moment rather than rushing through it.

“This is just a little cold,” he tells her as the saline touches her skin. 

Your daughter huffs a tiny, indignant sound against your chest. “I don’t like cold things.”

“You know what?” Jack says solemnly. “Neither do I. Except for ice cream, of course.” 

Your daughter lets out a small, incredulous giggle against your chest, the sound soft but precious, and you feel it ripple through you like sunlight cutting through fog. “I like ice cream too.” Her little voice trembles a little with excitement and relief, and you feel a soft tug at your chest. 

She winces, just barely, at the saline and you murmur sweet nonsense into her hair. Soft sounds, familiar rhythms, the kind of reassurance that comes from instinct more than thought.

“That’s my brave girl,” you whisper.

Jack’s calm demeanor doesn’t waver as he glances at the now clean cut, more carefully. He kneels slightly to get a better look, his gloved fingers gently parting the edges of the gash.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice steady but soft, “this cut is a little deeper than I first thought. We’re going to need a couple of stitches to make sure it heals properly.”

Your daughter tenses, her small body stiff against you. She presses her face into your chest.

Jack glances at you over her head, a subtle question in his eyes, you okay? You nod, almost imperceptibly. He accepts that answer without pressing.

Then he refocuses on your daughter again. His voice drops even lower, gentle and steady.

“I’m going to be super gentle, and you get to hold your Mommy’s hand the whole time. I’m also gonna give you some numbing medicine, so your eyebrow won’t feel much of anything.”  

“Okay, then I think I dare,” she says,with a determined whisper, burrowing her face back into your chest. 

You can’t help but smile at her choice of language. You and Jack catch each other’s gaze for just a second and in that brief moment, it’s almost like the world outside the room disappears. 

She gets two small stitches. Jack moves with a quiet precision, each motion deliberate and measured. He listens, explains, lets her keep her dignity, in a way that makes something in your chest ache, sharp and reverent all at once.

Jack keeps his voice low as he works, steady enough that it becomes part of the room’s rhythm. He isn’t rushing, or indulgent, just present.

“Alright,” he murmurs as he finishes prepping. “I’m going to start now. You don’t have to do anything except keep sitting still and holding mom’s hand, okay?”

Your daughter nods once against you, solemn. Her fingers curl tighter into your scrub top, the fabric bunching under her fist. You feel the tiny tremor in her body before she stills again, trusting you to hold the fear for her. Hearing Jack mentioning you so naturally, so without hesitation, does something quiet and seismic inside you.

You are a mom, her mom. It’s a role he hasn’t seen you in before, up close, unguarded, instinctive. Something in your chest gives way at that. 

The first stitch goes in cleanly. She makes a small sound, more surprise than pain, and you immediately murmur reassurance, pressing your cheek to the crown of her head. Your hand moves in slow, familiar circles along her back, grounding both of you.

“That’s one,” Jack says softly. “You’re doing really well.”

Your daughter stiffens for half a second at the sensation, then exhales against you when nothing terrible follows. Her body loosens again, trusting the pattern now. Jack’s calm voice, your steady hold, the quiet truth that she is not alone in this.

You feel it in your bones, that trust. The way she gives the fear to you without ceremony, like it’s always been yours to carry.

“I’m gonna do the other now,” Jack sys gently, more for her than for himself. “Still doing great.”

She nods into your chest, a small, solemn movement, like she’s taking the job seriously. Her fingers flex once in your scrub top, then relax.

Jack works with the same careful precision, his hands steady, unhurried. He narrates just enough to keep her grounded, not enough to overwhelm her. The second stitch goes in as smoothly as the first.

She flinches, just a breath of movement, and then it’s over.

“And two,” Jack says quietly. “All done with the stitches.”

There’s a beat of silence where the words don’t quite register for her yet. Then. “Really?” she asks, muffled, the same way she always asks when she’s braced for more.

“Really,” Jack says, smiling. “You were incredibly brave.” 

He holds a hand up for a high five. She peeks up at him at that, lashes still clumped just a little, eyes wide and searching his face for confirmation. Then she lifts her hand on her noninjured arm and gives him a careful, deliberate high five. It lands soft, more ceremonial than forceful, but Jack treats it like it’s the most solid thing in the world.

“There it is,” he says, warmth unmistakable now. “Perfect form.”

A smile breaks fully across her face, crooked and proud and still a little wobbly at the edges, accompanied with the sweetest little giggle. She immediately turns and buries it against your chest again, as if embarrassed by her own bravery now that it’s been witnessed.

You meet his eyes. You mouth a thank you. Jack nods. It’s small, almost nothing, but it carries weight. He understands what you’re thanking him for. There’s no swell of music, no cinematic pause. Just the quiet aftermath of something tender having happened in front of both of you, something neither of you pretended not to see.

You realize, with a strange clarity, that this is the first time he’s really seen you like this. Not the competent nurse who can anticipate orders before they’re spoken, not the colleague who trades dry humor at the station to survive another night shift. But with your heart wide open and bleeding quietly behind your ribs while you hold your child together with instinct and love. 

He looks back to your daughter, instinctively, the way you do when you want to keep the center of gravity where it belongs.

“Alright, superstar,” he says softly. “I’m just going to clean this up and put a little bandage on. Then you get to keep sitting right here.” 

Your daughter hums sleepily in approval, cheek pressed to your chest, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles into your scrub top. The adrenaline has fully drained now, leaving only that heavy, boneless calm that comes after fear has burned itself out.

Jack finishes quietly. Gauze, a careful strip of tape, hands that never tug more than necessary. He peels off his gloves and disposes of them, movements efficient but unhurried, like he’s deliberately resisting the ER’s constant pull to rush. 

The calm doesn’t last long. Her arm still needs to be looked at. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and kiss the top of her head. “You did so good, baby,” you whisper, voice low and steady even as something inside you braces again.

Your daughter hums faintly in response, eyes fluttering but not quite closing. When she shifts, the movement is careful, instinctive, but the moment her hurt arm bumps against your side, she makes a small whimper. 

Your chest tightens. Jack catches it immediately.

“Can I see?” she asks, voice small, tentative, like she’s not sure she wants the answer but needs to ask anyway.

“Of course,” you say, even though a part of you would prefer her not to, in case it will scare her. But you also believe that pretending something isn’t there is worse than letting her face it with you beside her. 

You take your phone from your pocket and turn on the front camera. You angle it so she can see without having to move much, your hands steady despite the faint tremor still humming under your skin. 

She studies the screen seriously, brow furrowed in concentration. Her free hand lifts, hovering over the bandage, before lowering it again. 

“You might get a little battle scar,” Jack says gently, finishing the thought with care. “But it’ll fade. And until then, it’s proof you were very brave.”

Her eyes flick from the screen to him, weighing that idea. “Battle scar?” she repeats, testing the words like she’s rolling them around to see how they feel.

Jack nods, solemn as if this is a matter of record. “Yep.”  

Then she nods once, solemn acceptance settling in like a decision she’s proud of. “Okay,” she says quietly. 

You watch the exchange with a tender kind of awareness that sits low and quiet in your chest. There’s a tenderness in the way he frames it, like he understands intimately that scars are not just marks left behind, but proof of surviving something that could have taken more. 

And of course he does. Because Jack knows what it means to carry proof on your body. 

“Okay,” he says softly, already moving back toward you. No urgency in his tone, but no delay either. “Let’s take a look at that arm now.” 

Jack pulls the stool closer again and sinks down in front of you, movements measured and familiar. He doesn’t rush the moment your daughter whimpers, but waits for her to settle first, for her breathing to even back out against your chest. 

When she finally feels ready, she sticks her arm out for him to look at. He examines her arm the same way he did everything else, slow and deliberate, hands light. He watches her face more than the arm, catching every flicker of discomfort. When she stiffens near her wrist, he stops immediately.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve seen this pattern a thousand times. Knowing it doesn’t make your chest feel any less tight.

“I want to get an x-ray,” Jack says softly, glancing up at you. Not alarmist, but not minimizing it either, just honesty.

The word lands quietly but solidly. You nod before he even finishes the sentence. There’s no debate in you about it, just that familiar, steady click of yes, of course, do what we need to do. You’ve lived on this side of decisions long enough to trust the rhythm.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I figured.” 

Your daughter lifts her head a little, eyes heavy-lidded but alert at the word she doesn’t recognise. “What’s an x-way?”

Jack shifts closer again, keeping his voice gentle, explanatory without being scary. “It’s like taking a picture of the inside of your arm,” he says. “So we can see if the bone got a little bend when you fell.”

She frowns, processing. “Does it hurt?”

“Nope,” he says immediately. “It doesn’t hurt, you just need to sit still for a minute.”

She seems to accept that, then adds, very seriously, “I can sit still.”

You smile despite the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, you’re very good at that.” 

Jack’s mouth curves, at that. Not a full smile, it’s something quieter. Respectful. Like he’s clocking the truth of it.

“Right,” he tells her. “You’ve been proving that all night.”

She looks absurdly proud of that, chin lifting a fraction before the exhaustion pulls her back down. Her forehead finds its place against your collarbone again, like gravity has finally remembered its job.

Jack straightens and looks at you, really looks this time. “I’ll have radiology come down here,”  he says quietly. “No reason to move her if we don’t have to,” he finishes.

Relief loosens something in your chest you hadn’t realized you were bracing. You nod once. “Thank you.”

Jack holds your gaze a fraction longer than necessary, like he’s checking that you’re still upright on the inside too, not just by habit. You offer him a tired smile and he returns it, subtle but real. 

“I need to go check on a patient,” he finishes quietly, already half-turning toward the door. Then he pauses, like something pulls him back. “I will call radiology first. And I’ll be close,” he adds. Not dramatic. Not a promise that needs weight, just information, just enough.

You nod. “Okay. Thank you”

Jack slips out, the door closing softly behind him, and the room settles into that in-between quiet that only exists when something hard has already happened and the next thing hasn’t arrived yet.

Your daughter is fully boneless now, the last of her adrenaline spent. Her breathing evens out against you, slow and warm, her forehead tucked beneath your chin like she’s found the exact place she belongs. One small hand still fists your scrub top out of habit, even in sleep.

You adjust your hold minutely, careful of her arm, careful of everything. Your body knows how to do this without being told. You press a kiss into her hair and let your eyes close for half a second longer than you probably should. 

You can’t help but think about Jack. You don’t try to stop the thought. You’re too tired to police it, and honestly, it’s been hovering at the edges of you all night anyway. The way he made space for both versions of you without comment.

You don’t let yourself spin this into anything more than it is. You’re good at restraint. You’ve had to be. But still, there’s something different about the way Jack sees you. Not in a sweeping, romantic way, but in the way that matters when things fall apart at three in the morning.

Your daughter sighs softly in her sleep, a tiny sound of contentment, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. You tighten your arms around her just a fraction, grounding yourself in the weight of her.

The door opens quietly again, and you don’t even look up at first. You know his footsteps now. You feel them before you hear them.

Jack pauses just inside the room when he sees your daughter asleep against you. His expression softens in that unguarded way you’ve come to recognize, the one he doesn’t seem aware he’s wearing.

“She out?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Finally.”

He nods, like that tracks. Like he expected it. He steps closer, careful, glancing at her arm, the bandage on her eyebrow, the way she’s tucked into you like she’s claimed you as her anchor.

Radiology’s already on their way,” he says. “They’ll be quick.”

“Okay.”

There’s another pause. Not awkward, just full.

“I’ll come back when they get here.” Jack doesn’t move right away after he says it.

He stands there for a beat longer than necessary, weight settled into one side. His eyes flick once more to your daughter, then back to you. It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t need to be. The understanding is already there, layered and solid from years of shared shifts and unspoken things.

Jack steps back out into the hall, leaving the door cracked just long enough that the sounds of the ER bleed softly into the room instead of crashing. Then the room exhales again.

You shift slightly on the bed, adjusting your daughter so her weight is more evenly supported. She makes a small noise in her sleep, a soft protest, then relaxes again. You get your phone out to text your parents, thumb hovering for a second before you type.

She needed a few stitches, she took it like a champ. Waiting for an x-ray on her arm just to be safe. She’s asleep now. I’ll update you soon. You add a heart you don’t usually bother with, then send it before you can overthink it.  

You tuck the phone back into your pocket, the bed creaks softly as you adjust again, instinctively shifting to keep her arm supported. 

The door opens again not long after, a soft knock, then the roll of equipment. Radiology, quiet and efficient. Jack is with them, of course. He catches your eye immediately, gives you a small nod that says I’ve got it, still.

Your daughter stirs a little in your arms.

“Hey, superstar,” Jack murmurs, keeping his voice low. “We’re just going to take that picture we talked about.”

Your daughter stirs more at the sound of his voice, blinks once, then burrows closer into you instead of pulling away. A sleepy whine ghosts out of her throat.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

The tech explains things gently, positioning the portable machine with practiced care. Jack helps guide your daughter’s arm into place, his hands steady, never rushing her, never forcing the moment. When she whimpers, he pauses instantly, waiting until her breathing smooths again before continuing.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Just like that.”

The image is taken quickly. The machine hums, then stills. The tech murmurs a quiet thank-you and slips out again, leaving the room with that same reverent quiet it entered with.

Jack stays where he is, eyes on the screen now, posture relaxed but intent. You don’t ask. You just watch his face, the way you always do. 

Jack studies the image for a long second, head tilted just slightly, the way it always is when he’s lining things up in his mind. The room feels very still around you, like everything has leaned in to listen.

“Okay,” he says quietly, turning back to you. “Good news.”

The words don’t hit all at once. They spread instead, slow and warm, loosening something deep in your chest that’s been clenched since the moment you saw her on the gurney.

“No fracture,” Jack continues, voice still low, still careful. “Just a sprain. It’s going to be sore for a bit, but nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your shoulders drop. You press your lips into your daughter’s hair, eyes closing for the briefest second as relief washes through you.

“You’ll get a splint to keep it comfortable for a few days,” Jack says, sitting back down in front of your little girl like he has all the time in the world. 

Her eyes widen with concern. “A splint?” 

You understand her concern immediately. “A splint, baby,” you murmur softly. “Not a splinter.”

Jack huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, catching himself before it becomes one, but he smiles. “Yeah, no splinters,” he says gently. “I promise.”

Your daughter blinks at him, processing through the fog of exhaustion. “Splinters are mean,” she informs him solemnly.

“They really are,” Jack agrees, like this is serious medical consensus. “But this is more like a glove. It gives your wrist a little rest while it feels better.”

“Oh,” she says, the word soft and sleepy, like the worry has already started to loosen its grip. 

You catch Jack’s gaze over her head, and there’s that quiet, steady reassurance in his eyes again. It warms your chest in a way that’s both familiar and unsettlingly tender. 

He gets the splint, it looks so small in his hands. “Alright,” he says quietly. “This is going to help your arm rest for a few days.”

She watches him with heavy-lidded seriousness, trust intact even through the fog of sleep. When he reaches for her wrist, he does it slowly, giving her time to register the movement before it happens. His touch is careful, practiced in a way that comes from long familiarity with bodies that hurt.

“I’m gonna get discharge started so you can take her home,” Jack continues quietly, finishing the thought without urgency. “She’s earned her own bed tonight.”

“I’ll call my parents to come get her, I still have a few hours left of the shift.”

Jack huffs, something between a breath and a quiet laugh, and shakes his head once. “You take her home,” he says, gently but firmly, like this isn’t a suggestion. “Get your four days off started early.”

You open your mouth on instinct. It’s habit and training. A lifetime of swallowing your own needs before they inconvenience anyone else.

“Jack, I—”

“I know,” he says softly, already ahead of you. There’s no impatience in his voice, no edge. Just understanding. “You don’t want to leave the floor short. But we will be fine, there is someone who needs you more right now.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks, past the scrubs and the composure you wear so easily at work. His gaze drops briefly to your daughter, then comes back to your face, softer now.

He doesn’t need to say anything, you feel it all the way into the marrow of your bones. The weight of his regard settles low in your chest, steady and grounding, just like the way his hands have been all night. It’s the look of someone who understands exactly what it means to keep showing up even when it costs you, someone who has learned, painfully, how to put other people first and live with what’s left over.

Something in your throat tightens.

He clears his own, subtle, like he’s catching himself before he says too much. “She needs you,” he repeats, quieter now. Not as an argument, but as a truth.

Your daughter shifts slightly, her forehead pressing more firmly into the hollow of your neck, her injured arm tucked safely between you. The instinct to stay with her flares so bright it almost hurts.

You nod once. “Yeah… I’ll take her home.”

“Good,” he says quietly. 

Something in your chest melts at the simplicity of it. No bravado, no dramatics. Just him, presentn and steady. 

He leaves to finish the discharge paperwork. You watch him go, the soft click of the door closing behind him lingering in the air. You call your parents to update them, your voice soft, careful not to wake the now sleeping girl in your arms. 

You agree that they should just drive home and that you take your daughter home with you. They will come over tomorrow afternoon to visit her. 

You thank them quietly for always taking so good care of her, keeping your tone low so it won’t stir your daughter. Tonight was not their fault, and you don’t want them to blame themself. And you really do appreciate them so much.  “I’ll text you when we’re home safe.”  you murmur as a last goodbye.

After hanging up, you pause for a moment, just holding her. Her little chest rises and falls against you, and the steady rhythm feels like the only thing that matters in the world right now. You press a soft kiss to her hair, brushing a loose strand from her forehead. 

A little while later, there is a knock on the door and Bridget peeks her head in. “Hey, I should say from Abbot that you’re cleared for takeoff.” 

You smile softly, careful not to wake your daughter, and whisper, “Thanks, Bridge.” 

“How’s she doing?”

You shift slightly, adjusting your daughter in your arms so she’s more comfortable, and glance up at Bridget. “Sleeping,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Everything’s fine now. Just tired from the excitement.”

Bridget nods, smiling as she glances at the little girl curled against you. “Good. Dr. Abbot said she handled everything really well.”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the mention of his name. You brush another loose strand of hair from your daughter’s forehead. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice soft. “She did. And he… he was really great with her.” 

Bridget gives a small, knowing smile. “I can see why,” she says quietly, almost to herself, before slipping out and closing the door gently behind her.

You stay for a moment longer, just holding your daughter, feeling the quiet steadiness of the night around you. When you finally shift to leave the room, you move slowly, carefully, like the world might crack if you rush it. You slide off the bed, adjust your grip on the sleeping girl in your arms, and ease the door open with your shoulder.

The hallway is dimmer now, the night shift easing into that early-morning calm where everything finally slows. Fewer voices, fewer alarms, just the low hum of the hospital breathing around you.

When you turn down the hallway heading towards the staff lockers, your steps are unhurried, instinctively measured to the rhythm of her breathing. 

A few coworkers pass you with gentle smiles and words, but no one stops you. The night seems to understand what you’re carrying.

Your shoulder brushes the wall as you adjust your grip again, careful of her arm, and you feel the weight of the last few hours finally settling into your muscles. Exhaustion, but also relief. The kind that leaves you hollow and light all at once.

When you pass a patient room, Jack steps out into the hallway, lifting his stethoscope back around back around his neck as he leaves the room. He looks up and stops. For a split second, he just watches you.

The lights catch the tired lines around his eyes, the ones you usually pretend not to notice. His gaze moves instinctively to your daughter, her small body slack with sleep against you, then back to your face. Something softens in him, something unguarded.

“Hey,” he says quietly, already lowering his voice.

“Hey,” you answer, just as soft.

“She still out?” he asks, nodding toward her.

“Completely,” you murmur. “Didn’t even flinch when we moved.”

“Good,” he says, like it genuinely matters to him. He steps aside without thinking, clearing your path. “You heading to the lockers?”

You nod. “Yeah. Then home.”

“And you’re okay?”

You take a breath, feel it all the way down. “I think so. Just… tired.”

He gives a small nod, understanding written all over his face. “Let me help grab your stuff.”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. He just falls into step beside you, matching your pace like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The locker area is quiet, Jack reaches your locker before you can even shift your weight to free a hand. You tell him your locker code without thinking twice, the numbers slipping out of you on instinct, like trust has already made the decision for you. 

He gets your jacket and your bag, the small, ordinary pieces of a life that feels anything but ordinary tonight. 

“Here,” he murmurs, holding the jacket open so you can slide an arm through. 

When you hesitate, balancing her weight, he steps closer, gently settling it around your shoulders. His fingers brush your collarbone for the briefest second before he pulls back, like he’s reminding himself where the line is.

“You’ve got it?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He slings your bag over his own shoulder without asking. “I’ll walk you out.” 

A part of you wants to protest, he has already spent more time than anyone could reasonably expect tonight, but the words never quite make it past your lips. You’re too tired to argue. Too grateful to try. And you know that he wouldn’t offer it if he couldn’t spare the time to do it. 

So you just nod, and let him. 

He doesn’t make a joke about favoritism or professionalism, or anything else that might fracture the quiet you’re carrying with you. He just stays beside you, steady and unshowy, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He steps aside to hold the door of the employee exit open for you, then falls back in beside you as you head toward the parking lot. His gaze keeps drifting to your daughter, to the way her face is relaxed in sleep, her fingers curled lightly into your scrubs.

When you reach your car, he sets your bag down carefully and turns back to you. For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words feel too small for everything he’s done, but they’re the only ones you have.

He shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t want the weight of gratitude. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” you reply. “But I want to.”

His mouth curves into something soft at that. Tired, but real. He glances at your daughter again, then back to you.

He doesn’t have to utter a word. The way he looks at you is enough. Enough to say, I see you. I get you. I care.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself, then nods once. “She’s… incredible,” Jack says finally, voice low. His words are not clinical, nor polite, they are honest. “You’re doing a really good job.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you,” you say, voice even lower than his. “You were amazing with her. Never too late to shift to pediatrics,” you add quietly, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. It probably would be too late, and you would hate if he wasn’t exactly where he is. 

He huffs a soft breath at that, something close to a laugh but quieter, more private. “I think I’d miss the chaos too much,” he says, then, after a beat. 

You know what he means. “Yeah, some people just thrive in chaos,” you murmur, letting the words trail off.

He nods slowly. For a heartbeat, there’s just the two of you in that parking lot, the world holding its breath around you. He shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pants pockets. He looks down at the pavement for a second. When he looks back up, his eyes are softer again, and gives a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“You should get her home,” he says gently. Not a dismissal, but a kindness. “Get some rest,” he then adds. “Both of you.”

“We will.”

You settle your daughter carefully into her car seat in the back before closing the door. When you straighten up again, Jack is handing you your bag. You take it with a soft smile before stepping to the driver’s side.

You pause in the car doorway, hand still on the handle, and glance back at him. He meets your gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and in that look, something unspoken passes between you. Years of shared shifts, quiet understanding, the weight of your lives carried alongside one another, all of it rests there in that silent stretch. 

“She’s really lucky to have you,” he says finally, voice low, almost lost in the night air, but weighted with something that makes your chest tighten. Then, after a fraction of a second, like he’s correcting himself for your sake.

You swallow, the words settling in your chest like sunlight through fog. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, and the air between you hums with all the things you’ve never said aloud.

You manage a small, tired smile, fingers curling around the handle of the car door a little tighter. “Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely more than breath, but it carries more than you could ever fit into a longer sentence.

“Get home safe…” he adds, letting the words hang just long enough to be felt rather than rushed. His eyes meet yours again, soft and steady, holding a quiet weight that doesn’t need to be named.

You give a small nod, a smile tugging at your lips despite the fatigue. “We will,” you reply softly, fingers brushing the handle of the car door like a quiet tether to reality.

As you pull out of the lot, you glance once in the rearview mirror. He’s still there, watching until you’re gone.

On the backseat, your daughter stirs slightly in sleep. The road stretches ahead, quiet except for the hum of the tires, and for a moment, everything else falls away. And somewhere behind you, Jack is back inside the Pitt, bathed in fluorescent hospital lights. 

You glance back at the precious little girl behind you in the rearview mirror, her small chest rising and falling in soft rhythm, and your heart swells with a tenderness that feels too big for words. 

Then you look back at the road ahead, and let the weight of the night settle, heavy but gentle. There’s exhaustion, yes, but also a rare clarity.

The automatic doors slide open with their familiar hiss. The smell hits you first, antiseptic and something faintly plasticky, the undertone you never quite stop noticing once you’ve learned it. 

You clip your badge on and let muscle memory take over, even as something in your chest lags half a step behind.

“Welcome back,” Bridget calls from the nurses station, not looking up from the screen she’s glaring at. “We survived without you, but morale was questionable.”

You huff a quiet laugh, stepping closer to the counter. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

She glances up then, her expression softening when she really looks at you. “How’s your girl?”

The question lands gently, but it still tugs something open in your chest. “Good,” you say, warmth threading through the word without you trying to put it there. “Still sore. Still dramatic about it.”

“As she should be,” Bridget says solemnly. 

“Yeah, she has earned it.” You smile, small and real, then turn toward the board. Your name is slotted in where it always is. Same type of assignments. Same rhythm. Familiar enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting how different you feel. But also just almost.

Your fingers brush the strap of your bag on your shoulder, inside it, between all your usual things, is a folded piece of paper pressed flat and careful. Crayon wax has a way of leaving itself behind. On fingers, on tables, on everything it touches. Bright, unapologetic color that refuses to stay contained.

You’d tried to talk her out of it, just a little. But she had been very insistent. It was your own fault really. You had told her that her grandparents probably would be so happy if she made them a drawing to show how much better her wrist had gotten, and she had taken that logic and run with it.

“What are you drawing?” you’d asked, watching her little hand drag a yellow crayon across the page with intense concentration. 

“An ice cream,” she’d said, like it was obvious. Like there was no other reasonable answer. “It’s for Dr. Jack.” 

You’d paused then, the way you do when something small catches unexpectedly in your ribs.

“For Dr. Jack?” you’d repeated, careful to keep your voice neutral.

She nodded, switching crayon with great seriousness. Then she glanced up at you, brows knitting just slightly, the stitches being a bit of a hindrance. “Will you give it to him?” 

You’d looked at her for a long second, at the careful way she kept her wrist still, at the seriousness with which she waited for your answer, like this mattered in a way that deserved your full attention. There were a dozen adult reasons crowding the back of your mind. Boundaries, lines, the quiet instinct to keep work and home from bleeding into each other.

But none of them felt like something you could explain to a four year old with crayon on her fingers and trust in her eyes. “He likes ice cream,” she’d said, like that settled the matter completely. 

The thought of giving it to him makes a weird ache appear in your chest, but there was no way you could deny her that. Not when she was offering something so freely, when she believed, so completely, that kindness was meant to be passed along.

“Yeah, I can give it to him,” you’d said finally. 

She’d smiled then, satisfied, and gone back to her drawing like the matter was settled. Now, standing back in the Pitt, that promise presses against your side with every step you take. 

You head for the lockers to stash your things before the night really starts. The metal door squeaks slightly when you open it, the sound familiar, and you tuck your bag inside with more care than usual, like the folded paper might bruise if you’re not gentle.

You start your rounds. The ER has found its usual rhythm, controlled chaos. A language you speak fluently, even when you’re tired, even when your chest still feels a half-beat behind.

Vitals, charting, a quick check-in with a patient who insists he’s “fine now” despite all evidence to the contrary. The night settles into you slowly, like a familiar coat you haven’t worn in a few days, but still yours, still shaped to your shape, just a little heavier than you remember. 

But the shift pulls you in the way it always does. A patient who needs reassurance more than medication. A resident who looks at you like you’re the answer key. You move through it smoothly, competence settling over you like a second skin. This part of you still fits. It always has.

And then. “Hey.”

You turn before you even think about it. Jack is standing a few feet away, a pen in hand, posture loose but alert. He looks tired in the familiar way, the kind that never quite leaves, but his eyes soften when they land on you.

“You’re back,” he says.

“Yeah,” you reply. 

He nods once. “How’s our little superstar doing?”

Straight to the heart of it. He always does that. “She’s good,” you say, and the warmth in your chest steadies the word. “Wrist’s healing. She’s very proud of herself.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “She should be.”

There’s a pause. Not necessarily awkward, just open. 

The pause stretches just long enough for a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. “You have been missed. Mr. Jenkins has kept asking about you,” he adds, voice dropping into that teasing lilt that always makes your chest tighten just a little. 

You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course he has.”

Mr. Jenkins, who has been a recurring fixture in the ER for long enough that everyone knows his preferences. Chronic COPD, a stubborn streak a mile wide, and an uncanny ability to arrive just before shift change. He’s opinionated, loud, and strangely protective of “his” nurses.

Jack’s smile turns fond in that way it only ever does when he’s talking about patients who’ve wormed their way under his skin. “Third time today. Asked if you’d quit. I said no. He said, and I quote, ‘Well then she better hurry back, because this place runs worse without her.’”

Your chest does that stupid, traitorous thing again, because the way Jack says it makes it sounds like he agrees whole heartily with Mr. Jenkins. “He said that before or after he refused his meds?” 

Jack’s eyebrows lift. “After. He said he’d cooperate once you were back on shift. I told him that was emotional blackmail.”

“And did it work?”

Jack glances down at his pen, then back up at you, lips twitching. “He took the meds.”

You shake your head, smiling now, unable to help it. “Unbelievable.”

“He’s in three,” Jack adds, already half-turning his body back toward the chaos of the department. “Stable. Grumpy. Very disappointed you weren’t here,” Jack finishes. “He feels abandoned.” 

“I hope he will forgive me, and if he doesn’t, then let him be grumpy for a while,” you finish, dry. “He does it so well.”

Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, the sound brief but real. “That he does.”

He lingers a beat longer than necessary, eyes flicking over your face like he’s checking something he won’t name out loud. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him. He gives a small nod, already turning away again.

That annoying, familiar ache settles in your chest again as he turns away, sharper this time, like you moved too fast on a still-healing muscle.

You watch him go for half a second longer than you need to. Not because you’re hoping he’ll turn back, he won’t, but because there’s something grounding in the familiar line of his shoulders disappearing into motion, into purpose. Into the same place you live for twelve hours at a time.

When you turn you find Bridget watching you with one eyebrow very deliberately raised.  

“What?” you say, already defensive.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, noncommittal and deeply smug.

You stare at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she just repeats, shrugging like she’s the picture of innocence.

“You didn’t have to,” you reply. “Your face did all the talking.”

She nods, satisfied that you didn’t dodge it. “You’re just having that look again,” Bridget says mildly.

“What look?” you ask, already knowing exactly which one she means.

“The one where you look like you’re thinking very hard about something you absolutely should not be thinking very hard about while on shift.”

You scoff, shifting the chart in your hands. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm.” She leans an elbow on the counter, eyes flicking once, very pointedly, down the hall Jack disappeared into, then back to you. “Sure you don’t. Now go see Mr. Jenkins, he’s been asking for you.”

“God help me,” you mutter, turning toward room three.

“And hey,” she adds as you walk away, voice lighter again, “it’s good to have you back.”

You knock on the door to room three and before you step inside, Mr. Jenkins’ voice cuts through the gap. “If that’s another doctor telling me to be patient, they can turn right around.”

You push the door open fully. “Good evening, Mr. Jenkins.”

There’s a pause. Then a very deliberate sniff. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says, squinting at you like you might be a mirage. “You finally showed.”

“Miss me?” you ask lightly, already moving to his bedside, checking his oxygen, his monitor, the familiar numbers settling into place.

He makes a sound between a sigh and a scoff. “This place hasn’t been right without you. Told them that.”

“You tell everyone that?”

“No,” he says firmly. “Just the ones who try to drown me in meds.”

You smile despite yourself. “Funny, I heard from Dr. Abbot that you took them just fine.”

He looks away, muttering. “Temporary lapse in judgment.” 

You finish your checks, efficient and gentle, the rhythm of care grounding you. This, these small, human exchanges, is where the two versions of you overlap. The mother who worries about scraped knees and a little girl who insists on sleeping in your bed, because she’s not sleeping great on her own lately, and the nurse who knows exactly how much oxygen he needs. Both present, and both necessary.

When you’re done, you straighten. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

He eyes you. “You better.” 

You leave the room with a soft smile and a shake of your head, easing the door shut behind you until his muttering fades back into the steady soundtrack of the ER. You almost walk right into Jack as you step back into the hallway. You both freeze in that awkward half-step, your smile still lingering because you didn’t have time to tuck it away.

“You look less grumpy being back at this place than I would,” he teases, like it’s a measured observation, not really an insult.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you’re not fully sure you’re succeeding. “Wow. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night.”

He shrugs. “I’m a giver.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch anyway. “Generous and humble. Got it.”

Jack glances down the hallway, then back at you. “Seriously though… you holding up okay? First shift back after four days off can either ruin you or remind you why you put up with us.”

“Remind me why,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to him, and he laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest unclench a little.

Before either of you can get too comfortable, the moment gets interrupted when Lena approaches, phone in hand and a serious look on her face. 

“We got a trauma alert level one coming in five minutes,” she says, already moving past you toward the board.

The shift snaps tight around you instantly

Jack’s smirk falters, replaced by focus. “Looks like your reminder just arrived.” He looks at you for half a second before turning to Lena. “If anything needs to be cleared, clear it,” he finishes. “I want trauma two ready and respiratory on standby.” 

“On it,” Lena replies, already halfway down the hall.

“I’ll prep two,” you say, not waiting for confirmation. You don’t need it.

Jack’s eyes flick to you, quick and assessing. A nod. “I’ll meet you there.”

Muscle memory takes over completely now, smooth and practiced. This version of you doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t overthink, it just does.

It’s one of those cases that stick. You work for hours trying to perform a miracle. Time fractures. There’s only the room, the patient, the rhythm of commands and responses. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck. Your feet ache, but you don’t shift your weight. You don’t dare break the rhythm for even a second. 

A seventeen year old boy, accidentally shot by a friend who swore the gun wasn’t loaded. Too young for this kind of damage, too young for the kind of stillness that settles over the room when things start to get worse in quiet, terrifying ways. 

The miracle never comes. You’re still working when the room begins to change. Voices drop. Movements become smaller, more deliberate. The choreography shifts from urgency to inevitability.

Someone calls out the time. It sounds far away, like it belongs to another room, another night. You step back because there’s nothing left for your hands to do. Someone pulls a sheet up with careful respect, covering too much, and somehow not enough at the same time. The room exhales a collective breath it’s been holding too long.

Jack stays where he is, eyes fixed on the patient for a beat longer than necessary. When he finally looks away, you see it, just a flicker, quickly banked. The weight of it settles into the lines around his mouth.

“Good work, everyone,” he says quietly. Not perfunctory, it’s fully meant.

You nod, because that’s what you do when there’s nothing else to say.

Later, because there is always a later, you’re at the sink, scrubbing your hands until the skin starts to sting, but you don’t stop right away. You need the burn. You need something to anchor you back in your body. 

There are still other patients, other people who rely on you. A young toddler with a fever that won’t break. A woman with a nasty burn, who is more wrapped in guilt than gauze because she spilled the pot herself, and keeps apologizing like pain is a moral failing. An elderly man who just wants someone to sit with him for five minutes because his wife died last winter and nights are the hardest.

You move through them all. You explain, you reassure, you adjust IVs and tuck blankets and keep your voice steady even when something inside you feels bruised and tender. The ER doesn’t slow down out of respect for grief, it never has. It just keeps asking things of you, one after another, until the sharp edge dulls enough to function around.  

When morning comes, you finish your last round of charting with hands that ache in that familiar, deep way, your chest feeling just a little too heavy.  

The ER hums with shift change, voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the subtle exhale of people clocking out and people clocking in. 

You sling your bag over your shoulder and take a few steps toward the exit, before you stop. You haven’t really seen Jack since the trauma, only in passing a few times. It’s not unusual. Attendings disappear between dawn and handoff all the time, pulled into meetings, consults, the quiet administrative afterlife of a long night. You tell yourself that as you stand there, bag digging into your shoulder, the automatic doors a few steps away.

But something in your chest tugs, quiet and persistent. You think of the way he stood still after the trauma, like if he moved too fast something would crack. You think of the drawing tucked away in your bag. You hesitate only a second before turning around.

The elevator ride is slow in that way that feels personal, like it knows you’re tired and is daring you to rethink this. You stare at your reflection in the steel doors, washed out, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, the ghost of adrenaline still clinging to your posture. 

You tell yourself you’re just checking, just making sure he’s okay. That it’s normal to do so, that it is human. The door to the roof gives that familiar reluctant creak when you push it open.

Jack is there. The city stretches out behind him in quiet layers, traffic just beginning to thicken, the sky pale and undecided, like it hasn’t fully committed to being day yet. One hand is wrapped around a paper cup that’s long gone cold, he isn’t drinking it.

He doesn’t look back when the door creaks, and for a second you’re not sure if he’s heard you at all. Then he exhales, slow and measured.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer.

For a moment neither of you moves. The roof feels like a pocket outside of time, suspended between night and morning, between what happened during your shift and whatever comes next. The noise of the hospital doesn’t reach up here. Just wind and distant traffic, the sound of the city breathing.

“Thought you were security for a second,” he says quietly, still facing the skyline.

You step closer. “Sorry to disappoint.”

That gets him. He turns then, just enough to look over his shoulder, and the softness that crosses his face is small but unmistakable before he schools it away. 

“Not a disappointment.” 

The words hang between you, gentle and tired. You come to stand beside him, mirroring his posture without even thinking about it. Neither of you looks at the other right away. It feels easier that way, letting the quiet do some of the work.

For a long moment, there’s just the wind and the faint, far off sound of a siren threading through the streets below.

“That one…” he starts, then stops, swallows and tries again. “That one’s going to sit with me for a while.”

You don’t rush to fill the space. You’ve learned better than that. Some things need room.

“He was seventeen,” you say quietly. Not as a reminder, but as an acknowledgment. Cases like these always stick. 

“Yeah.” His voice is rougher now. “I hate that talk with the parents after,” he says, eyes still on the horizon. “No parent should outlive their kid.” 

You glance at him then. The lines at the corners of his eyes look deeper in the early light, the fatigue laid bare without the harsh fluorescents to hide it.

His words make your nurse heart break in that quiet, contained way you’ve gotten very good at. The kind that doesn’t shatter, just aches, low and steady, like a bruise you keep pressing without meaning to. But they make your mom heart shatter in a million sharp, breath-stealing pieces. 

You watch the city for a moment longer before you speak, because if you look at him when you say it, you might soften it. And you don’t want to.

“Do you ever wonder why we keep doing this?” you ask. The words aren’t dramatic, they’re almost casual, that’s what makes them feel dangerous.

Jack doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tighten around the paper cup, then relax again, he lets out a breath that sounds more tired than sad.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “More than I probably should.” 

You nod, eyes still forward. The sky is beautiful now, infuriatingly so. Pale gold edging the buildings, like the morning light finally has decided to break the night, pink bleeding into the golden like the sky is trying to soften the edges of what happened in the night, whether you’re ready for it or not.

“It almost feels wrong,” you say quietly. “The world keep being so beautiful, after a night like tonight.” 

He glances at you for a moment, you feel his eyes on you, you don’t dare to look back at him. He turns his eyes back to the morning sky again, and you gather enough courage to sneak a look at his profile. 

He’s still for a second, jaw set, gaze fixed on the skyline like it’s asking something of him he isn’t sure how to answer.

“It is,” he says quietly. “Beautiful.”

He lets the word sit there, unfinished, then exhales through his nose like he’s debating himself. 

You shift your weight, careful not to break the fragile quiet. “I have something for you,” you say with a quiet voice, “I promised to give it to you.” 

Jack finally shifts his weight, just a little, and glances over at you with the faintest raise of an eyebrow. Curiosity, careful and measured, dances in his gaze.

You take a deep breath before pulling the folded paper from your bag and holding it out carefully, like it’s fragile as the silence between you. Jack’s gaze flickers to the paper, then back to you, slow and deliberate.

You feel how your pulse catches in your chest, loud and insistent despite the quiet around you. Your fingers brush the edge of the paper as you extend it, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

His hand hovers for a moment before he finally reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he takes it. The contact is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten in a quiet, contained way.

He unfolds the paper carefully, reverently. His eyes track the lines of crayon slowly, the towering scoop of yellow and pink, the crooked cone, the careful, crooked attempt at letters that are spelling out his name. She had asked you for help, she had insisted on writing his name on the drawing. It had made your stomach twist a little at the time, something about it had felt too intimate, too much, but you’d kept that thought to yourself, so you had written his name on a piece of paper so she could copy it, brow furrowed in concentration, whispering the letters like a promise she didn’t want to get wrong.

Jack goes very still, his thumb gently slides over one of the uneven letters. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything at all. 

“It’s an ice cream…” you say softly, because you don’t know what else to say and the silence suddenly feels too heavy. You think she has done a really good job, but it’s still a crayon drawing made by a four year old and you don’t expect him to be as good at interpreting her drawings as you are, you are her mom after all. 

Something in his face softens in a way you’ve never quite seen before. “Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

You risk a glance at his face. He’s still looking down at the paper. The care in the way he holds it, the quiet attention, makes your chest twist

“She, uhm… she said you like ice cream,” you say softly, your voice careful, almost hesitant.

He smiles, a soft huff of a laugh slipping past him, quiet and unguarded. “I did say that, didn’t I?” His lips twitch, and there’s a faint warmth in his gaze as he finally looks up at you. “Guess she pays attention, huh?”

You nod “She does. She notices everything.”

He smiles softly, still holding the paper like it’s fragile. “She must have picked that up from her mom,” he says, and there’s no teasing edge to it. 

The gentleness of it catches you off guard. For a second, you don’t know what to do with it. “Occupational hazard,” you say finally, aiming for light, for deflection. “I’m paid to notice things.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he can see straight through that. 

“And she picks up my bad habits too,” you say, trying to aim for lightheartedness, for something that will dull the edge of what he just gave you.

His mouth curves faintly at that. Not amused exactly, more like he’s recognizing the shield you’re trying to lift. “That can’t be many,” he says quietly.

The compliment lands soft but deep. You feel it in your chest before you know what to do with it. You let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and surrender.

He folds the paper again, carefully, taking his time, like rushing would somehow cheapen the moment. When he looks up at you again, his eyes are bright in that way that makes your chest ache.

“Tell her thank you for me,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s a weight underneath it. The words land heavy and gentle all at once.

“I will,” you promise, just as quietly.

He tucks the folded drawing into the pocket of his pants, one hand lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s making sure it’s really there, safe.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sky is still soft with morning light, the city stretching awake beneath it. After everything the night held, the stillness feels almost sacred. You step a little closer, drawn by the quiet gravity of the moment, careful not to break it.

Jack tilts his head toward you, gaze soft but steady. “You okay?” he asks, voice low, carrying more than just concern, it’s the kind of question that reaches past the words and lands somewhere deeper.

You nod, slow and deliberate. “Yeah… I’m okay. Just tired. That’s all.”

He studies you for a heartbeat, as if weighing whether to press, then lets it go with a faint exhale, shoulders relaxing. “Good,” he says finally, and the word feels like a balm, quiet but full of meaning.

The wind brushes past you both, carrying the faint city sounds upward, and you notice how ordinary everything feels, yet impossibly fragile. 

“You should get home to your little one,” he says finally, voice soft, careful. 

You glance down at the street far below, your daughter’s face popping into your mind, bright, determined, still slightly wary of the dark at night. You can’t help but smile softly. “She will be on her way to daycare soon,” you say, tugging the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “I need to get home and sleep, so I can keep up with her energy later,” you finish softly, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. “It’s her first day back since she fell, so I’m expecting a full performance when I pick her up.” 

Jack lets out a quiet huff of amusement, the sound easy and warm, and for a moment, the wind carries it softly between you. “I can imagine,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. 

You glance at him, and the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to make your chest tighten again. He would have been a good dad. The thought lands before you can stop it.

It’s sudden and uninvited, blooming warm and aching in the center of your chest. The thought startles you with its certainty. Not in some abstract, hypothetical way. Not in the distant, polite sense people use when they mean someone is good with kids. 

You swallow and look away before your face can betray you. He’s watching the skyline again, unaware of the direction your thoughts just took. Or maybe he is aware in some sense, but kind enough to not to call it out. With him, it’s kind of hard to tell. 

You clear your throat softly, the sound almost lost to the wind. “You know… She talks about the ER like it’s a cartoon,” you say, aiming for neutrality, keeping it safe. “Thinks it’s just a place where people come in broken and we send them back out fixed.”

Jack huffs a quiet breath through his nose. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Yeah.” You fold your arms loosely over your chest, grounding yourself. “I let her think that. For now at least.”

He nods once. He understands the shape of that decision without you having to explain it. The choice to preserve softness. To delay the weight of reality for as long as possible, at least to a degree.

“You’re good at that,” he says after a moment.

“At what?”

“Protecting what matters.”

The words are simple. Unadorned. They land harder than anything else he’s said this morning.

You swallow, eyes fixed on the skyline. “That’s just… part of the job.”

He shakes his head slightly. “No. That’s you.”

You don’t answer right away, you can’t. A gush of wind  rushes across the rooftop, cool against skin that still feels overheated from the night. The city below keeps moving, unaware, unchanged.

You force a small exhale. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“I don’t think I am.” His voice is steady. Not teasing, not soft in a fragile way. Just certain.

You glance at him then, just for a second. His expression isn’t intense, it isn’t loaded, it’s simply observant, like he’s stating something clinical. A fact he’s arrived at after careful review. Silence stretches between you again, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It feels like something being acknowledged without being dissected.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag. “You’re good at it too,” you hear yourself say before you can reconsider.

“At what?” he asks, almost cautiously.

“Making people feel steady,” you answer. “Even when things aren’t.”

He doesn’t react immediately, he just watches the skyline like you are. But something shifts in his posture. A subtle stillness.

“I fake it well,” he says after a moment.

You shake your head. “No, you don’t.” A beat. “You don’t fake staying.”

That lands. You can tell. His jaw tightens slightly, then relaxes. “Part of the job,” he echoes softly.

“Yeah,” you say, but you both know that isn’t all of it.

The morning light has fully broken now, gold spilling across the rooftops. It paints everything in something forgiving. Makes sharp edges look softer than they are.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder. “I should go. If I don’t sleep at least a few hours, she’s going to run circles around me.” 

He nods, but he doesn’t step away. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Neither of you moves at first. The moment stretches, fragile but not fragile enough to shatter. Just thin. You glance toward the roof door. “You heading down too?”

“In a minute,” he says automatically, then looks at you again, like he’s reconsidering. The pause shifts. Softens. “Actually… yeah, I am.”

You offer him a faint smile, something small but real. “Race you?” you murmur, knowing full well neither of you has the energy for that.

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth. “Not a chance.”

“Rude,” you say lightly.

He steps toward the door anyway, reaching past you to push it open. “After you.”

You walk side by side toward the elevator, not touching, but close enough that you’re aware of him with every step. 

The elevator dings almost immediately, as if it’s been waiting. You step inside together. The doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into the small metal box. For a second, neither of you speaks. The hum of descent fills the quiet.

Then he slips his hands into his pockets, in the way he so often does. There’s the faintest pause. His brow lifts slightly. You see it, the moment his fingers brush paper. He stills, and then slowly pulls it back out. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing the crease with the side of his thumb. The bright crayon colors seem almost defiant under the sterile elevator lighting.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. There’s something in his expression that isn’t just about the drawing itself. It’s more about being seen. About a small person deciding, without hesitation, that he was worth color and effort and space on a page.

There’s a pause, and then he shifts, a small, deliberate movement that feels like he’s testing the air. “You still have Sundays off?”  he asks, voice casual enough that it almost passes for idle conversation.

You blink, caught a little off guard by the pivot. “Yeah, most of them.”

He doesn’t look at you immediately. He studies the drawing one more second, then folds it with the same careful precision as before. Edges aligned, crease pressed flat before looking at you. Only then does he look at you again, with a softness in his eyes that almost breaks you. 

“Maybe sometime, if you’re both up for it, we could… I don’t know… go get ice cream together. Me, you, and her. An ice cream for an ice cream.”

For a second, the elevator feels too small. You search his face for hesitation, for a hint that he’s offering something just to be polite and not because he means it. But there’s none. Just the steady, open, honest way he’s looking at you, like the idea itself is enough.

“She’d like that,” you say quietly.

He nods once, almost to himself. “Yeah?” 

“Mm,” you echo softly, letting the word stretch into the quiet hum of the elevator. Your shoulders relax a fraction, the tension of the night finally giving way to something lighter, something quietly tender.

Jack glances down at the folded paper, thumb brushing over the soft edge. “And you would like it too?” 

You nod, a small, almost shy movement. “Yeah… I would.” 

You have felt a tension, a pull, between you and Jack for so long, fragile, unspoken, threaded through long shifts, quiet moments, and half-smiles. It isn’t loud or dramatic, it lives in small gestures, in the way he notices details, in the careful attention he gives, in the spaces between words. 

Sometimes it has made you feel like you were going crazy, noticing him in the corners of your vision, remembering a laugh a beat too long, holding your breath when he brushed past during a shift. Your lives are, in many ways, so, so different, yet so similar in others. 

There is your age difference, of course, the separate rhythms that have shaped you. The experiences that have tempered him, the weight he carries with quiet certainty. 

Yet somehow, despite all the differences, you’re so similar in a way you can’t even fully articulate, as if you’ve been moving through parallel currents all this time, brushing against the same eddies of thought and care, noticing the same small details, responding to the same unspoken cues. Knowing the same kind of grief.

Most of the similarities aren’t loud or declarative, they’re in the way he holds the folded paper, careful and deliberate, the same way you would. The way he notices without needing to be told. The quiet gravity in his presence that mirrors the weight you carry yourself.

But you have never thought that he could feel the same way about you that you did about him, but the way he looks at you now, with that quiet softness and steady attention, tells you that maybe there is a chance that he might do.

The realization of that lands slowly. Not like a spark, or like something explosive. More like a tiny shift in gravity. It settles low in your chest, warm and unfamiliar

The elevator continues its descent before slowing with a soft ding, reaching the bottom floor. He glances at you, expression lighter now, teasing but warm. “I guess I have to find Robby now. And finishing the last of my charting.”

“Mm, he’s probably already dragging his feet somewhere,” you reply with a small smile. “Unless Shen took pity on you and did the handover for you,” you say with a lifted brow, and a hint of amusement, like you’re daring him to hope for it.

“One can hope. But you should get out of here,” he  he says, voice soft but firm, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You tilt your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips too. “Yeah… I really fucking should,” you admit, voice light but tired, the weight of the night still lingering in your shoulders.

You walk down the hallway slowly, the soft squeaks of your shoes against the polished linoleum echoing faintly. You say your goodbye to Jack, your chest tight in that familiar way.

He watches you for a moment, eyes steady, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Get some sleep,” he says softly, voice carrying that warmth that makes the words linger longer than they need to.