Abbot’s Girl

Favorite actors : pedro pascal, shawn hatosy, scarlett johansson, song hye-kyo, ewan mcgregor, aubrey plaza, winona ryder, rosamund pike, emily blunt, olivia cooke, eva green.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧

Favorite shows : the pitt, desperate housewives, got, las chicas del cable, the last of us, jojo bizarre adventure, the bear, respira.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, tension, drunk confession, physical attraction, forbidden.

a/n : FINALLY ! this is the tension that I was waiting for, and I’m so happy that we’re here 🤓

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 11 : No I Don’t Hate You

You didn’t even remember agreeing.

One second you were standing outside the hospital, exhausted, emotionally wrung out, telling yourself you needed sleep more than anything, and the next—

“…fine. One drink,” you had said.

Like your body had decided before your brain could catch up. The bar wasn’t loud. Not like the one from Robby’s birthday.

This one was quieter, tucked a few streets away from the hospital. Dim lights, low music, a handful of people scattered around. The kind of place where conversations didn’t have to compete with the noise.

Which made it worse. Because now there was nothing to hide behind. You sat across from Abbot at a small table, a drink already in your hand, your bag dropped carelessly by your feet.

You had barely eaten. Neither had he. A shared plate of something sat between you, mostly untouched except for the occasional absent-minded reach. For a while, it felt… normal. Suspiciously normal.

“You should’ve seen Langdon’s face,” you said, leaning back slightly, the alcohol already softening the edges of your exhaustion. “I thought he was gonna pass out before the patient did.”

Abbot scoffed lightly, taking a sip from his glass. “He panics internally. It’s subtle.”

“Subtle?” you raised an eyebrow. “He looked like he was negotiating with God mid-procedure.”

“That’s just his personality.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. There it was again. That ease. The kind that shouldn’t exist between the two of you—but did anyway.

You reached for a fry without really thinking about it at the same time he did. Your fingers brushed. Both of you paused for half a second. Then pulled back like nothing happened. “Go ahead,” he muttered.

“No, you—”

“I insist.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Wow. So polite all of a sudden.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You smirked faintly and took the fry. And somehow, that tiny, stupid moment lingered longer than it should’ve. The conversation drifted. From work to coworkers. From coworkers to stories.

From stories to… things that weren’t just ER-related anymore. You noticed it slowly. The shift.

He talked more. Not a lot—but more than usual. Shorter answers turned into actual sentences. Sarcasm softened just slightly at the edges. At some point, you realized you were watching him instead of just listening.

The way he held his glass. The way his jaw tightened when he disagreed with something. The way his eyes flicked up to you more often than before.

And then, “You’re staring.”

You blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You took a sip of your drink to buy time. “You just said something stupid, I was processing.”

“That wasn’t stupid.”

“It was.” A small pause. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying you in return now. “You look less tense,” he said. You scoffed lightly. “Alcohol.”

“Or you’re finally relaxing.”

You shrugged. “Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t look convinced. Another drink came. Then another. Not enough to lose control. Just enough to blur the edges. Enough to make things feel… lighter. Looser. Dangerously easier.

At some point, your knee brushed his under the table. Neither of you moved immediately. And that silence, that tiny, charged silence, lasted just a second too long before you shifted slightly in your seat. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like none of this meant anything. But it did.

You could feel it building. In the way conversations lingered. In the way eye contact lasted a little too long. In the way neither of you seemed in a hurry to leave.

Even though, just a few hours ago, all you wanted was to go home and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Now? You weren’t thinking about sleep anymore. And that was probably your first mistake.

The night stretched on without either of you really noticing. Glasses changed. Time passed. The low hum of the bar wrapped around the conversation like background noise you barely registered anymore.

You were leaning back in your chair now, one elbow resting on the table, absentmindedly turning your straw between your fingers as Abbot said something—half sarcastic, half serious, like always.

You let out a small breath of a laugh. “It’s okay,” you said lightly, eyes dropping to your drink, a faint smile playing on your lips. “I know you hate me anyway.”

You said it like a joke. Like it was obvious. Like it didn’t really matter. Just… a fact. Your fingers kept spinning the straw slowly, the ice clinking softly in your glass.

For a second, it felt like the conversation would just move on. Like he’d throw something back—another sarcastic comment, a dry remark, something to keep the balance you always had.

But he didn’t. The silence that followed was… off. Not heavy. Just, wrong.

You felt it before you looked up.

And when you did, Abbot was already looking at you. Not amused. Not annoyed. Just… still.

Like something in what you said had landed somewhere deeper than you expected. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was about to respond automatically, then stopped himself.

“You really think that?” he asked finally. No sarcasm. No teasing. Just quiet. And suddenly the straw between your fingers didn’t feel so interesting anymore.

You let out a soft, slightly tipsy laugh, waving it off like it was nothing. “It’s okay,” you added lightly, still smiling down at your glass. “I hate you too, that’s fair.”

It was meant to keep things easy. Balanced. Safe. But when you glanced up— Abbot hadn’t moved. He was still looking at you. Blank. Too blank.

Not sarcastic. Not amused. Just… still.

And there was something in his eyes—something quieter, sharper—that you didn’t quite catch in your slightly blurred state. Something that didn’t match the joke.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t push back. Didn’t tease. And that silence, that absence of his usual reaction, felt louder than anything he could’ve said.

Your fingers stopped playing with the straw. “…okay,” you muttered under your breath, suddenly aware of it. The air had shifted.

You shifted in your seat slightly, clearing your throat as you grabbed your glass, even though you didn’t drink. “Uh—” you let out a small breath, forcing a casual tone back in. “I should probably go home.”

You glanced toward the door briefly. “It’s late.” The excuse sounded thin even to you. But it was easier than sitting in whatever that silence had just become.

Something in him had shifted. You couldn’t name it exactly, but it was there. The lightness from earlier? Gone.

Not replaced by anger. Not even by coldness. Just… closed. Like he had quietly stepped back behind something you couldn’t see.

He reached for his wallet, settling the bill without much comment. “I’ll drive you,” he said simply. You shook your head almost immediately, grabbing your bag. “It’s fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual. “I don’t live far. I can walk.”

You didn’t add the real reason : you didn’t want to sit in that silence any longer than you had to.

Abbot looked at you. Really looked this time. “It’s late,” he said, tone calm but firm. “And you’ve been drinking.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Still.” A small pause. Then, quieter—but not softer, “It’s not safe.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Because something in his tone made it clear, this wasn’t up for debate. Not in a controlling way. Just… decided.

So you nodded once. “Okay.”

And that was it. The night air hit you again as you stepped outside the bar. Cooler now. Quieter. The city had settled into that late-hour stillness where everything felt a little more exposed. You walked beside him toward the car without saying anything.

Your footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement. No teasing. No sarcasm. Just silence stretching between you, longer than it had any right to be after a night that had started so easily.

You were still a few steps behind him, your pace slower, your mind elsewhere—replaying the night, the silence, that moment at the table over and over again.

You barely registered when he stopped. But then, you saw him move. Fast. Abbot rushed forward the last few steps toward his car, something sharp and immediate in his body language that pulled you out of your thoughts instantly.

“Hey—?” you started, frowning slightly as you caught up.

He didn’t answer. Just stood there for a second, staring. You followed his gaze. And then you saw it.

Both tires on one side of the car, completely flat. Not just low. Destroyed. The rubber looked slashed, collapsed in on itself against the pavement.

You blinked. “…What the hell?”

Abbot crouched down quickly, running a hand over the tire, his jaw tightening as he inspected it. There was no mistaking it. “Someone did this,” he muttered flatly.

You stepped closer now, your earlier fog completely gone. “Are you serious?”

He stood back up, looking at the second tire again like he was hoping it would somehow be less bad. It wasn’t. Two tires. Gone. The quiet street suddenly didn’t feel so calm anymore.

You crossed your arms again, this time not out of habit. “Great.” A small pause. Then you looked back at him. “So… what now?”

Abbot stayed silent for a long moment, staring at the ruined tires like if he looked long enough they would magically fix themselves. The street around you stayed quiet. Too quiet.

You watched him drag both hands over his face slowly, rough palms pressing against tired eyes before sliding down his jaw. Exhaustion clung to every movement now:

the endless shift, Dana’s assault, the alcohol, the strange tension from the bar, the conversation that had clearly gone wrong somewhere between jokes and honesty.

And underneath all of that, anger. Not loud anger. The kind he swallowed whole. You could practically see him forcing it down. Finally, he exhaled heavily through his nose and stepped back from the car.

“I’ll just walk,” he muttered. You frowned immediately. “…Walk?” He shrugged once, already pulling slightly back into himself again. “It’s fine.”

You looked around the empty street instinctively before looking back at him. “How long is that gonna take ?”

That made him pause. For the first time all night, he actually looked tired. Not ER tired. Not sarcastic tired. Just genuinely exhausted.

He glanced down the street, jaw tightening faintly before answering, “Hour and a half maybe.” A beat. “Two.”

You stared at him. “In the middle of the night?” Another shrug. “I’ve done worse.”

Of course he had. You looked at the destroyed tires again, then back at him standing there pretending this was somehow reasonable after : a twelve-hour shift, several drinks, almost no food, emotional exhaustion, and now this.

He adjusted the strap of his bag slightly like he was already preparing himself mentally for the walk. And somehow that annoyed you a little. Not because he wanted to walk. Because he looked like he genuinely believed he had no other option.

You stared at him for another second, exhausted disbelief written all over your face. “Abbot.” He looked back at you quietly. “You are not walking two hours across the city at—” you glanced vaguely at the dark street around you, “—whatever time it is, half drunk and exhausted.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be unconscious on a sidewalk somewhere.” A small breath left his nose that almost sounded like a laugh, but he still shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“No,” you cut in immediately, tired enough now that your patience had completely disappeared. “It’s not okay.”

He opened his mouth again, probably to argue but you stopped him before he could even start.

“You’re sleeping at my apartment.” The sentence came out sharper than expected. Not emotional. Not awkward. Just decided. Abbot blinked once, clearly caught off guard by the firmness in your voice.

You were already turning away before he could properly respond, adjusting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Come on,” you muttered tiredly. Then you started walking.

For a second, he stayed where he was beside the damaged car, just watching you go under the streetlights. Like he was debating whether to argue again. Or maybe debating something else entirely. Then finally, with a quiet exhale, he grabbed his bag properly over his shoulder, and started walking after you.

The walk turned out to be shorter than it should’ve felt. But silence has a way of stretching time anyway.

The city was quieter here—far from the bar, far from the hospital, just the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of streetlights above you.

You walked slightly ahead, hands buried in your sleeves, shoulders still tight from the night. Behind you, Abbot kept pace without saying anything.

Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to disappear. Just there. Every so often, you caught it in your peripheral vision, him glancing at you. Quick. Controlled. Like he thought you wouldn’t notice. But you did. You just didn’t look back. Not because you were ignoring him.

Because your head was too loud. Too full. The bar replayed itself in fragments you couldn’t organize properly anymore: his face when you said “I hate you too”, the way he went quiet, that shift you couldn’t quite name, the silence that followed like something had been pulled out of the room, And then the car. The walk. Everything after.

Your fingers tightened slightly inside your sleeves as you stared ahead, trying to make sense of it all in the simplest way possible.

Just alcohol. Just exhaustion. Just a bad mix of everything that had happened today. Right?

But your brain didn’t fully accept that answer. Because the way he had looked at you earlier and the way he wasn’t teasing you now didn’t fit neatly into “just nothing.”

Behind you, Abbot glanced at you again. You felt it without even needing to turn around. And for the first time tonight the silence between you didn’t feel empty. It felt… crowded.

By the time you reached your apartment building, your brain was still somewhere back at the bar. You barely even looked where you were going. Your feet carried you automatically through the entrance you’d walked through hundreds of times before, keys already in your hand out of pure habit.

Behind you, Abbot followed more carefully. You noticed him glancing around automatically as he entered, the lobby, the hallway corners, the old mailboxes, the stairwell door slightly left open. Always observing. Even exhausted.Even drunk.

You stopped in front of the elevator, pressing the button while the silence between you settled in again immediately. Still there. Still heavy. Neither of you seemed able to go back to how the evening had started.

The elevator arrived with a mechanical ding.Small. Very small. You stepped in first, instinctively moving toward the back corner as Abbot entered after you. The space tightened immediately. You pressed the button for the top floor. The doors closed.

And suddenly there was nowhere for the tension to go. The elevator hummed softly as it climbed upward. You stood beside each other—not touching intentionally, but not far enough apart to avoid contact either. Your arms brushed lightly once when the elevator shifted. Both of you subtly adjusted away. A second later, it happened again anyway. The fabric of his coat dragged softly against yours. Warm despite the cold outside.

You kept your eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers above the door, trying very hard not to think about how close he was, how quiet he had become and the way the alcohol was making you hyperaware of everything.

Beside you, Abbot stayed still, hands in his pockets now, jaw tight in that thoughtful way you were starting to recognize.

The silence in the elevator wasn’t empty anymore. It felt packed with unfinished conversations. Another small movement of the elevator made your shoulders brush this time. Longer. Neither of you moved immediately. And somehow that felt worse than if you had.

The elevator finally stopped with a soft jolt. The doors slid open. Abbot lifted one hand slightly, silently motioning for you to go first. You stepped out without looking at him, pretending not to notice the gesture at all. But you did. Of course you did.

The hallway upstairs was quiet, dimly lit by warm yellow lights that made everything feel softer than it should. Too intimate.

You walked toward your apartment door, hearing his footsteps just behind you. And strangely, the closer you got to your apartment, the more aware you became of what this actually was.

Abbot. At your place.At night. Alone. Your stomach tightened faintly. You suddenly tried to remember how you had left your apartment this morning.

And immediately regretted it. Was there laundry somewhere? Did you leave dishes out? Was your couch covered in blankets again?You genuinely couldn’t remember.

Your brain had been surviving on caffeine, adrenaline, and emotional confusion for the last twenty-four hours.

You stopped in front of your door, fumbling slightly with your keys before finally unlocking it. The silence behind you somehow felt even fuller now. Like both of you understood this was another line being crossed. Not dramatic. Just personal.

You pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside first, immediately greeted by the familiar darkness and faint smell of your apartment. Home. Safe. Private. And suddenly the fact that he was entering it with you made your heartbeat feel annoyingly louder again.

You pushed the door open and reached immediately for the light switch. A warm orange glow flooded the apartment. And instantly, you regretted everything. “Oh my god…”

It slipped out before you could stop it. The apartment wasn’t dirty. Not really. But it looked… lived in. Very lived in.

The small studio opened into one single room, cozy and cluttered in a way that immediately felt personal. A bed sat pushed against the far wall beneath a shelf overflowing with books, random pens, chargers, and half-dead candles. Near the window, a worn couch was half buried under blankets, hoodies, and an alarming amount of papers.

Actually, papers were everywhere. On the couch. On the floor. Pinned messily to the wall above your desk. Stacked in uneven piles across the desk itself. Medical notes. Study pages. Flashcards. Highlighted articles. Sticky notes hanging dangerously off edges. The entire corner looked like someone had been academically fighting for survival inside it for months.

A small lamp near the desk cast soft amber light across the room, mixing with the kitchen light and making everything warmer somehow. Plants crowded the apartment too.

Little ones mostly: on the windowsill, next to the TV, hanging near the kitchenette like they were the only thing keeping the place alive during your night shifts.

And in the tiny kitchen area, a few dishes sat abandoned in the sink. Not terrible. But enough to make heat creep immediately into your face. You dropped your bag by the door with a groan. “Okay, so apparently I live like a raccoon.”

Behind you, Abbot stepped fully inside slowly, eyes moving across the apartment. Not judgmental. Just… taking it in. You suddenly became painfully aware that this was the first time someone from work had seen your actual life outside the hospital. And somehow that felt far more exposing than you expected.

You immediately started apologizing before he could even say anything. “Sorry, I—” you pulled your coat off quickly, tossing it over the couch before realizing the couch was already covered in papers. “Okay, wait, no—”

You grabbed a stack of notes off the cushions, nearly dropping half of them in the process.

“I didn’t know I was bringing someone home tonight.” The sentence came out accidentally. And immediately sounded worse than intended. You froze for half a second. Then kept moving faster like pretending it never happened would somehow erase it.

Abbot stayed near the entrance at first, slowly closing the door behind him while watching you move around the apartment in hurried circles.

You picked up cups. Straightened blankets. Collected papers into messy stacks that honestly changed nothing. “You really don’t have to—” he started.

“No, I do,” you cut in quickly, already crouching to grab scattered flashcards from the floor. “This looks insane.”

“It really doesn’t.”

“It absolutely does.” You stood back up too quickly, nearly bumping into the edge of the desk. Abbot instinctively stepped forward slightly at that. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. Too immediately.

You pushed another pile of papers aside with embarrassed determination while muttering under your breath, “I swear it didn’t look like this this morning.”

That actually made something faintly soften in his expression for the first time since the bar. Not quite a smile. But close. He finally stepped farther into the apartment now, slow and quiet, eyes still moving over the room while you continued your hopeless attempt at damage control.

And the more he looked around, the more exposed you felt. Because this wasn’t the ER. There were no walls here. No sarcasm to hide behind. No coworkers. No chaos distracting either of you. Just him seeing pieces of you you never really meant to show anyone.

You kept moving around the apartment, still trying to tame the chaos into something at least remotely presentable. Papers got stacked. Blankets folded badly. Mugs relocated to the sink. Eventually, the apartment stopped looking messy enough to embarrass you and settled back into simply… lived-in.

Behind you, Abbot had wandered slowly toward your desk area. You noticed him looking over the sea of study notes pinned to the wall: scribbled anatomy sketches, pharmacology reminders, trauma procedures, sticky notes written at what looked like three in the morning.

His eyes moved carefully across them before stopping at the few pictures taped between the papers.

There weren’t many. One of you and Dana sitting on the ambulance bay curb, both laughing at something outside the frame. One old baby picture, slightly faded at the corners.

And that was basically it. Abbot frowned faintly. His gaze shifted around the apartment again. No family pictures. No framed memories. No groups of friends. Nothing personal besides scattered traces.

You were wiping down the counter distractedly when he finally asked, “Why don’t you have more pictures ?”

You paused slightly. Not enough to look dramatic. Just enough. Your hand slowed over the counter before continuing again.

“I don’t know,” you answered lightly at first. “Never really thought about it.” But even to your own ears, the answer sounded automatic.

Abbot stayed quiet for a second longer. Still looking around the apartment. “It’s weird,” he admitted quietly. “There’s evidence you exist everywhere in here.” His eyes drifted over the notes, the handwriting, the plants, the mess. “But almost none that other people do.”

That made you stop cleaning for real this time. The silence afterward felt softer than the others from tonight. Not tense. Just… personal.

Something in you shut down almost instantly after the question. The warmth of the apartment suddenly felt too close. Too exposing.

You turned away from him quickly, picking up a random cup from the table just to have something to do with your hands. “I don’t want to talk about that,” you said dryly. A beat. “Not right now.” The change in your tone was immediate enough that even you heard it.

A wall going back up. Behind you, the apartment stayed quiet. You could feel Abbot looking at you, trying to understand what had just shifted so suddenly.

But for once, he didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Didn’t ask another question. Which somehow made it worse. You moved around the apartment quickly now, avoiding looking at him completely while grabbing an extra blanket off the couch.

“You can take the bed if you want,” you muttered, still too fast, too clipped. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Abbot frowned immediately. “What? No, I’m not—” But you were already moving. “It’s fine.”

“Y/N—”

“I said it’s fine.” You didn’t even let him finish before walking straight toward the bathroom, almost escaping more than walking.

The door shut behind you. Then locked. Silence. Outside, Abbot stayed standing in the middle of your apartment, one hand still half raised from trying to stop you. His eyes drifted once toward the few pictures on the wall again. Then toward the closed bathroom door. And slowly, he lowered his hand.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you, the sound too final for how messy your thoughts already were. For a second, you just stood there.

Then you moved on autopilot, dropping your clothes where they fell, stepping into the shower, and turning the water on. Cold. Immediate. Sharp enough to make you inhale through your teeth. You stayed under it anyway.

Let it hit your skin, your shoulders, your face, like you could physically rinse the night off you. The bar. The silence. That look on Abbot’s face when you said you hated him too. The elevator. The apartment. Everything stacking too fast in your head to sort properly.

But it didn’t go away. Of course it didn’t. Instead, your thoughts just got louder.

Why did he ask that?

Why did he look at you like that?

Why did he care how many pictures you had?

Your hands pressed against the tiled wall, water running down your hair, your back, your arms.

And still, Abbot was there, just on the other side of the door. You could hear him faintly moving around your apartment. A soft shift of footsteps. The low creak of the couch maybe. Something being set down. Normal sounds. But tonight, everything felt louder than normal.

Your chest tightened slightly as your thoughts spiraled again. Why was he like this? One moment he was arguing with you like you were the most frustrating person he’d ever met. Then he was jealous over a patient. Then apologizing properly like it actually mattered. Then looking at you at the bar like you’d said something wrong that hurt more than it should’ve.

Then this. The drink. The car. Your apartment. The question about pictures. None of it lined up neatly. And that was the problem. Because nothing about him did anymore. You shut your eyes under the water, breathing slower, trying to force your brain to quiet down.

But the alcohol didn’t help. It lingered at the edges of everything, blurring the thoughts just enough to make them feel heavier, more tangled. More honest than you wanted them to be. Outside the bathroom, the apartment stayed dim and quiet, except for him still being there. Still real. Still waiting, whether he meant to or not.

When you finally stepped out of the bathroom, the warm air of the apartment hit your damp skin softly—like a contrast to the cold water you’d just stood under.

Your hair was still wet, dripping slightly onto the shoulders of your oversized T-shirt—the thrifted baseball one you’d practically lived in on nights like this. Comfortable. Familiar. A little too big on you, hanging loosely past your hips.

You were rubbing your hair with a towel, half-focused, half still somewhere else entirely in your head, trying to untangle everything the shower hadn’t fixed.

The apartment was dim now, just the soft orange light from the lamp spilling across the room.

And there he was, sitting on the couch. At first, you only registered him in fragments—his posture, the way he leaned slightly forward, a few of your notes spread out on the table in front of him like he’d been reading them without thinking too much about it.

Then he looked up. And saw you properly. The moment stretched. He didn’t speak immediately. Just… paused. His gaze moved briefly—your wet hair, the loose shirt, the towel in your hand still caught mid-motion. Then back to your face. You slowed without meaning to. The air in the room felt different again.

Smaller. Quieter. Like the apartment had folded in on itself around that one shared glance. And for a second, neither of you said anything.

You stepped further into the room, immediately breaking eye contact like it had become too much to hold. Your voice came out flat again, controlled. “You can take the bed,” you said, already moving toward it. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Abbot stood up slightly from the couch. “No,” he said simply. “I’ll take the couch. It’s fine.”

You didn’t even look at him properly as you started pulling the blanket back into place, too focused on giving your hands something to do. “It’s not a debate,” you muttered. “Just take it.”

A pause. Then his tone shifted—less automatic, more careful. “Can we talk?”

That made your movements slow for half a second. But only half. You grabbed a pillow and adjusted it too neatly, like it suddenly mattered a lot.“I’m tired,” you said, voice still dry, still avoiding him. “We should just sleep.”

Abbot didn’t answer right away. You could feel him still watching you though. That steady attention that hadn’t really left you all night. You turned slightly toward the bed, still not fully facing him. “It’s late,” you added, quieter but firmer. “Everything can wait.”

And you said it like a boundary. But the room didn’t feel like it agreed with you.

He pushed himself up from the couch. Not fast at first—like he was still trying to keep control of himself. But there was something in him breaking through anyway. “No,” he said, voice sharper now. “No, it can’t—please.”

You stopped mid-movement. Slowly turned.And something in you snapped before you even fully understood why. “NO,” you shot back, louder than intended.

The word hit the small apartment like a crack. Abbot froze immediately. Silence. Then his voice came out harder than before, edged with frustration that clearly hadn’t been there earlier in the night. “Do you really hate me ?”

That stopped everything. Not just your movement. Not just your words. Everything. You stared at him. Really stared.

The room suddenly felt too still again, the warm orange light from the lamp making the tension between you look almost unreal.

His chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual. His jaw was tight. But his eyes, they weren’t sarcastic. They weren’t guarded. They were open in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him. Big. Demanding. Almost… vulnerable in a way that didn’t fit him at all. Like he wasn’t asking to win an argument.

He was asking because he genuinely needed the answer.

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff—almost a laugh, but sharper. “Are you always like this?” you shot back, voice dry, still holding onto that defensive edge. “Just… forcing answers out of people until they say what you want to hear?”

It wasn’t even really an accusation. More like an escape route. A way to dodge what he had just asked you. Because honestly ? You don’t even know if you hated him.

Abbot’s expression tightened immediately. “You think that’s what this is?” he replied, stepping forward a fraction.

“Isn’t it?” you countered instantly, because you couldn’t help it now that the door was open. “You don’t ask things—you corner them.” His jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“Oh, come on,” you cut in, gesturing slightly with frustration now building again. “You don’t like silence, you don’t like not knowing, so you push until you get an answer you can work with.”

That hit something. You could see it in his eyes. But instead of backing down, he matched your tone. “Maybe I push because you never say anything properly unless I do.”

That made you freeze for half a second. Then you laughed again, but there was no humor in it this time. “Oh, right,” you said, shaking your head. “So this is my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A beat. The air between you tightened again—familiar, but heavier now. Less playful. Less safe. “You’re impossible,” Abbot said, quieter but sharper.

You scoffed. “And you’re exhausting.”

That landed. You saw it land. And still neither of you stopped. Because this wasn’t the usual teasing anymore. It had teeth now. But the silence didn’t last. It cracked almost immediately.

Abbot let out a short, humorless breath—something between a laugh and disbelief. “Exhausting,” he repeated quietly, like he was testing the word.

You crossed your arms tighter. “Yes,” you shot back. “You are.” That did it. He stepped forward. Not aggressively. Not fast. Just… forward. Like his body had decided before his brain could stop it.

“You’re one to talk,” he said, voice lower now, sharper at the edges. “You shut down every time something gets even slightly real.”

You scoffed immediately, stepping forward too without really noticing. “Oh, so now you’re analyzing me?”

“I’m observing you.”

“That’s your problem,” you snapped. “You don’t observe people, you dissect them.”

A cold laugh left him. “Better than pretending nothing matters at all.” That hit too close. Your jaw tightened.

“Oh please,” you said, voice rising again. “Like you’re the emotional one here?” He gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “No,” he said. “I just don’t run away mid-conversation and lock myself in bathrooms.”

That made your eyes flash. “Oh my god—are you still on that?” Now you were both closer than before without even noticing it. The couch was behind him now. The desk behind you. Neither of you had stepped back. Abbot gestured lightly with one hand, frustration breaking through more now.

“You don’t actually deal with anything—you just deflect it and call it control.” You mirrored him immediately, throwing your own hands up in mock disbelief. “Wow. Doctor Abbot giving life advice. That’s rich.”

A sharp exhale of laughter from him again. “See? That. That right there.”

“What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between you both now. “You turn everything into a fight so you don’t have to answer anything.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowed. “And you turn everything into a diagnosis so you don’t have to admit you’re wrong.” A beat. Then, he laughed again. Real this time, but still edged with irritation. “God, you’re insufferable.” You matched it instantly, a sarcastic smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “And yet, you’re still here.”

That landed differently. Because neither of you moved away after that. Hands gesturing more now, almost talking over each other, the argument spilling out in fast, overlapping bursts of sarcasm and frustration.

Too close. Too loud. Too charged. And still neither of you stopped. The argument kept spiraling, words coming faster now, less controlled, more raw than either of you probably intended.

Abbot shook his head slightly, still too close.

“You can’t keep pretending you don’t care about anything,” he said, voice tight. “Not after everything today.”

You let out a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, and you do? You care so much, right? That’s why you’re standing in my apartment arguing with me at midnight?”

“I care because you—”

“Because I what?” you cut in immediately, stepping even closer without thinking now. His eyes didn’t leave yours. And that was the problem. There was no space left between frustration and something else anymore.

“I don’t even know what you want from me,” you said, voice shaking slightly now, not from fear, from everything piling up. “One minute you’re arguing with me, the next you’re jealous, then you apologize, then you look at me like—like—”

You stopped. Because you couldn’t finish that sentence. Abbot didn’t interrupt. For once. And that silence cracked something open in you instead. Your breathing got heavier. Your hands tightened at your sides.

Then it all came out at once. “NO!” The word hit the room like a slap. Both of you froze slightly. You took a breath, eyes burning, voice suddenly louder—honest in a way you couldn’t take back. “I don’t hate you!” A beat. “I don’t—” your voice broke slightly with frustration now, “I don’t really hate you! Are you happy now?”

Silence. No sarcasm. No comeback. No argument. Just the two of you standing too close in the middle of your apartment, the air completely changed.

Abbot didn’t move. Neither did you. For a second, everything felt suspended. Like the whole night had been building exactly to this moment and neither of you knew what came after it. He looked at you differently now. Not like earlier. Not like at the bar. Something quieter. Stripped down. And then he stepped forward. Not slowly. Not hesitantly. Just like something in him finally stopped resisting.

And you didn’t move away. The space between you disappeared in an instant. The kiss wasn’t gentle at first. It wasn’t planned. It was everything that had been held back all night finally breaking at once—anger, relief, tension, confusion—colliding into something neither of you had words for. For a second, there was no argument left. Just that.

The moment neither of you moved away, it was already decided. Abbot closed the last inch of space between you like he’d finally stopped arguing with himself. The kiss hit fast—no hesitation left to disguise it.

For a split second, it was almost clumsy. Too sudden. Too full of everything neither of you had said out loud for hours, days, maybe longer.

Then you answered him. Immediately. Like your body had been waiting for permission your mind kept refusing to give.

Your hands came up first, catching at his shirt, gripping it like an anchor before you could overthink it. His hands moved at the same time—one sliding up to cup your jaw, steadying you like he needed to feel that you were really there, really choosing this. The other came up a second later, framing your face completely. Warm palms against your skin. Firm. Certain.

Like he was trying to hold onto something that had been slipping between you all night. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into him.

The kiss deepened almost instantly after that—less hesitation, more honesty. Drunk not just from alcohol, but from exhaustion, adrenaline, arguments that never resolved properly. It had that unsteady edge to it, but underneath it was something undeniably real. Something neither of you had managed to say properly, now spilling out without words.

His thumb shifted slightly against your cheek as if he was grounding himself in you. And you—still gripping his shirt—pulled him closer without thinking, like distance suddenly felt unbearable. It wasn’t soft in the way careful things are soft. It was messy. Intense.

Full of everything left unsaid: the tension from the bar, the jealousy, the apology, the almost-confessions, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t noticing, the way you kept pushing him away and pulling him back at the same time.

Even the silence between you earlier felt like it was in it. For a moment, there was no ER, no arguments, no roles you played around each other. Just this. And neither of you stopped.

It lasted a moment too long to be accidental’ and not nearly long enough to feel finished. Then it hit you. All at once. Like your brain finally caught up to your body.

You pulled back abruptly, breath breaking as you created space between you so fast it felt almost like a fall. The warmth vanished instantly. Your hand was still half-clenched around his shirt before you let go completely, like it had burned you.

Both of you were breathing harder now. Too aware of everything again. The room felt different immediately—too bright, too real, too quiet in a way that pressed in on your ears.

You stared at him. Shocked. Trying to process what you had just done. What he had just done. What it meant. Abbot was still standing there, closer than before but not touching anymore. His gaze hadn’t left you—not even for a second. Like he was trying to read the moment back into something he could understand. But there was no easy version of it. Your chest rose and fell quickly.

“This—” your voice came out uneven, caught somewhere between disbelief and panic, “this was a mistake.” A beat. “We’re drunk,” you added quickly, like it needed fixing. Like it needed labeling. “This is—this is just—”

Your words broke off. Because none of them felt solid enough. Abbot opened his mouth slightly, like he might say your name, or explain, or undo it— “I’m sorr—”

But you were already shaking your head, taking a step back. Then another. Like distance could rewind what had just happened. “I can’t,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

And before he could say anything else, you turned quickly and walked to the bed. The covers were pulled up in a rushed, almost frantic motion as you climbed in, like hiding under fabric could somehow reset your heartbeat, your thoughts, your entire body. You curled in slightly, turning away from him completely.Under the blanket, everything felt muffled. Safer. Or at least contained. Outside of it, the room stayed still.

And Abbot…was still there.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, arguments, assaults, blood, physical violence.

a/n : Little reminder that I’m using some events from the show and twist/mix them to fit them in my story ! So that’s why I used a particular scene in this chapter hehe (I actually rewatched the scene a few times to write the exact same dialogue lol)

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 10 : Long day

The automatic ER doors slid open in front of you as you stepped back into County General after almost two full days away from it.

One day off. One night off. Which, in emergency medicine terms, practically counted as a vacation.

Your coffee was still warm in your hand, backpack hanging off one shoulder, exhaustion not fully gone but manageable now. The early morning light filtered through the front entrance windows, painting pale gold reflections across the polished floor while the day shift slowly came alive around you.

Nurses changing over. Phones already ringing. Stretchers moving through the halls. Normal chaos. You should’ve felt rested. Instead, the second you walked deeper into the ER, something tight settled quietly in your chest.

Because this was your first full day shift since the assault.

And apparently your body remembered that before your brain wanted to.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the waiting room entrance while you walked. Just a glance. Quick. Automatic. But enough for you to notice it yourself.

You tightened your grip slightly around the coffee cup and kept moving before your thoughts could linger there too long. Nobody else seemed to notice.

At least until—

“Well, look who finally decided to come back.”

You looked up instantly.

Abbot.

Of course.

Standing near the nurses station with charts in hand already fully dressed for shift, coffee abandoned beside the computer like he’d been here for hours. Which honestly he probably had.

You raised an eyebrow slightly while approaching. “Missed me?”

“No.” Too fast.

You almost smiled. “Cute.”

Abbot rolled his eyes lightly before handing you a chart without even greeting you properly. “We’re understaffed again.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Trauma rooms are already full.”

“There it is.”

You took the chart from him anyway, your fingers brushing his briefly in the process. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still enough that both of you paused for half a second longer than necessary before letting go.

Neither acknowledged it. Naturally.

“You’re on with me today,” he added while turning back toward the board.

You sighed dramatically.

“My condolences.”

“I say that every shift.”

And somehow, despite the sarcasm the last fight, the familiar rhythm between you settled back into place almost immediately.

You had barely finished scanning the first chart when another voice cut through the morning ER noise.

“Why the hell are the usual night shifters here before me?” Dana appeared from the main hallway still carrying her coffee and bag, looking deeply offended by the situation already.

Her hair was slightly messy from the early hour, jacket half slipping off one shoulder while she stopped in front of the nurses station and stared at both of you suspiciously.

“You two are ruining my routine.” You leaned casually against the counter.

“Some of us are hardworking professionals.” Dana pointed immediately at Abbot.

“Him maybe.” Then she pointed at you. “You? Absolutely not.” You gasped softly in fake offense.

Abbot snorted quietly beside you before pretending it never happened the second Dana looked at him.

Too late. You noticed. Again. Dana narrowed her eyes slightly between both of you. There it is. That little look she had now whenever you and Abbot interacted.

Like she was trying not to smile at a secret. You ignored it immediately. “You’re late anyway,” you told her while taking another sip of coffee.

Dana looked scandalized. “I am three minutes early.”

“Which for you is medically concerning.”

“That’s because I stopped for coffee.”

“You already have coffee.”

Dana lifted a second cup from behind her back triumphantly. “One for me. One for emotional support.”

Abbot looked at the second cup flatly. “That explains a lot actually.” Dana pointed at him dramatically. “See? This is why I need support coffee.”

You laughed softly under your breath while opening the chart again. And for a brief second, just a brief second, the morning felt almost normal again.

Dana suddenly looked down at something on her phone before sighing dramatically. Then she pointed at you. “You. Come with me.”

You frowned immediately. “…Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Dana was already turning away toward the locker room hallway. “Confidential woman business.”

You blinked once. “That sounds threatening.”

And just like that, she kept walking without waiting for you at all. You stood there for a second holding your coffee and chart, completely unsure if this was serious, dramatic, or just Dana being Dana.

Honestly, with her, it could be any of the three. Slowly, you turned your head toward Abbot beside you with a questioning expression like:

do you know what this is about?

Abbot glanced between you and Dana disappearing down the hallway. Then shrugged once. “No idea.”

A beat. Then dryly, “If she murders you, I’m not finishing your charts.”

You stared at him flatly. “That’s your concern?”

“I have priorities.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly at him before finally starting after Dana. “Heartless.”

Behind you, Abbot called without looking up from his paperwork, “You’ll still be back in ten minutes.” And annoyingly, he sounded very confident about it.

You followed Dana down the hallway toward the locker rooms, already suspicious from the way she kept glancing back at you with barely concealed amusement.

The second the doors swung shut behind you, cutting off most of the ER noise, you stopped and looked at her expectantly.

“…Well?” Dana slowly turned toward you. And there it was. That smirk. Oh no. “What?” you asked immediately.

Dana crossed her arms. “So,” she started casually, “is it true what happened the other night?” You blinked once.

Then immediately sighed, long and exhausted already. “Oh no. No no no, Dana, we are not doing this.”

You instantly turned to leave. Dana grabbed your arm before you could even reach the door. “Oh yes we are.”

“Dana.”

“What happened outside ?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what Lena said.”

You groaned softly. “Lena needs hobbies.”

Dana physically pulled you back toward the benches like an overexcited teenager desperate for gossip.

“You and Abbot disappeared outside for like fifteen minutes.”

“We talked.” Dana gasped dramatically.

“You TALKED?” You gave her a deadpan look. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being invested.”

“You’re being terrifying.”

Dana ignored that completely. “Did he finally admit he’s obsessed with you?”

You nearly choked. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a yes.”

“That is absolutely not a yes.”

Dana narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Y/N.”

You rubbed a tired hand over your face already. “It was nothing, okay? We argued.”

“Mhmm.”

“And then we talked.”

“Mhmm.”

“And then an ambulance arrived.”

Dana froze slightly. Then slowly, “…And?”

You frowned. “And what?”

Dana stared at you like you were the most frustrating person alive. “Did something happen before the ambulance?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because technically, no. Nothing happened. But somehow the silence before that interruption still felt dangerously close to something. Dana noticed your hesitation instantly.

Her eyes widened. “Oh my god something almost happened.”

“Nothing happened!” you said immediately. Too quickly.

Dana’s expression turned deeply untrustworthy. “Y/N—”

“Nothing happened,” you repeated more firmly while trying to pull your arm free from her grip. “And nothing is going to happen.”

Dana looked unconvinced in the most offensive way possible. “You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“You literally buffered before answering.”

You pointed at her accusingly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

You groaned dramatically, already exhausted and your shift hadn’t even properly started yet.

“Dana, seriously. Nothing happened.”

She crossed her arms tighter. “But something almost happened.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“No.”

“The ambulance interrupted you.”

“It interrupted a conversation.”

Dana stared at you flatly. “A very intense conversation apparently.”

You shook your head immediately. “No. Absolutely not. Nothing weird is happening between me and Abbot.”

Dana raised one eyebrow slowly. “You almost killed him three weeks ago.”

“That’s unrelated.”

“And now you’re staring dramatically at each other outside the ER.”

“We were arguing.”

“You were flirting.”

“We were not flirting.”

Dana looked at you with genuine pity now. “Oh sweetheart.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my god.”

“Everyone sees it.”

“There is nothing to see.”

“Abbot discharged a patient because he flirted with you.”

“He was stable.”

Dana burst out laughing. “You are unbelievable.”

You rubbed your forehead tiredly. “Dana. Listen to me carefully.” She immediately leaned closer like she was receiving classified information.

“Nothing,” you said slowly, “is ever happening between me and Abbot.”

Dana tilted her head slightly. “Ever ever?”

“Yes.”

“Like ever ever ever?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” You narrowed your eyes. “Why did you say it like that?”

Dana suddenly smiled in the most suspicious way possible. “No reason.” Which absolutely meant she had a reason. You stared at Dana for one long second. Dana burst out laughing immediately. You shook your head, already completely done with this conversation. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh come on, admit it was at least a little romantic.”

“It was literally an argument outside the ambulance bay.”

Dana followed behind you while you headed toward the door. “You stared at each other, didn’t you?”

You opened the locker room door. “No.”

“You totally did.”

“We were discussing.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re unbearable.” Dana grinned proudly. “And yet you love me.” You paused dramatically before looking back at her. “This relationship is becoming increasingly difficult.”

Dana laughed louder while you finally escaped into the hallway again before she could continue interrogating you. The second the ER noise hit your ears again, you exhaled deeply in relief. Honestly, dealing with trauma cases was sometimes easier than dealing with Dana after she smelled emotional tension.

You escaped the locker room interrogation still hearing Dana laugh behind you as the ER swallowed you back into its usual noise and movement. Honestly, you needed actual patients now.

Something medically complicated. Anything except relationship investigations at seven in the morning.

You made your way toward ambulance reception, coffee still in hand, when you spotted Ahmad near the wall beside the paramedic entrance talking with one of the EMTs.

Ahmad noticed you immediately. “Well look who survived Dana.” You pointed at him tiredly. “She’s becoming a threat to society.”

“Too late for that.” The paramedic beside him laughed softly while Ahmad leaned back against the wall. They were standing beside the infamous bet board.

The board every shift somehow used to place stupid predictions, bets, challenges, or inside jokes on sticky notes. You honestly never paid much attention to it.

Mostly because it was usually filled with nonsense like:

who would cry first during a trauma

how many coffees Dana would drink

whether Robby would lose another pen

Complete chaos. Ahmad was apparently reading one now while shaking his head. You stepped closer absentmindedly, finally curious enough to glance at the board yourself while sipping your coffee. Colored sticky notes covered almost the entire thing.

Some old. Some new. Some definitely inappropriate. Then suddenly, one note caught your attention immediately. Bright yellow. Written in thick black marker.

“How long before Y/N and Abbot finally hook up?”

You nearly inhaled your own coffee. Underneath it were multiple answers.

• “Two weeks.”

• “After one near death experience.”

• “Already happened. They’re just dramatic.”

• “Robby owes me 20 bucks if they kiss before Christmas.”

Your jaw dropped slowly. “…What the hell?”

You stepped toward the board so fast your coffee nearly spilled. “What the hell—”

Your hand ripped the sticky note off immediately while your eyes scanned it again in disbelief like maybe you had hallucinated the entire thing. Nope. Still there. Still horrifying.

You looked back at the board and suddenly realized there were way more notes referencing both of you than there should’ve been. Way more.

Your expression flattened slowly into something dangerous. Then you turned toward Ahmad holding the sticky note between your fingers like evidence in a crime investigation.

“What,” you asked very seriously, “is this?”

Ahmad tried very hard to keep a straight face. Failed a little. “You never saw it before?”

“No??”

He exchanged a quick look with the paramedic beside him before looking back at you. “It’s been there for a while now.”

“A while?”

“Couple months maybe.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “A couple MONTHS?”

“Well…” Ahmad scratched the back of his neck carefully. “It evolved over time.” You stared at him in complete disbelief. “Evolved?”

“At first people just thought you hated each other.”

“We do.”

Ahmad made a face that clearly said : sure. Then continued. “But then you kept arguing like a divorced couple every shift and people started noticing things.”

You pointed aggressively at the board. “THINGS?”

“Chemistry.” You looked personally offended. “There is no chemistry!” The paramedic beside him physically turned away trying not to laugh.

Ahmad stayed impressively composed.

“Y/N, last week you two sang ABBA together in front of half the hospital.”

“That was alcohol.”

“And the other day where he discharged your patient because the guy flirted with you.” You opened your mouth. Then paused. “…You know about that?” Ahmad looked at you flatly. “The entire ER knows about that.”

“Oh my god.”

You rubbed your forehead in horror while staring at the board again. One sticky note near the bottom suddenly caught your eye too: “Sexual tension level: catastrophic.”

You looked like you wanted to die. Ahmad finally lost the battle against his own amusement and laughed quietly. “To be fair,” he admitted, “most people are very invested now.”

You stared at the board another second in complete disbelief. Then immediately started ripping every single sticky note involving you and Abbot off the wall.

Fast. Violently. “What are you doing?!” Ahmad protested instantly. You ignored him completely.

One by one, the notes disappeared into your hands.

• “enemies to lovers speedrun”

• “they’re one supply closet away from kissing”

• “Abbot folds first”

Gone. Gone. Absolutely gone.

The paramedic beside Ahmad was openly laughing now while you shredded the pile dramatically into tiny pieces and threw them straight into the nearby trash bin.

“This is insane,” you muttered while destroying evidence like a woman possessed. “You people need actual hobbies.”

Ahmad looked genuinely distressed watching the notes disappear.

“Y/N, no— come on, I spent time organizing those.”

“You WHAT?”

“It had categories.”

You looked at him in horror. “There were categories??”

“Obviously.”

You pointed at him threateningly now. “Do not rewrite those.”

Ahmad tried to stay serious. Really tried. But the grin was already coming back. “…You know I’m gonna rewrite them, right?”

You closed your eyes briefly like you were physically fighting for patience.

Then turned and started walking away before you actually committed workplace violence.

“This ER is gonna be the death of me,” you muttered tiredly while disappearing back down the hallway.

Behind you, Ahmad called loudly: “I’m adding this reaction to the board too!” You didn’t even turn around. Just lifted one hand blindly behind you in warning while continuing toward the trauma rooms.

————————

The ER had settled into its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, monitors beeping, stretchers rolling through the hallways in a steady stream of controlled chaos. On the surface, everything was fine. Busy, but manageable. On paper: a normal shift.

But in your head, it was anything but calm. Sticky notes. Ahmad laughing. Dana interrogating you. Abbot standing too close outside the ER. That stupid almost-moment at the ambulance bay. The bet board.

All of it kept looping back like background noise you couldn’t turn off. You tightened your gloves as you stepped into Trauma 3, forcing your focus back where it belonged.

Patient first. Always. Langdon was already there, scanning the chart while the patient lay on the trauma bed—a middle-aged man in his late fifties, brought in after a construction site accident.

Collapsed scaffolding. A steel beam had struck him across the torso before he fell roughly two meters onto concrete. Now he was pale, sweating, and struggling to stay still despite obvious pain.

“Possible rib fractures,” Langdon said quickly as you entered. “Maybe flail segment on the left side. He’s got decreased breath sounds there.”

You nodded, moving immediately to the bedside. The man groaned as you gently palpated his chest wall, stopping the moment he flinched hard. “Pain here?”

“Yes… god—yes.”

You exchanged a quick look with Langdon. Not good.

His breathing was shallow, uneven, guarded—like every inhale hurt too much to complete. You stepped back toward the ultrasound machine already being prepared. “Let’s get a FAST exam,” you said. “And chest X-ray stat.”

Langdon adjusted the oxygen while speaking calmly to the patient. “We’re going to take a look inside quickly, okay? You may have some broken ribs and possibly air or blood where it shouldn’t be, but we’re going to confirm and treat it fast.”

The man nodded weakly, clearly trying to stay composed. You pressed the probe against his abdomen and then up toward the chest area, eyes locked on the screen.

Fluid lines. Subtle, but there. Langdon leaned slightly closer. “Left side isn’t expanding properly,” he noted.

You nodded once. “Suspected hemothorax.”

The words settled into the room instantly, shifting everything into faster motion. “Prepare chest tube set,” you ordered without looking away from the screen.

The patient’s breathing hitched again. “Am I—am I going to be okay?”

You looked at him immediately, voice steady. “We’re catching it early. Right now we just need to help your lung expand again.”

Langdon was already positioning equipment while you focused entirely on the scan, your hands moving automatically through protocol. Clinical. Precise. Controlled. Even if your mind still wasn’t fully quiet.

Because somewhere under the focus, under the urgency, everything else was still there, waiting for the moment you stopped moving.

Langdon moved first, already opening the sterile chest tube kit as the rest of the team shifted the room into full procedural mode. “Scalpel, clamp, sutures ready,” he called out calmly.

You stepped to the side of the bed, eyes still flicking between the monitor and the patient’s breathing pattern. Oxygen saturation was holding—but barely. The left chest barely rose compared to the right, every inhale shallow and strained.

“Prep left lateral chest,” you said. A nurse swabbed the area quickly with antiseptic while the patient winced, jaw clenched in pain.

Langdon glanced at you. “Triangle of safety?”

You nodded once. “Fourth or fifth intercostal space, anterior to midaxillary line.”

He gave a small confirming nod and made the incision with practiced precision. The patient tensed immediately, letting out a sharp cry. “Deep breath,” you instructed him firmly but calmly. “I know it hurts, but don’t fight us.”

He tried, but it came out broken. Langdon carefully dissected down, then advanced the tube with steady control. For a second, the room stayed completely focused on the movement—no noise, no distraction, just procedure.

Then, a sudden rush of air. Followed by a darker fluid release into the tubing. “Got it,” Langdon said.

You watched the monitor immediately. The change wasn’t instant—but it started. Oxygen saturation creeping upward. Respiratory effort slightly easing. Heart rate slowing out of panic-driven tachycardia. “Good,” you said quietly. “Keep it secured.”

Langdon connected the drainage system and dressed the site while you adjusted the oxygen flow and rechecked lung sounds with the stethoscope.

Still diminished—but improved. Much improved. The patient’s shoulders slowly relaxed against the bed, tension easing out of his face as the worst of the pressure started to resolve.

“I… I can breathe a bit better,” he whispered. You nodded. “That’s what we wanted.”

Langdon looked at you briefly. “Chest tube is functioning. No active complications.”

You checked the vitals again. Stable. Not perfect—but stable. Enough.

“X-ray to confirm placement,” you said, straightening up. “And keep monitoring closely for re-accumulation.” The nurse moved to document everything while the patient was carefully repositioned more comfortably.

The room finally started to slow down again—the sharp edge of emergency easing into controlled recovery.

You stepped back slightly, pulling your gloves off as the immediate tension released from your shoulders.

Langdon glanced at the monitor once more, then back at you. “Good catch on the hemothorax,” he said.

You gave a small nod. “Good procedure.”

A beat passed. For a moment, the only sound was the steady beep of a now-stable monitor. Another patient not lost to time. Another shift survived.

Only once the monitor settled into a steadier rhythm did the tension finally start to drain out of the room. The patient was still pale, still in pain—but breathing was no longer a struggle that looked like it might win.

Langdon exhaled slowly, peeling his gloves off one finger at a time. You did the same, almost in sync, like your bodies had been holding the same breath through the entire procedure without realizing it.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Just that shared pause. The kind that only comes after you’ve dragged someone back from the edge and are finally allowed to feel your own lungs again.

You glanced at him briefly. He met your gaze, calm now in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline anymore.

“Good work,” he said simply.

You gave a small nod. “Same to you.” It wasn’t competitive. Not tense. Just… clean acknowledgment.

The patient shifted slightly on the bed, eyes flicking between you both. “So… what happens now?” he asked weakly.

You turned back immediately, professional mode snapping into place again. “Now,” you said gently, “we monitor you closely in trauma until imaging confirms everything’s stable. The chest tube will keep draining fluid and letting your lung re-expand.”

Langdon added smoothly, “You’ll likely go to observation after that. Pain management, repeat scans, and we’ll reassess the ribs once things settle.”

The man nodded slowly, looking a bit more reassured now. “Okay…”

You gave him a small, steady look. “You’re not out of the woods yet, but you’re no longer falling into it.”

A faint, tired breath left him—almost like relief. “Thank you,” he murmured. You offered a brief, professional nod.

Then you and Langdon stepped out of the room almost at the same time. Gloves off. Into the bin. Hand sanitizer immediately after. The cold gel spread across your palms as you rubbed it in quickly, the smell sharp and grounding in a way only hospital sanitizer could be.

When you and Langdon finally stepped fully away from Trauma 3, the pressure of the case had eased enough for conversation to come naturally again.

“You know,” Langdon said while walking beside you, “most people usually panic at least a little during chest tubes.”

You looked at him sideways. “I panicked internally.”

“Ah. Very convincing performance then.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “Thank you. I’ve spent years perfecting emotional repression.”

“That explains why you work here.”

You pointed at him briefly. “That sounded personal.”

“It was.” The two of you kept walking side by side down the hallway, still riding that strange post-emergency relief that made people either dead silent or unexpectedly talkative.

In your case: slightly sarcastic.

In Langdon’s: effortlessly charming.

And unfortunately for certain people, you were laughing. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But relaxed. Easy. Natural.

From the middle nurses station, Princess looked up from her computer slowly. Then immediately elbowed Perlah beside her. Perlah followed her gaze toward you and Langdon walking together. “Ohhh,” she whispered instantly.

Princess nodded dramatically. “Exactly.”

A second later Dana arrived carrying charts and coffee, looking exhausted already. Princess grabbed her sleeve immediately. “Look.”

Dana frowned. “At what?”

Perlah silently pointed toward the hallway. Dana looked over. Saw you laughing with Langdon.

Then her eyebrows lifted slowly in realization. “Oh no.”

Princess looked delighted. “Oh yes.”

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the live audience forming behind you, you leaned against the counter beside Langdon while finishing the discussion about the trauma case.

And then, from farther down the hallway, another pair of eyes noticed too.

Abbot stopped briefly near the board.

Saw you smiling. Saw Langdon smiling back.

And even from across the ER, Dana physically watched his expression change.

Abbot recovered quickly. Too quickly for most people to notice anything at all. His expression barely shifted—just a small tightening near the jaw, a flicker in his eyes before he looked back down at the board like nothing had happened. Controlled. Professional. Classic Abbot.

Honestly, if it had been anyone else watching him, they probably would’ve missed it entirely. But Dana had worked with him for years. She knew every version of his moods: irritated Abbot, tired Abbot, trauma-mode Abbot, emotionally constipated Abbot.

And this one? This one was painfully obvious to her.

Because for half a second, just half, he had looked bothered.

Not angry. Not annoyed at work. Personally bothered.

Dana slowly looked back toward Princess and Perlah with the expression of someone watching live television drama unfold in real time. “Oh he hates this,” she whispered.

Princess looked delighted. “He’s jealous again.”

Perlah nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Meanwhile Abbot calmly placed a chart down at the station like absolutely nothing was wrong, though the movement was just a little sharper than usual. Dana noticed that too. Of course she did.

Her eyes narrowed slightly with growing amusement while she watched him pretend not to look in your direction again.

Which naturally meant, he looked again. Quick. Subtle. Right as Langdon made you laugh another time. Abbot’s jaw tightened almost invisibly. Dana physically had to look away before she laughed directly in his face.

Dana watched Abbot glance toward you one more time before immediately pretending to focus on another chart again.

Pathetic. Honestly, deeply pathetic. And because she unfortunately cared about both of you more than she should, she decided to intervene.Again.

Before anyone could stop her, she suddenly grabbed a chart from the pile and raised her voice across the station. “Y/N!”

You turned immediately from beside Langdon. “Yeah?”

Dana waved the chart dramatically. “Come with me, I need help with the next patient.”

You frowned slightly. “…You’ve been a doctor for like thirty years.”

Dana pointed at you offensively. “Rude.” Then she started walking away already. “Come on.”

You exchanged a quick confused glance with Langdon before pushing yourself off the counter. “Duty calls apparently.”

Langdon smiled lightly. “Try not to insult any elderly physicians on the way.”

“No promises.” You walked off toward Dana while she tried very hard not to look suspiciously pleased with herself. The second you disappeared around the corner with her, Princess immediately looked toward Abbot. He was still pretending to read the exact same page for the third consecutive minute.

Princess leaned toward him innocently. “So…”

Abbot didn’t look up. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.” Perlah snorted quietly behind her computer.

Dana kept walking beside you through the hallway, chart tucked under one arm while the other hand pointed vaguely toward the waiting area. “Okay,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just interrupted your conversation on purpose. “Who do you want next?”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at her.

“That sounded weirdly ominous.” Dana ignored you and opened the chart slightly. “We have a drunk guy who stapled his own thumb during a DIY project—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—or,” she continued dramatically, “a teenager with a possible nasal fracture after attempting a backflip off a vending machine.”

You blinked slowly. “…Why was he on the vending machine?”

Dana shrugged. “Apparently for love.”

You sighed. “Of course.”

Dana smirked slightly. “So. Choose your fighter.”

You crossed your arms while pretending to seriously think about it. “Hm…”

“The thumb guy also threw up in triage.”

“That information feels manipulative.”

“Correct.”

You were just opening your mouth to answer when—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A violent noise slammed against one of the waiting room windows.

Both of you froze instantly. Then another round of hitting.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Not accidental. Not normal.

Every instinct in your body shifted immediately. The joking vanished. You and Dana turned at the exact same time toward the waiting area where muffled shouting suddenly erupted from behind the glass.

Another loud impact rattled the window.

People inside the waiting room started backing away. “Shit,” Dana muttered already moving. And both of you broke into motion immediately.

From down the hallway, the yelling became clearer. “HELLO?! Can you hear me?! Helloooo?!”

Another bang against the glass echoed through the waiting room.

You and Dana arrived quickly, slowing only once you reached the entrance. The man stood at the reception window, palm slamming hard against the glass separating him from Lupe.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Construction jacket half open. Dark blond hair messy like he’d been pulling his hands through it for hours. And the anger radiating off him filled the entire room. Not drunk.

Not out of control yet. But very close to becoming both. His jaw was clenched so tightly it visibly moved when he breathed, pacing one step before turning sharply back toward the desk again.

People in the waiting room had started staring now. Some moving farther away quietly.

Lupe herself stayed composed behind the glass, though you could tell she was getting tense too.

Dana immediately stepped forward first, lifting both hands slightly in a calming gesture.

“Whoa, whoa—sir, sir,” she said firmly but calmly. “What’s the issue here?”

The man turned sharply toward her, frustration written all over his face.

And behind Dana, you stopped instinctively. The waiting room. The yelling. The glass. The sudden aggression. Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

You stayed a little behind Dana automatically, shoulders tense despite yourself, eyes fixed carefully on the man while old memories crawled unpleasantly at the back of your mind.

“The issue?” the man snapped immediately, stepping closer to the glass again. “The issue is that I’ve been here all damn day and you people haven’t done a single fucking thing to help me!”

His voice boomed across the waiting room hard enough that several people visibly startled. The anger on his face was impossible to miss now. Red cheeks. Tight jaw. Eyes wide with frustration that had clearly been building for hours.

Dana kept her posture steady, calm voice carefully measured despite the tension climbing rapidly.

“Sir, we are doing everything we can to help you, but you need to calm down—”

“DON’T tell me to calm down!” he exploded instantly.

The sound made your shoulders tense automatically behind her. He pointed aggressively around the waiting room now, arm sweeping toward the other patients sitting silently nearby.

“I’m not like all these losers!” The room went completely still.

“I have insurance,” he yelled louder. “Good insurance! And I pay my taxes which pays for THEM not to have insurance!”

His voice echoed violently against the walls now, anger fully taking over while people looked away uncomfortably or shrank deeper into their seats.

Another sharp movement from him, another loud yell, and you flinched slightly before you could stop yourself.

Dana noticed. She noticed the slight flinch behind her without even turning around. And instantly, her posture changed. Still calm. Still controlled. But firmer now.

“Sir,” she said sharply, voice cutting through the room with authority this time, “you’ve got about five seconds to change your entire attitude before security gets involved.”

You could feel it immediately, Dana was getting irritated too. Not scared. Annoyed.

But she was trying hard not to let it fully show, probably knowing that if she pushed too hard, the man would only escalate more.

The guy stared at her breathing heavily, anger still written all over his face. Then suddenly he threw one hand up dismissively.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. “I’m leaving.”

His voice was calmer now—but not calmer emotionally. The anger was still there in his eyes as he started turning away from the desk, looking back at both of you with that same simmering frustration.

And then, from behind the reception glass— “HEY!”

The voice cut through the waiting room sharply. You turned immediately.

Langdon had appeared beside Lupe’s desk seemingly out of nowhere, one hand braced against the counter as he looked directly at the man.

The man turned sharply toward him, still visibly angry. Langdon didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice either.

“You are absolutely free to go,” he said calmly through the glass, “but if you do, you’ll be leaving against our medical advice.”

He grabbed a paper from the desk beside Lupe and slapped it flat against the glass hard enough to get the man’s attention.

“This form states that I advised you to stay and complete your evaluation,” Langdon continued evenly, “but that you are choosing to leave anyway, understanding and accepting all risks of heart attack, stroke, disability, and death.”

The waiting room had gone almost completely silent now. Even the man’s anger seemed to hesitate slightly under Langdon’s tone. Professional. Cold. Unmoved. Then Langdon slid the paper calmly under the glass toward him.

The man stepped slowly back toward the desk, still breathing hard, and aggressively snatched the paper from under the glass.

He looked down at it briefly before scoffing bitterly. “Sounds like a CYA in case I drop dead on the curb.”

Langdon didn’t hesitate even a second. “That’s exactly what it is.”

The blunt honesty seemed to catch the man off guard more than anger would’ve. His shoulders lowered slightly now, some of the fight draining out of him as frustration slowly replaced rage. “I just wanted to be treated fairly,” he muttered, quieter this time.

Langdon’s expression softened just enough. “I assure you that is our intention,” he said calmly. “We’re not back here playing Go Fish.”

And before the silence could settle awkwardly, Dana stepped in smoothly right after him. “We are helping very sick people,” she said gently but firmly. “You will be seen, okay?”

Between the two of them, the tension in the waiting room slowly started easing down, the man no longer yelling now—just tired, frustrated, and finally listening.

The man finally backed away from the desk, the fight draining out of him as he sank down into one of the waiting chairs. His anger didn’t vanish completely—but it softened into something quieter, heavier. He sat there among the other patients, staring down at the form in his hands with a strained, almost embarrassed half-smile, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself anymore. The waiting room slowly exhaled with him.

Dana’s posture loosened just slightly as the immediate threat passed, but when she turned, her attention immediately landed on you. You were still standing near the glass. Still watching him. Still not fully back in the room.

Your grip on the edge of the counter was tighter than it should’ve been, knuckles faintly tense. Your breathing had changed without you even realizing it—shallower, faster, stuck somewhere between the present and something older your body remembered too well.

The noise in the waiting room dulled around you. The fluorescent lights felt too bright again. For a second, it wasn’t this man you were seeing anymore. It was another room. Another moment. Another version of a waiting area your mind didn’t want to return to.

Dana noticed immediately. Her expression shifted—subtle, but concerned now instead of focused on the situation. Dana didn’t wait for you to spiral further.

Your eyes stayed locked on the man, even though you weren’t really looking at him anymore. Your breathing hitched slightly. Just enough for it to show. And suddenly the ER felt too loud again.

She stepped in immediately, gentle but firm, and placed a steady hand on your shoulder. “Hey…” she said more softly.

You blinked once—like you were trying to refocus, to pull yourself back into the present—but your breathing was still slightly uneven.

Dana didn’t push. She just guided you, turning you away from the waiting room with careful pressure. “Come on,” she murmured. “Out here.” You let her move you without resistance.

The two of you stepped back into the ER hallway, the sound of monitors and voices washing over you again, grounding and sharp in the best possible way.

Only once you were fully out of sight of the waiting room did Dana stop. You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop. “I’m okay,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

Dana raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but not pressing immediately. You ran a hand over your face, trying to steady your breathing properly now. “I’m fine,” you repeated, more controlled this time. “It just—caught me off guard.”

Dana studied you for a second, then nodded slightly like she was choosing not to argue with you in public about it. “Okay,” she said gently. “But don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine and then disappear into your head for the rest of the shift.”

That almost made you let out a small breath of a laugh. Almost. You shook your head faintly. “I’m not disappearing.”

Dana tilted her head. “Good.” A pause. Then, a little softer, “You’re here with me, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And even if your pulse was still a little off, you were back in the ER now. Not the waiting room. Not the memory. Just here.

————————

A few moments later, things had already moved on like they always did in the ER—no time to linger, no space to stay stuck. Dana had eventually steered you back into the flow of the shift, handing you the chart again with a quiet glance that said she was still keeping an eye on you without making it obvious.

And just like that, you made your choice. “The teenager,” you said, closing the chart decisively.

Dana smirked faintly. “Of course you picked chaos.”

“You gave me chaos options.”

“Fair.”

Now you were in one of the exam rooms with him—Room 6—standing across from a lanky teenage boy sitting on the bed, holding a makeshift ice pack against his nose like it was doing him any real good.

He looked embarrassed more than anything. Bruised nose. Slight swelling already starting. Eyes darting around like he was hoping this was all a misunderstanding.

You pulled on fresh gloves, voice calm and professional as you started your assessment. “Okay,” you said gently. “Tell me what happened.”

He hesitated. “…So. Hypothetically.”

You looked at him. “Not a great start.”

He winced. “Okay—no—so I tried a backflip.”

You paused slightly. “…On purpose?”

He nodded slowly. “On a vending machine.”

You stared at him for a second. Then exhaled through your nose. “Why.”

He shifted awkwardly. “…There was a girl.”

You didn’t even react at first. Just nodded like you had heard this exact sentence too many times in your career. “Of course there was.”

He rushed to explain.

“It was supposed to be impressive, like—cool, you know? I’ve done it before but not on a vending machine and—”

“Okay,” you cut in gently, already checking his nose and facial structure. “Let’s focus on the important part. Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“Any dizziness?”

“A bit, but I think that’s mostly embarrassment.”

A small breath of amusement slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Fair.”

You carefully palpated the bridge of his nose, watching for instability or severe deviation while continuing in a calm tone. You finished your exam calmly, moving with the same steady rhythm you always relied on when the ER felt too loud inside your head.

“Alright,” you said after a final quick check of his nose and facial bones. “Nothing feels unstable, which is good. We’re going to get imaging to confirm there’s no displacement or hidden fracture lines.”

The teenager nodded slowly, still holding the ice pack like it was doing emotional support more than medical work. “So I’m not dying from… vending machine karma?” he asked.

You gave him a flat look. “No.”

He visibly relaxed. “Nice.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, already reaching for the chart. “I’m going to give you something for the pain and swelling while we wait for imaging,” you added.

His eyes widened slightly. “Is it gonna knock me out?”

“No,” you said immediately. “It’s not a movie sedation situation. Just something to take the edge off.”

“Aw.” You paused. “…Why ‘aw’?”

“I thought I’d get to experience hospital naps.” You shook your head slightly as you wrote the order. “Unfortunately, you’re not that interesting of a case.”

He looked offended. “That’s rude.”

A nurse passed by outside as you signed off the medication order, then returned with the dose a few minutes later.

You checked it carefully, then handed it over. “Take this,” you instructed gently. “It’ll help with the pain and swelling until imaging.”

He swallowed it with a sip of water, watching you like he was still trying to process everything that had happened to him in the last hour.

“…So,” he said slowly, “if I had just walked normally to the vending machine, I wouldn’t be here right now?”

You looked at him for a beat. “Yes.”

He nodded. “…Noted.”

You capped your pen and glanced at him one last time. “You’re staying here until imaging clears you, understood?”

“Yes, doctor.”

You turned slightly toward the door, already stepping back into the flow of the ER. “Good,” you said. “Try not to invent any more hobbies while you wait.”

You stepped out of the exam room a few minutes later, still finishing your notes as you walked.

The teenager was stable, waiting for imaging, pain under control—straightforward enough to close out for now. You scribbled the last line of documentation while moving through the hallway, already shifting your attention to the next task without really thinking about it.

ER rhythm. Move, assess, move again. Just as you were about to pass the nurses’ station, Princess was on the phone, one hand covering the receiver while the other waved frantically at you.

“Y/N!” she called out sharply. You looked up immediately. She pointed down the hallway toward the emergency bay, eyes wide with urgency.

“Go find Dana—she’s been out there way too long and she’s not answering!”

You frowned slightly. “…Out where?” Princess mouthed emergency entrance while still half-listening to the call.

Your grip tightened a little around the charts in your hands. That was enough information. “Got it,” you said quickly.

No hesitation. You turned on your heel and headed straight for the emergency bay, already tucking your paperwork tighter against your chest as you walked faster, the noise of the ER fading slightly behind you with each step.

You pushed through the emergency bay doors quickly, barely glancing toward the infamous bet board as you passed it this time. Not now.

The second you stepped outside, the contrast hit immediately. Fresh air. Sunlight warming your skin. The faint city noise beyond the ambulance entrance.

After hours trapped under fluorescent lights, blood, noise, and tension, the outside air almost felt unreal for a second. You inhaled deeply automatically while scanning the area.

Empty ambulance bay. No Dana. Your brows pulled together immediately. “Dana?” you called out once, stepping farther outside. Nothing.

A small knot twisted instantly in your stomach. You walked farther toward the edge of the bay, eyes searching quickly—and then you saw her.

Down near the concrete beside the side wall. On the ground. Moving only slightly. Everything inside you dropped. The charts slipped from your hands and scattered across the pavement without you even noticing.

“DANA!” You broke into a run immediately.

You dropped to your knees beside her so fast it hurt against the concrete.

Dana was trying to push herself up weakly, one hand braced against the wall while the other stayed over part of her face like she was instinctively hiding it.

“Hey—hey, don’t move,” you said immediately, panic already rising in your throat. Your hands grabbed carefully at her shoulders and arm, helping steady her into a sitting position against the wall.

And then you saw it.

Blood. A dark smear on the concrete beside her. Your stomach twisted violently. “Oh my god…”

Your eyes darted over her quickly in automatic assessment mode now, adrenaline taking over hard. “Dana, look at me.”

She tried to turn away slightly instead. “Dana.” Your voice cracked sharper this time. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hand just enough for you to finally see her properly.

And the sight made your chest tighten instantly.

Blood streamed heavily from Dana’s nose, running over her lips, down her chin and neck, staining the collar of her scrub top.

Too much blood. Your heartbeat spiked instantly. “Jesus—”

You grabbed gently at her wrist and shoulder, trying to keep her upright while quickly checking her responsiveness at the same time. “Dana, stay with me.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled thickly through the blood, which immediately told you she was absolutely not fine.

“Don’t say that,” you snapped automatically, panic and adrenaline sharpening your voice. You grabbed gauze from the emergency wall kit beside the entrance and pressed it carefully toward her hand. “Hold this.”

Dana obeyed weakly, still looking dazed.

Your eyes scanned her rapidly now:

• bleeding nose

• possible facial trauma

• maybe a fall

• maybe worse

“Dana,” you said again, trying to steady your breathing enough to think clearly. “What happened?”

She swallowed painfully, blood still dripping between her fingers. Then finally muttered, “…I got dizzy.”

You stared at her for half a second. No. Absolutely not. Dana was many things, but she was not someone who casually “got dizzy” and ended up bleeding onto concrete outside the ER.

Your voice sharpened immediately. “Dana.”

She avoided your eyes. That alone told you enough. You adjusted your grip on her shoulder carefully, forcing yourself to stay medically calm even while panic and anger started twisting together inside your chest. “What happened?”

“I told you—”

“No,” you cut in firmly. “You lied to me.”

Dana closed her eyes briefly like she was already exhausted by the conversation. Blood still slipped slowly between her fingers onto the gauze. You leaned closer slightly. “Tell me.”

For a second she stayed silent. Then finally she let out a small, shaky breath. “…That guy from the waiting room.”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “What.” Dana swallowed hard before continuing quietly, “He followed me outside.” Every muscle in your body went rigid.

“He said he’ll take the risk,” she murmured.Your hands tightened unconsciously around the gauze pack. “And then?” Dana gave a humorless little laugh through the blood. “And then he hit me.”

The words slammed into you harder than you expected. You physically froze. Like your brain needed a second to catch up with what she had just said. “He what?”

Dana finally looked at you now, eyes tired more than emotional. “He swung at me once,” she admitted quietly. “Caught my nose. I fell.”

You stared at the blood on her face again. The concrete. The smear beside her. And suddenly your pulse was roaring in your ears. “Where is he?”

Dana immediately grabbed your wrist weakly before you could even fully stand. “Y/N.”

“Where is he?”

“He left.”

“I swear to god—”

“He left,” she repeated more firmly despite how exhausted she sounded. Your hands start shaking after the adrenaline hit. Dana noticed instantly. Even hurt, she still noticed you first.

“Hey,” she said softly. You looked back at her immediately. “I’m okay.” But the blood on her face made that impossible to believe.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself back into motion before panic fully took over. “Come on,” you said quickly.

Carefully, you slid one arm around Dana’s waist while guiding one of hers over your shoulders. She winced slightly as she pushed herself upright, blood still staining the front of her scrubs and your hands.

“Easy,” you murmured automatically. Dana leaned more weight against you than she probably wanted to admit. Together, slowly but quickly enough to matter, you started moving back toward the ER entrance.

Your heart was still pounding violently. Every step felt wrong. Too familiar.

The automatic doors slid open the second you crossed back inside. And immediately, everything stopped around you. People turned. Nurses froze.

Someone cursed quietly nearby. Because Dana looked bad. Blood down her face. On her neck. On her clothes.

And beside her, you looked furious.

Abbot saw you first from across the station. Then saw Dana. And he moved instantly. “Jesus Christ—”

Robby was right behind him before either of them had fully processed the situation. “What happened?” Robby asked sharply, already reaching for Dana’s arm to help support her.

Abbot’s eyes snapped between the blood and your face. His expression changed immediately. Not confusion. Not concern alone. Rage. Cold and immediate. “What happened?” he repeated harder this time.

You looked at him, breathing still uneven from adrenaline.

“That guy from the waiting room,” you said tightly. “He followed her outside.” A beat. “He hit her.” The entire atmosphere of the ER shifted instantly.

Dana kept insisting—still stubborn even while being sat down— “I’m okay… I’m fine, really.”

But no one was treating it like “fine” anymore. Robby guided her into the nearest chair by the nurses’ station, already fully in exam mode. His hands were steady as he leaned in, careful but efficient.

He tilted her face slightly. “Look at me,” he said gently. Dana obeyed with a tired sigh.

He checked her nose first—slow, precise—then moved the penlight up to her eyes, watching for reaction, tracking her pupils.

“No obvious deviation,” he murmured. “But we’re still going to ice this and monitor you. Any nausea?”

“A bit,” Dana admitted. Robby’s expression tightened slightly. “Okay. No hero answers, alright? Just facts.”

Dana muttered something under her breath but stayed still this time. You stayed a few steps back. Arms crossed. Watching. Not just Dana anymore—but the whole scene. Robby taking over care instinctively, grounded and calm. Dana trying to act like it was nothing.

The ER already moving again around you like it hadn’t just shifted violently a few minutes ago.

But your hands were still tense. Fingers tapping lightly against your arm without you noticing. Your chest still hadn’t fully unclenched. Anger sat under your skin like static.

Abbot noticed. Of course he did. He stepped closer to you—closer than usual, enough that the noise of the ER faded slightly around him.

You turned your head just slightly toward him. And before you could even process it— his hands came up. Gently. He cupped your face. Not forceful. Not dramatic. Just steadying.

His thumbs stayed still near your jaw as his eyes scanned you properly now—your expression, your pupils, the tension in your face, your breathing he was clearly reading without you saying a word.

“You,” he said quietly, voice lower than before, “are you okay?” The question landed differently this time. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was checking.

And his worry wasn’t hidden anymore. It was right there in his eyes—focused, real, unguarded in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him at all.

For a second, your brain just stalled. The anger didn’t disappear. The fear didn’t either. But something else pushed through both of them. And you didn’t immediately know what to do with that look on his face.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him. Really looked.

The ER noise blurred slightly at the edges, like your brain had decided to narrow the world down to just this moment—his hands on your face, his eyes scanning you like he was trying to verify something beyond medical facts.

It made something in your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t immediately name.

Not panic. Not anger. Something… quieter. Weirdly grounding.

After a second, you gently lifted your hands and guided his away from your face—not rejecting it harshly, just easing the contact down.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, more steady now. “He left before I even got there.”

Abbot’s hands dropped, but not abruptly. Like he was still reluctant to let go of the check he’d just done. His gaze stayed on you a moment longer, searching your face like he didn’t fully trust the words yet.

Then he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he said, quieter. Just that.

But it didn’t sound like he meant “okay” the way people usually did in the ER. His eyes flicked briefly toward Dana, then back to you again—still alert, still tense in a different way now. Like the danger hadn’t fully left the room for him either.

And for a second, neither of you moved. Just stood there in the middle of the chaos, both of you slightly off balance from something neither of you was saying out loud.

————————

A few hours later, the ER had finally started to wind down into that late-shift exhaustion—less chaos, more lingering tension. People still spoke quieter than usual.

Glances lasted a second too long. Everyone was moving like the memory of what happened was still hanging in the air, even if the emergency itself was over.

Dana had refused to fully “be a patient,” of course. Robby had tried. You had tried. Abbot had very firmly tried.

She ended up in one of the small rooms off the main ER anyway, officially under observation—nose iced, vitals checked, “no unnecessary movement” instructions given like she was ever going to follow that completely.

Still, she managed to turn it into something productive. Charts spread out on the small desk. Pen in hand. Laptop open. Half lying back against the bed like it was just an inconvenient office chair instead of a recovery space.

Every time someone passed her room, they slowed down automatically. Not out of curiosity anymore. Out of concern. Inside, Dana kept working anyway, stubborn as ever, occasionally pausing to press the ice pack back to her nose with a quiet sigh before continuing her paperwork like the day hadn’t tried to knock her out of it completely.

Outside, the ER kept moving.

But slower. Careful. Like everyone was still waiting for the tension to fully leave.

The fluorescent ER lights felt harsher now against everyone’s exhaustion. People were quieter while packing up. More drained than usual. Not physically. Emotionally.

You changed slowly in the locker room, pulling your hoodie over your scrubs while your mind kept replaying flashes from earlier: Dana on the ground, blood on the concrete, Abbot’s hands on your face. the waiting room.

You shoved your things into your bag with a tired sigh. Then after a moment of hesitation, you decided to go see Dana one last time before leaving. The hallway toward her room was calmer now, most of the day shift already gone home. A few nurses crossed paths with you quietly, the ER settling into its nighttime rhythm again.

When you reached her room, the door was still half open. And of course, Dana was still working. You leaned lightly against the doorway for a second before speaking. “You know observation usually involves observing,” you muttered.

Dana looked up immediately from the paperwork on her lap. The bruising around her nose and eye had darkened slightly now under the soft room light, making the whole thing look worse than earlier. Still, she smiled faintly when she saw you. “Well look who came back.”

You stepped inside slowly. “You got punched in the face. The least I can do is bully you a little before going home.”

Dana huffed a quiet laugh through her nose, instantly regretted it, and winced. “Okay, maybe don’t make me laugh.”

You pulled the nearby chair closer and sat beside her bed. For a second, neither of you spoke. The quiet felt different tonight. Heavier. You looked at the ice pack resting against her cheek. “…You scared me today,” you admitted softly.

Dana’s expression changed immediately at that. Not joking anymore. She looked at you carefully for a second before answering just as quietly, “I know.” And somehow that made the whole thing feel real all over again.

Dana adjusted the ice pack slightly against her face before looking at the clock on the wall. Then back at you. A small frown appeared. “…Wait.”

You looked up.

“Why are you still here?”

You blinked once. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” Dana said slowly, “your shift ended like an hours ago.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because honestly? You hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten. Dana stared at you knowingly now. “You should’ve gone home a while ago.”

You looked down briefly at your hands resting against your knees. The exhaustion was finally settling into your bones properly now that things were quiet. “I know,” you admitted quietly. Dana watched you for another second before her expression softened slightly. “You stayed because of me?”

You immediately shrugged like it was obvious. “You got assaulted.” Dana gave a faint breath of a laugh through her nose again, more careful this time. “Still sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”

“It was dramatic.”

A small silence settled between you again. Then Dana tilted her head slightly, studying you. “You’re still shaken up.”

You instinctively tried to deny it. “I’m not—”

“You’re literally chewing the inside of your cheek right now.”

You stopped immediately. Damn her.

Dana’s voice softened more after that. “Hey.” You looked back at her. “I’m okay,” she said gently this time. “Bruised ego. Broken pride maybe. But okay.”

You exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly in the chair. “I know.” But your voice still sounded tense. Because logically, yes, she was okay. But your body hadn’t fully caught up with that fact yet.

You pushed yourself up slowly from the chair, grabbing your bag from the floor beside you. “I should go home,” you said quietly.

Dana nodded faintly. “Probably a good idea.”

You looked pointedly at the paperwork still spread across her lap. “And you need to stop working.”

Dana immediately smiled a little. “There she is.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“No, seriously, Dana.” You pointed at the charts. “You got punched in the face today. You are not secretly finishing paperwork at midnight.”

Dana laughed softly at that, the sound tired and rough around the edges. “You’re starting to sound like Robby.”

“That should scare you.”

“It does a little.”

You didn’t smile this time though. Still too serious. Still too wound up from the day. Dana noticed immediately. Her expression softened. Then, more gently this time, she closed the chart on her lap and set her pen aside. “…Okay.”

The simple answer relaxed something in your chest almost instantly. “Okay?” you repeated suspiciously.

Dana raised one hand slightly. “I said okay.”

You studied her for another second to make sure she actually meant it. Then finally nodded once.“Good.”

Dana watched you adjust your bag over your shoulder, her eyes following you carefully now in that quiet, almost maternal way she had sometimes.

“Go sleep,” she murmured softly.

You let out a tired breath. “That’s the plan.” And for once, Dana didn’t tease you when you left the room looking emotionally exhausted instead of physically tired.

You walked quietly through the hallway, the ER finally shifting fully into night mode behind you. Different voices now. Different rhythm.

The night shifters had taken over completely, moving through the halls with that strange exhausted efficiency unique to overnight staff. A few people nodded at you as you passed, too tired for real conversation.

You kept walking.

Past trauma. Past the nurses’ station. Past the ambulance entrance. This time you didn’t even look at the bet board. You just wanted to go home.

The automatic doors opened, cool night air brushing against your skin as you stepped outside and started down the sidewalk beside the hospital.

The city was calmer now. Dark sky above. Streetlights reflecting faintly off the pavement still damp from earlier rain. You exhaled slowly, shoulders finally loosening a little after the endless day.

Then, “Y/N.”

You turned at the sound immediately.

Abbot was jogging lightly to catch up to you from the hospital entrance, one bag slung over his shoulder, jacket half open like he had left in a hurry after seeing you go. You slowed instinctively. He stopped a few steps in front of you, slightly out of breath but trying not to show it.

For a second neither of you spoke. The noise of the ER stayed behind the doors now. Just the city. The cold air. And him standing there looking at you in a way that suddenly made your pulse feel annoyingly noticeable again.

For a moment, Abbot just stood there looking at you under the cold hospital lights, one hand still hooked around the strap of his bag.

Then finally, “I’m sorry.”

The words hit you so unexpectedly that you actually blinked. Because this wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t one of those half-joking apologies he usually hid behind. It was real. And somehow that made it feel heavier. You could actually see the effort it cost him to say it.

Abbot glanced away briefly before continuing, jaw tightening slightly like he physically disliked being emotionally honest this long.

“For the other night,” he said quietly. “With your patient.” Ethan. You stayed silent, surprised enough to let him continue.

“I shouldn’t have discharged him,” he admitted. “It wasn’t my call, and I had no right to interfere with your patient because I was…” He stopped himself briefly, visibly annoyed with his own sentence.

You crossed your arms lightly, mostly to stop yourself from looking too affected by this.

“You were…?”

Abbot looked at you immediately. You almost smiled. Almost. He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not important.”

That alone nearly made you laugh from shock.

“I broke the pact,” he continued more quietly now. “And you were right to be angry.” The mention of the pact made something shift strangely in your chest again.

The memory came back instantly, your hand in his outside the bar, the promise, the stupid sarcastic handshake that somehow had mattered more than either of you expected.

You looked at him carefully now. He looked exhausted. Not physically. Emotionally exhausted.

Like today had worn through whatever defenses he usually kept between himself and other people. “I know I’ve already apologized before,” he added after a second. “But this one’s… different.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. Because you could hear it too. This wasn’t him trying to end an argument. This was him genuinely regretting hurting you.

You were still processing the apology when Abbot shifted slightly on his feet, like he was weighing something in his head. Then, out of nowhere, “Do you want to get a drink?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”

He didn’t look away this time. “It’s late,” he added, quieter but steady. “I know. But I want to apologise properly.”

That made your guard twitch immediately. You exhaled, shaking your head slightly as exhaustion finally caught up again.

“I’m tired,” you said honestly. “I should go home.”

A pause. Abbot didn’t argue right away, which somehow made it worse. Then, “You don’t work tomorrow,” he said simply.

You looked at him. He continued, more measured now. “So you can sleep later. Just—one drink.” That “just” did something annoying to your brain.

Because he wasn’t pushing. He was… asking again. Still calm. Still watching you like your answer mattered more than he was comfortable admitting.

You hesitated. The night air felt colder suddenly, or maybe it was just the fact that your brain had shifted from survival mode to something much more complicated. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

Abbot nodded once, like he expected that. “Then don’t decide right now,” he said. “Just walk with me.”

That one landed differently. Not a demand. Not a trap. Just… time. A small pause. He adjusted his bag strap slightly.

“I’ll take you somewhere close,” he added. “You can leave whenever you want.” And for the first time since you stepped out of the ER— it didn’t feel like you were being pulled back into chaos. Just invited into something quieter.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, jealousy, possessiveness, tension, arguments.

a/n : oooouh the tension in this chapter ugh so happy to finally do a real enemies to lovers 🤓

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 9 : Almost

A few days passed after Robby’s birthday. A few shifts too. And somehow, things between you and Abbot had settled into something… different.

Not soft. Definitely not soft. You still argued over treatments sometimes. Still threw sarcastic comments across trauma rooms. Still challenged each other constantly because apparently neither of you knew how to function normally for more than ten minutes.

But the sharp edge was gone now. The arguments didn’t explode anymore. The teasing didn’t feel cruel. And underneath all the rivalry, something warmer had started slipping through whether you both wanted it to or not.

You noticed it during the little things. The way he stopped hovering over your shoulder and instead quietly trusted your decisions. The way you no longer walked away the second he approached you. The way your fights now ended with eye rolls instead of slammed doors.

And apparently, you weren’t the only ones noticing. Because the rest of the ER definitely had. Especially Dana. Dana watched the two of you like someone observing a dangerous chemical reaction she was secretly very proud of.

Princess was worse. She had fully adopted the role of emotionally invested spectator. Every time you and Abbot stood too close for more than thirty seconds, she would suddenly appear somewhere nearby looking way too entertained.

Even Lena had started giving you subtle looks whenever you and Abbot fell naturally into sync during difficult cases. Nobody said it directly. Mostly because they all knew you’d deny everything immediately.

But the atmosphere had changed. The whole ER could feel it. Including Abbot. Which explained why he was currently glaring at you across the nurses station while signing charts. “You reordered my labs.”

You didn’t even look up from the computer. “They were inefficient.”

“They were perfectly efficient.”

“They were old man efficient.”

Abbot scoffed softly. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It means your treatment plan looked like it was faxed from 2006.”

That made Jesse choke on his coffee nearby while Dana immediately hid a smile behind her tablet.

Abbot looked at you flatly for a second. “You’re getting arrogant again.”

You finally glanced at him with a calm smile. “And yet you keep talking to me voluntarily.”

A dangerous little silence followed. Not hostile. Just charged enough now that Dana slowly turned her head between both of you like she was watching a tennis match. Abbot narrowed his eyes slightly before returning to his charts. “You’re insufferable.”

“Thank you.” And despite the words, there was absolutely no real irritation left in his voice anymore.

You returned your attention to the charts in front of you, typing the last notes into the computer while Abbot kept reorganizing paperwork beside you with that permanently annoyed expression he always wore around you.

Except now you knew better. Now you could spot the moments where he was trying not to smile. Which honestly made bothering him even more entertaining.

Dana watched the both of you over the top of her coffee cup like this was her favorite ongoing television show. A new chart suddenly slid across the counter toward you from Lena.

“Room nine,” she said. “Shoulder dislocation. Young guy. You can handle it.” You grabbed the chart quickly and stood up from the chair. Abbot glanced at the file automatically. “Basketball injury,” he noted.

“Wow,” you answered dryly. “Amazing diagnostic skills.”

“I read the chart.”

You pressed a hand dramatically against your chest. “And here I thought you sensed it medically.”

Jesse snorted loudly somewhere behind the nurses station. Abbot shook his head once, already regretting engaging.

You started walking backward slightly toward the hallway leading to the patient rooms, still holding the chart in one hand. Then you paused just long enough to glance back at him with a teasing smile.

“Try not to reorganize my charts while I’m gone, grandpa.”

Dana almost choked on her drink.

Abbot stared at you flatly.

“I’m fifty.”

“Ancient.”

“HEY!” Dana suddenly yelled from the nurses station, looking deeply offended.

You froze immediately. Then slowly looked at her. Dana pointed aggressively between herself and Abbot. “We are the same age category, thank you very much.”

You made a guilty face instantly. You pressed your lips together trying not to laugh. “Sorry,” you said with the least convincing apologetic expression possible before immediately escaping toward room nine while Dana shouted after you:

“You’re paying for my retirement home now!”

Abbot muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Unbelievable.” But you caught the faint smile tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth before you disappeared toward room nine.

You pushed the door to room nine open while still smiling slightly from Dana yelling behind you. “Hi,” you greeted automatically as you walked inside. “I’m Dr. Y/L/N, I heard someone decided basketball was more dangerous than it looked.”

The patient sitting on the bed looked up immediately. And for half a second, you paused internally.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Probably late twenties. Dark curls slightly messy from sweat, athletic hoodie hanging around his waist while one arm stayed awkwardly frozen against his body from the dislocated shoulder.

And unfortunately for your professional concentration, he was really attractive. Like unfairly attractive. You recovered quickly though, forcing your expression to stay perfectly neutral as you stepped further into the room.

The patient blinked once after seeing you, visibly caught off guard himself now. “Oh,” he said before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow lightly while reaching for gloves. “…That bad?” That seemed to snap him back to reality immediately.

“No— no, I just…” He laughed awkwardly despite the pain. “You’re not what I expected.”

You ignored that sentence professionally. Mostly because you already knew exactly where this was going.

“What happened?” you asked instead while checking the chart. “Went for a rebound,” he explained with a wince. “Guy pushed me mid-air. Landed wrong.”

You nodded while stepping closer carefully to examine the shoulder. “Okay, try not to move too much.”

You gently touched his arm to stabilize it while examining the obvious deformity near the joint.

Definitely dislocated.

The patient inhaled sharply through his teeth from the pain but kept watching you carefully while you worked. “You play often?” you asked casually. “College coach now,” he answered. “Used to play.”

“That explains the giant ego required to think you could still dunk at your age.”

That made him laugh despite himself. “Wow. You always insult injured people professionally?”

“Only the annoying ones.”

He smiled immediately at that. Yeah. You definitely knew where this was going now.

You kept the examination going carefully, gently testing his range of motion as much as the injury allowed while asking the standard questions.

“Any numbness in the fingers?”

“A little.”

“Head injury?”

“No.”

“You lose consciousness?”

“No, just my dignity.” That made a small laugh escape you before you could stop it. The patient smiled immediately like he’d just won something.

Yeah. Definitely flirting. You ignored it as professionally as possible while slipping your stethoscope around your neck again.

“Okay,” you said calmly. “Good news is it’s most likely just a clean anterior dislocation. Bad news is it’s gonna hurt while we put it back in.”

He winced slightly. “Can I request emotional support first?”

“You already got a doctor. That’s premium service.”

“That depends,” he answered smoothly. “Do all doctors look like you?”

You kept your expression impressively neutral despite internally sighing. There it is. You focused on preparing the medication tray instead.

“What’s your name?” you asked while drawing medication into a syringe.

“Ethan.”

“Okay, Ethan,” you answered professionally. “I’m giving you something for pain and muscle relaxation first before we reduce the shoulder.”

Ethan watched you carefully while you prepared everything. “You know,” he said after a second, “you’re taking this rejection surprisingly well.”

You looked up briefly. “What rejection?”

“You completely ignored my compliment.” You deadpanned immediately.

“I’m a doctor in an emergency room. If I reacted every time someone flirted while injured, nobody would survive.” That made him laugh again.And honestly? He was funny. Which was unfortunate.

You handed him the medication carefully while keeping your focus on the procedure.

“Try to relax your shoulder as much as possible,” you instructed gently. “The less you fight the muscle spasm, the easier this’ll go.”

Ethan nodded, eyes still on you. “You always this calm?”

“Usually.”

“You don’t seem stressed enough to work here.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s because you haven’t seen me during full moon trauma nights.”

“Now I’m curious.”

Even while trying to stay fully professional, part of you couldn’t help reacting to it a little. Not because you were planning to flirt back. But because… it was flattering. Simple as that.

The last few weeks of your life had been filled with exhaustion, trauma rooms, arguments, adrenaline, bruises fading slowly against your skin, and emotionally complicated coworkers who looked at you too intensely sometimes.

So yeah. Having a ridiculously attractive guy openly flirt with you while smiling through a dislocated shoulder did something small but undeniable to your ego.

It reminded you that outside the hospital chaos, outside the rivalry and emotional tension and endless shifts, you were still a woman people noticed.

Desired even. And honestly? That felt nice. You hid it well, of course.

Still focused. Still competent. Still handling the procedure professionally. But there was probably just a little more amusement in your smile now when Ethan joked with you again.

You stepped closer again, focus sharpening completely as you guided Ethan’s arm into position.

“Okay,” you said calmly, voice steady and professional again, all traces of personal distraction pushed firmly aside. “I need you to relax your shoulder as much as possible. The joint is out of place here—” you gently indicated the area with gloved fingers, careful not to press too hard “—so the surrounding muscles are guarding it. That’s what’s causing most of your pain right now.”

Ethan nodded, jaw tight but listening. You adjusted your stance slightly, bracing his upper arm with one hand while supporting the forearm with the other. Your movements were controlled, precise—second nature at this point. The room narrowed into focus: the patient, the injury, the timing.

“I’m going to guide the humeral head back into the socket,” you continued softly, keeping your tone reassuring. “You’ll feel pressure, maybe a sharp sensation for a second, but it’ll pass quickly.”

He swallowed. “Cool,” he muttered. “No pressure or anything.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “You’re doing great,” you added, mostly to keep him from tensing further. “Just breathe normally. Don’t fight it.”

“So,” he said casually, though his voice tightened a little as he braced himself, “do I get a reward after this?”

Your hands paused for half a second—but only half. You didn’t look up right away, focusing instead on stabilizing his shoulder joint.

You already knew exactly what he meant. A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. “Oh yeah?” you replied lightly. “What kind of reward are we talking about? Because I can assure you, insurance doesn’t cover anything fun.”

Ethan let out a short laugh, eyes still on you. “Something tells me you know exactly what I mean.”

You finally glanced up at him then, one eyebrow raised, amusement clearly visible now. “I’m a doctor,” you said innocently. “I have no idea what you’re implying. I prescribe rest, ice, and not making your shoulder worse by flirting with your treating physician.”

That got a proper grin out of him this time. “Worth a try,” he admitted.

You shook your head slightly, still smiling as you repositioned your grip with professional precision. “Let’s focus on getting you back in one piece first,” you added. “Then we’ll talk about your… reward expectations.”

And just like that, you lowered your attention back to the joint—completely composed again, even if the faint amusement hadn’t fully left your expression.

You shifted your grip slightly, setting everything in place with careful alignment. Your hands moved with practiced precision—one stabilizing, the other preparing for the reduction maneuver. You could feel the muscle resistance already, the body instinctively bracing against what was coming.

“Alright,” you said gently. “On three. One… two—” You didn’t wait for three.

In one smooth, decisive motion, you rotated and guided the joint back into place. A quick, controlled movement—firm but exact—using the natural direction of least resistance so the head of the humerus slipped back into the socket with minimal trauma.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ethan, then a heavy, immediate release as the tension dropped out of the joint.

The body reaction hit a second later: his shoulders sagged, face tightening briefly in shock before relief flooded in. And just like that, it was done.

You steadied his arm for a moment, checking alignment instinctively, already watching for proper repositioning and range response.

“Okay,” you said calmly. “That’s it. Try moving your fingers for me.”

Ethan blinked at you. “…You said three.”

You glanced up at him, perfectly composed. “I said breathe normally,” you replied. A beat. Then he let out a disbelieving laugh through the remaining tension. “Okay, that was kind of evil.”

“Effective,” you corrected, already reaching for the next step of care like nothing unusual had happened at all. But behind you, you could almost feel that same familiar presence watching the room more closely than before.

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the doorway instinctively. And there he was.

Abbot stood just outside the partially opened door, a few charts in hand, posture casual enough that most people probably wouldn’t think twice about it.

The second your gaze met his, he immediately looked back down at the papers like he had been deeply invested in them the entire time.

Smooth. Very convincing. You almost smiled. Because you knew him enough now to recognize the act instantly. He had been watching.

You finished checking the alignment carefully, making sure the shoulder sat properly back in place before slowly letting his arm rest more naturally at his side.

“Okay,” you said, pulling your gloves off. “That went well.” Ethan experimentally moved his fingers again before looking at you with visible relief. “Oh my god,” he breathed out. “That already feels way better.”

“Yeah, because your shoulder is no longer trying to escape your body.” That made him laugh softly again.

You reached for the sling beside the bed and carefully helped position his arm into it, adjusting the straps so the shoulder stayed supported and immobilized properly.

“Try not to move it too much for the next few days,” you explained while tightening the final strap. “You’ll probably be sore for a while. Ice every few hours, anti-inflammatory medication, and absolutely no basketball.”

Ethan looked personally offended. “You’re taking everything from me tonight.”

“You’re welcome.” You grabbed the chart at the end of the bed and started writing your notes while continuing the instructions.

“We’ll keep you here a little longer just to monitor how the pain settles after the reduction and make sure there’s no nerve or vascular issue showing up afterward.”

He nodded, though his attention still seemed more focused on you than the medical explanation itself.

“And if the pain suddenly gets worse, numbness spreads, or you lose movement in the hand,” you continued professionally, “you come back immediately. Understood?”

“Yes, doctor.” You glanced up briefly. The way he said it definitely sounded less medical than it should’ve. You ignored that on purpose.

“Good.” You clipped the pen back onto the chart and finally relaxed your posture slightly now that the procedure was done.

You left room nine after making sure Ethan was comfortable and settled with the sling properly in place. The second the door closed behind you, the noise of the ER wrapped around you again instantly.

Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Someone calling for transport down the hallway. Normal chaos.

You made your way back toward the nurses station while finishing the last notes on Ethan’s chart, still slightly amused despite yourself by the whole interaction.

Lena looked up the second you approached.,“So?” she asked immediately, leaning slightly against the counter. “How was Romeo with the broken shoulder?”

You laughed softly under your breath while setting the chart down. “Oh, he was absolutely flirting.”

Lena’s eyes lit up instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

Now suddenly very interested, Lena abandoned whatever she had been doing entirely. “What happened?”

You opened the chart on the computer again, still smiling faintly while typing. Meanwhile, right beside you, Abbot stood reorganizing paperwork that definitely did not need reorganizing anymore.

Pretending very hard not to listen. Which honestly would’ve been more believable if he hadn’t stayed rooted exactly three feet away for the past two minutes.

You noticed immediately. Of course you did. And judging by the slight tension in his shoulders, he knew you noticed too. That alone almost made you laugh.

“He started flirting like thirty seconds into the exam,” you explained casually to Lena while finishing the notes. “Tried to ask if he’d get a reward after I fixed his shoulder.”

Lena gasped dramatically. “No shame.”

“None.”

“What did you say?”

You grinned slightly at the memory. “I told him insurance didn’t cover anything fun.”

Lena burst out laughing loudly. Beside you, Abbot shuffled one single paper with unnecessary force. You bit back a smile immediately.

“And then,” you continued, now maybe just a little aware of your audience beside you, “he kept trying the whole procedure.”

“Was he cute at least?”

You hesitated just long enough for it to become dangerous. “…Annoyingly.”

Lena looked scandalized. “Oh my god.”

You laughed softly again, shaking your head while closing the chart. “He was harmless though. Funny too.”

Another paper shifted aggressively beside you. At this point Abbot wasn’t even pretending well anymore.

You finally glanced sideways toward him briefly, amusement flickering in your eyes. He kept looking at the charts in his hands with forced concentration. Which only confirmed even more that he had heard absolutely everything.

You shook your head slightly, still half amused while finishing the last part of the chart.

“And the worst part?” you continued. “He was actually smooth about it.”

Lena pressed a hand dramatically against her chest. “Oh no.”

“I know.”

“He had game?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” You sighed theatrically before adding with a small laugh, “And honestly? If he hadn’t dislocated his shoulder first, I think he probably walks around flirting like that naturally.”

The second the words left your mouth, the stack of papers beside you snapped shut a little too hard.

You and Lena both looked up instinctively. Abbot suddenly turned on his heel without a single word, jaw visibly tight now as he started walking away from the nurses station toward the hallway.

Fast. A little too fast. And very clearly annoyed. You blinked. Lena blinked too. The both of you watched him disappear around the corner in complete silence for a second.

Then slowly, very slowly, you turned your head back toward Lena. Lena was already staring at you with the biggest grin imaginable. “Oh my god,” she whispered.

You frowned immediately. “What?”

“He’s jealous.”

You scoffed instantly. “He is not jealous.”

Lena looked toward the hallway where Abbot had disappeared, then back at you like you were clinically insane. “Girl,” she deadpanned. “That man looked one minor inconvenience away from fighting a patient.”

You tried not to laugh. Failed a little. “He was not.”

“He absolutely was.”

“He’s just irritated.”

“Mhmm.”

“He probably thinks it’s unprofessional.”

Lena leaned closer over the counter slightly, lowering her voice dramatically. “Sweetheart,” she said with a grin, “that man was reorganizing the same three papers for five whole minutes just to listen to you talk about another guy.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because annoyingly, you didn’t really have a counterargument for that.

————————

A few hours later, the flirtation incident had mostly faded beneath the nonstop rhythm of the ER. Mostly.

You were now in trauma three with Ellis, both of you focused entirely on a woman curled painfully on the bed while monitors beeped steadily around the room.

Her name was Ava. Thirty years old. She had arrived earlier complaining of sudden severe abdominal pain, nausea, and dizziness after collapsing at home. At first, triage had suspected appendicitis or maybe a ruptured cyst.

Until her vitals started crashing. Now the atmosphere in the room had shifted completely. Ava’s skin had gone pale and clammy, sweat sticking her hair against her forehead while she fought to breathe through the waves of pain ripping through her abdomen.

Beside the bed, her boyfriend looked terrified. He kept gripping her hand helplessly, eyes darting between the monitors and your faces trying to understand what was happening.

“She was fine an hour ago,” he kept repeating anxiously. “She just suddenly— she collapsed.”

Ellis adjusted the ultrasound probe across Ava’s abdomen again, face tightening almost immediately. “That’s not good.”

You stepped closer to the screen. And your stomach dropped slightly. Free fluid. A lot of it. Too much.

Ava cried out sharply when Ellis pressed slightly lower along the abdomen, instinctively curling in on herself. The monitor alarm beeped again. Heart rate climbing. Blood pressure dropping.

You connected the pieces immediately.

“She’s bleeding internally,” you said quickly. Ellis nodded once, already moving faster now. “Possible ruptured ectopic.”

Your focus sharpened instantly. “Get another large-bore IV,” you ordered immediately. “CBC, CMP, type and cross, coag panel. Call OB surgery right now.” A nurse rushed out.

You moved beside the bed, crouching slightly near Ava while keeping your voice calm despite the urgency building around you. “Ava, listen to me,” you said gently. “We think there’s internal bleeding near your fallopian tube from a pregnancy developing outside the uterus.”

Her face twisted in confusion and pain. “What…?”

Her boyfriend looked completely lost now. “What does that mean?”

“It means she needs surgery quickly,” Ellis answered while adjusting fluids wide open. “But we caught it.”

You checked her abdomen again carefully. Rigid. Guarding badly. Pain worsening. Blood pressure dropping another few points. Not good.

Ava whimpered weakly while gripping the bedrails. “Am I gonna die?”

“No,” you answered immediately, firmly. “But we need to move fast.” You squeezed her shoulder gently before standing again, already shifting fully into emergency mode while the trauma room accelerated around you.

Because this had gone from abdominal pain, to a surgical emergency in less than ten minutes.

The room sped up around you instantly. Monitors beeped louder now, faster, matching the growing urgency tightening through every person in trauma three.

Ava suddenly cried out again, body curling violently around the pain before she gasped sharply for air. “Pressure’s tanking,” Ellis warned, eyes flicking toward the monitor. “Eighty over forty.”

“Heart rate one-forty.”

Shit. You moved immediately back to the bedside while nurses rushed around preparing blood products and emergency meds.

“Ava, stay with me,” you said firmly, keeping one hand against her shoulder as her eyes started unfocusing slightly.

Her boyfriend looked seconds away from panicking completely. “What’s happening?” he asked breathlessly. “Why is she getting worse?”

“The bleeding’s increasing,” you answered quickly without stopping your assessment. “The rupture’s probably gotten bigger.”

Another alarm sounded. Ava’s breathing became shallow now, lips paling further while sweat rolled down the side of her face. She was going into hemorrhagic shock. You looked toward Ellis instantly.

“OR still not ready?”

“Five minutes out.”

You clenched your jaw. Five minutes was too long. Ava suddenly groaned weakly before her eyes fluttered.

“Hey,” you called sharply, leaning closer. “Ava, look at me.” No response for a second. Then barely, “…hurts…” Her pulse was thready beneath your fingers now. You made the decision immediately. “We can’t wait.”

Ellis looked at you instantly, already understanding.

You turned sharply toward the nurses. “Massive transfusion protocol now. Push O-negative. Prep for bedside FAST reassessment.”

Everything moved at once. Blood bags arrived. IV lines flushed. Someone adjusted oxygen higher as Ava’s saturation started dropping.

Her boyfriend stepped back against the wall looking horrified while you climbed partly onto the side of the bed to stabilize the ultrasound again. The screen lit up. More fluid. Definitely more.

Your stomach tightened. “She’s actively bleeding into the abdomen.”

Ellis swore quietly under his breath. Ava suddenly jerked weakly from another wave of pain before going frighteningly limp afterward.

“Ava!” You grabbed her jaw gently, forcing her attention back toward you. “Stay awake for me.” Her eyes barely opened.

The monitor screamed another warning. Pressure still falling. You looked toward Ellis sharply. “If we lose perfusion before surgery she’s crashing.” She nodded once immediately. “Need central access.” You were already moving. “Kit. Now.”

A nurse shoved the sterile tray into your hands while you repositioned at Ava’s neck, adrenaline sharpening every movement into precision.

“Ava,” you said firmly while quickly sterilizing the skin near her internal jugular vein, “I need to place a central line to get blood and fluids into you faster, okay?”

She barely nodded. Her boyfriend looked pale as death himself now. You draped the sterile field quickly, ultrasound guiding your hand while you located the vein.

Everything narrowed into focus. Breathing. Angle. Needle placement. The room noise blurred around the edges as you inserted carefully, watching the ultrasound screen closely. Flashback of dark venous blood. Good. “Guidewire.”

Ellis handed it instantly. You threaded it smoothly, movements fast but controlled while Ava’s monitor continued alarming beside you.

“She’s bradying down now,” a nurse warned. “Come on…” you muttered under your breath while securing the line.

Finally the catheter slid into place. “Hook blood now.” The transfusion started immediately through the central line, fluids rushing directly into her circulation.

And for one terrifying second, everyone waited to see if it would be enough. The entire room held its breath.

Blood flowed rapidly through the central line now, dark red filling the tubing while fluids pushed beside it under pressure. You stayed beside Ava, one hand steady against the bedrail while your eyes locked onto the monitor.

Heart rate still dangerously high. Blood pressure barely hanging on. Come on.

Ava’s breathing hitched weakly beneath the oxygen mask, eyelids fluttering again as another contraction of pain tore through her abdomen.

Her boyfriend looked completely helpless from the corner of the room, watching every movement with terrified eyes.

Ellis checked the monitor again. “Pressure’s responding a little.”

Not enough. But something.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, forcing your brain to stay ahead of the situation. “Another unit ready?”

“Coming now.”

A nurse rushed another blood bag toward you while someone from surgery finally entered the room pulling gloves on. “OR’s ready.”

Thank god. But the second Ava tried to move, her body suddenly went limp again.

Monitor alarms screamed instantly. “Pressure dropping!”

Her eyes rolled briefly. “Ava!” you called sharply, grabbing her shoulder. “Stay with me.”

No response. Your stomach dropped.

“Pulse?”

“Thready.”

Ellis moved beside you immediately while the room erupted back into controlled chaos. “She’s crashing again.”

You adjusted the oxygen mask tighter against Ava’s face, voice calm despite the adrenaline burning through your chest now.

“Ava, listen to me. You need to stay awake.”

Nothing. The monitor dipped lower again. And then finally, after what felt like forever, the blood pressure slowly climbed.

Forty-five.

Then fifty.

Then sixty.

A weak but real improvement. “She’s coming back up,” Ellis said quickly. You looked at the monitor again. Heart rate slowing slightly now. Oxygen stabilizing. Perfusion improving. The blood was working.

Ava stirred weakly beneath the blankets, groaning softly before her eyes finally opened halfway again. “There you go,” you breathed quietly, relief hitting harder than expected. “Stay with me.”

Her boyfriend nearly collapsed from relief himself. “Oh my god…”You checked her pulse again carefully. Still weak. But there. Stable enough now to move. Barely.

You looked immediately toward the surgery team. “Move now before we lose the window.” The room exploded into motion again. Lines secured.

Monitor disconnected to transport. Blood traveling with her. You walked beside the stretcher while they pushed Ava rapidly toward the OR doors, one hand briefly squeezing her arm reassuringly as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you told her firmly.

And this time, you actually believed it. The operating room doors finally closed behind the surgical team. Silence hit you almost violently afterward.

You stopped in the hallway outside the OR, pulling your gloves off slowly now that the adrenaline had nowhere else to go.

Your hands were shaking slightly.Not from fear anymore. From release. Behind you, Ellis exhaled hard. “That was close.” You nodded silently, eyes still fixed on the closed doors for a second longer. Yeah. Way too close.

You finally stepped away from the OR hallway once the surgical team fully took over, the heavy doors swinging shut behind them with a metallic sound that seemed to echo longer than usual in your head.

Only then did your body start realizing the crisis was over.

The adrenaline that had kept everything sharp and controlled moments ago suddenly began fading out of your system, leaving behind exhaustion and tension buried deep into your muscles.

You rubbed a tired hand over your forehead before making your way back toward the nurses station. Lena looked up immediately the second she saw you approaching.“How is she?”

You leaned both hands against the counter for a second, catching your breath properly for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes.

“They got her into surgery in time,” you answered. “She was stabilizing before transfer.”

Lena visibly relaxed. “So she’s gonna be okay?”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Jesus,” Lena muttered softly. “That escalated fast.”

You let out a long breath through your nose, finally allowing the stress and adrenaline to slowly drain from your body now that you weren’t actively holding someone together anymore. “Yeah…”

Your shoulders felt painfully tight suddenly. You stretched your neck slightly, then rolled one shoulder back with a quiet wince, trying to work the tension out of your spine after being bent over the trauma bed for so long.

The exhaustion hit hard once the emergency was done. Your pulse was still running too fast. Hands still faintly shaky beneath the leftover adrenaline.

Lena watched you carefully for a second before giving you a small smile. “You did good.”

You looked down briefly, exhaling another tired breath before nodding faintly. “We all did.”

And despite the exhaustion pulling at every muscle now, there was still that quiet satisfaction underneath it.

That feeling ER doctors chased every day without admitting it out loud. You saved her.

Or at least, you gave her the chance to survive long enough for surgery to do the rest.

You stayed leaned slightly against the counter for another moment, still recovering from the emotional crash after the trauma case, when your eyes suddenly landed on a familiar name sitting near the edge of the tracking board.

Ethan Walker. Room nine. Your brain paused for half a second. “…Oh shit.”

Lena looked up immediately. “What?”

You straightened quickly, grabbing the chart off the counter.

“I completely forgot shoulder guy.” Lena blinked once. “The flirty one?”

“Yes, the flirty one,” you answered while already moving around the nurses station. “He was supposed to stay for reassessment after the reduction.”

Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. The ectopic rupture had swallowed the entire shift whole. You leaned briefly over the counter checking the discharge paperwork attached to his chart while starting toward room nine.

But before you could fully leave, Lena spoke again. “…No, he left actually.”

You stopped mid-step. Then slowly turned back toward her. “He what?”

Lena suddenly looked weirdly hesitant now. Almost guilty. You frowned slightly. “What happened?”

Lena gave a small awkward shrug. “He waited for a while but then…” She glanced briefly toward the hallway before looking back at you carefully. “Abbot discharged him.”

Silence. You stared at her for a second. “…Abbot discharged my patient?”

Lena winced immediately. “Well technically the reassessment was straightforward and his vitals were stable and—”

“But he wasn’t Abbot’s patient.”

“Y/N—”

You looked down at the chart in your hands again, confusion mixing slowly with something else now. Something suspiciously close to disbelief. “He discharged him himself?”

Lena bit the inside of her cheek trying very hard not to smile now. “…Mhm.”

A beat passed. Then another. And suddenly the memory of Abbot silently listening at the nurses station earlier replayed itself in your head.

The papers. The annoyed expression. Walking away the second you called Ethan attractive. Your eyes narrowed slowly.

“Putain.” (Shit)

Lena immediately looked way too entertained. “See?” she whispered dramatically. “I told you.”

“Where is he?” you asked flatly.

Lena hesitated for about half a second too long. “…Room nine actually.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You grabbed Ethan’s chart harder than necessary and slammed it back onto the counter with a sharp noise that made Lena visibly jump.

Because seriously, first he reorganized your work. Then he hovered over your shoulder making passive aggressive comments while you were with a patient. And now he was discharging one of your patients himself?

Absolutely not.

You turned immediately and marched toward room nine with enough determination that two nurses instinctively moved out of your way. At this point you were genuinely ready to kill him.

The door swung open a little too hard when you pushed it. “Abbot—”

Your voice came out sharp and dry instantly.

But the second you stepped inside, you stopped. Completely.

You found Abbot quietly stitching the forehead of a confused old man sitting on the exam bed. The old patient startled slightly at your entrance.

Abbot looked up slowly from where he was holding forceps and sutures against the man’s brow. A beat of silence passed. Then another.

Your anger crashed directly into immediate embarrassment. Abbot stared at you calmly. “…Yes?” he asked flatly. You stood there frozen near the doorway, still visibly ready for murder.

The old man looked nervously between both of you. “…Should I be concerned?” he asked carefully.

Behind the mask, you could swear you saw the corner of Abbot’s mouth twitch slightly. Which somehow made everything worse.

You recovered quickly enough to keep your expression straight. Mostly. Though the embarrassment burning under your skin definitely wasn’t helping your mood.

Abbot still looked infuriatingly calm as he held the suture needle between steady fingers, standing beside the old man like absolutely nothing unusual had just happened. You crossed your arms tightly. “When you’re done,” you said sharply, voice clipped and dry, “out.”

The old man blinked. Abbot held your gaze for a second longer. Then simply “…Okay.”

You turned immediately before your dignity could get any worse and left the room again, this time closing the door far less aggressively behind you.

The second you stepped back into the hallway, you exhaled hard through your nose and rubbed a tired hand over your face. Jesus Christ. You leaned briefly against the wall outside the room, trying to let the remaining irritation cool off while the ER noise buzzed around you again.

Inside the room, a small silence settled for a moment while Abbot calmly returned to stitching the older man’s forehead. The patient looked toward the closed door cautiously. Then back toward Abbot. “…Boss?” he asked quietly, clearly assuming the furious woman who stormed in had authority over him somehow.

Abbot didn’t even pause his stitching. “Worse.”

You finally gave up trying to calm down inside the ER and pushed through the emergency entrance doors instead, stepping outside into the cold night air.

The chill hit your skin immediately. Quiet compared to the chaos inside. Only distant traffic, ambulance sirens somewhere farther in the city, and the low hum of Pittsburgh still awake at night.

You inhaled deeply, letting the cold air fill your lungs while leaning both hands against the metal railing near the entrance.

God. Abbot was impossible. Somehow, even after everything, after the pact, after the birthday, after things finally getting better he still managed to get under your skin like nobody else.

And what annoyed you most wasn’t even the patient discharge itself. It was the fact he clearly knew exactly what he was doing. The passive aggressive hovering. The comments. The suspicious timing. And the worst part?

A small traitorous part of you was almost entertained by it. Which made you even more irritated.

You groaned softly under your breath, rubbing your forehead tiredly. “You’re exhausting,” you muttered to yourself.

The ER doors suddenly opened behind you. You didn’t even turn around. “You have some serious control issues, you know that?” you said immediately, already knowing it was him.

The ER doors closed behind him with a soft metallic sound. You still didn’t turn around.

Behind you, Abbot stopped a few feet away. Then, dry as ever, “And you always get emotionally attached to patients who flirt with you, or was tonight special?”

Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Oh my god.”

He leaned casually against the wall near the entrance, hands in his pockets, expression calm enough to be irritating on principle alone.

“You discharged my patient.”

“He was stable.”

“He was MY patient.”

“And yet somehow he survived the experience.”

You scoffed in disbelief. “Are you twelve?”

Abbot tilted his head slightly. “Are you?”

You stared at him for a second, genuinely offended now. That almost made you laugh despite yourself, which only irritated you more.

You crossed your arms tighter against the cold. “You had absolutely no reason to discharge him.” Abbot looked at you evenly for a moment before answering. “He’d been waiting three hours.”

“Because I was stopping someone from bleeding to death.”

“I know.” His voice lost a little sarcasm there. Just briefly. Enough for your irritation to hesitate slightly. But only slightly.

“Then why do it?” you asked. Abbot looked away for a second, jaw tightening faintly like he already regretted continuing this conversation.

Then finally, “Because listening to you talk about how ‘annoyingly attractive’ he was became irritating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled for half a second. You blinked slowly. “…Excuse me?”

He immediately looked annoyed with himself now, like the sentence had escaped accidentally.

You blinked at him once. Then again. Like your brain needed a second to fully process what he had just said out loud. “…Excuse me?” you repeated, slower this time.

Abbot immediately looked like he regretted existing in that exact moment. His jaw tightened slightly. “It’s not—”

“Oh,” you cut in, realization hitting you at full speed now. “I see.” You straightened a little, arms still crossed, eyes narrowing in something dangerously close to amusement.

“Lena was right.” That made his gaze snap back to you instantly. You didn’t even give him time to interrupt. “You are jealous.”

Silence. The cold air between you suddenly felt sharper. Abbot’s expression changed in a way you rarely saw—still controlled, still restrained, but noticeably more tense now. Like you’d poked something he very carefully kept locked away.

“I am not jealous,” he said flatly.

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”

“No.” A beat. You hummed softly, unconvinced. “Interesting,” you said. “Because from where I’m standing, you literally discharged my patient because he was flirting with me.”

“I discharged him because he was stable and we needed that room.”

“You also said he was annoying.”

“He was.”

“That’s not a medical diagnosis.”

Abbot exhaled through his nose, clearly getting more irritated now. “You’re reading too much into it.”

You took a small step closer without really thinking about it. “Oh, I don’t think I am.”

His eyes flicked down briefly—just for a second—then back to your face. “Lena talks too much,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “So you didn’t like hearing about him?”

“I didn’t care.” That was almost convincing. Almost. You leaned slightly against the railing beside you, watching him now with open curiosity. “You sure about that?”

Abbot stared at you for a long moment. Then, very quietly, “…I don’t like distractions in my ER.”

You raised your eyebrows immediately. “Ah.” A pause. Then you nodded slowly like you’d just solved a case. “Right.” You leaned back a little, tone lighter now—but sharper in a teasing way. “So it wasn’t jealousy.”

“No.”

“Just… professional concern.”

“Yes.”

You smiled to yourself. “Okay.” Abbot narrowed his eyes slightly. That “okay” clearly did not reassure him. You studied him for a second longer, like you were testing a theory now.

Abbot stayed perfectly still—but not relaxed. That was the difference. His jaw was tight, shoulders set in that controlled way that meant he was actively choosing not to react too much. Which, unfortunately for him, made you even more certain. “You’re doing it again,” you said quietly.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“There is no question.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, almost amused. “Right. So you’re just… randomly discharging my patients and hovering over my work for fun.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I wasn’t hovering.”

“You were three feet away reorganizing papers that were already organized.”

“That’s called being thorough.”

“That’s called annoying.” A beat. The silence between you stretched again—but differently this time.

He stepped forward slightly. Not aggressive. Not fast. Just enough to close the distance you had opened earlier without even realizing it. Your voice dropped a little. “…You’re jealous.”

It wasn’t even a question anymore. It was a push. And this time, Abbot didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you. Longer than before. Worse than before. Like if he said the wrong thing, something would shift that he couldn’t take back.

“I’m not jealous,” he said again, but quieter now. Controlled. Careful. But something in it cracked the tiniest bit under the weight of how unconvincing it sounded.

That was enough. You tilted your head slightly, a faint, knowing smile forming. “Then why does it bother you?”

No answer. His silence was louder than anything else he’d said tonight. And instead of stepping back, he stayed right there. Closer now. Too close for a casual argument. Not close enough to be anything else. But close enough that neither of you seemed willing to move first.

Your breath slowed slightly. His gaze didn’t leave yours. For once, there was no sarcasm immediately covering it. No escape line ready. Just the two of you holding the moment like it was something fragile—and dangerous.

If either of you broke eye contact now… it would change something. And neither of you looked ready to lose whatever this was becoming.

His gaze stayed locked on yours for a second longer. Too long. Different from earlier now—less argumentative, more… unguarded in a way neither of you had fully allowed yet.

And then you saw it. Just for a fraction of a second, his eyes dipped—quick, almost instinctive—down to your lips before snapping back up again like he’d caught himself doing something he absolutely shouldn’t have.

That tiny moment shifted the air completely. Your breath stalled slightly. His jaw tightened again, like he was trying to reset whatever had just slipped. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The distance between you didn’t feel like distance anymore. It felt like a decision waiting to happen. And then, an emergency truck screeched into the driveway outside the ER.

Red and white lights flashed violently against the night, cutting straight through whatever silence had wrapped around you both. The spell broke instantly.

Abbot turned sharply toward the sound, instinct snapping him back into doctor mode.

“Trauma incoming,” he said automatically. But when he looked back, you were already stepping away. Quiet. Controlled. Like nothing had just happened at all. You didn’t say a word.

Just turned, pushed open the ER doors, and walked back inside without looking at him again. Leaving him standing there under the cold light outside. Still. Watching. For a second longer than necessary.

Then he followed after the ambulance. And the moment between you both, was gone.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

a/n : TYSM FOR 100 FOLLOWERS ! Here’s a little FLUFF one shot for you, it’s all cute and kind for you <33

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ MASTERLIST ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The apartment was still half asleep.

Outside, Pittsburgh slowly shifted from deep blue night into the pale gold of early morning, the first traces of sunlight slipping between buildings and filtering softly through the kitchen windows. The city sounded quieter at this hour—muted traffic in the distance, the occasional rumble of a bus, the cold winter air still clinging to the streets below.

Inside, though, warmth had already settled everywhere. The stove crackled softly beneath a pan of butter, the smell rich and comforting as you moved around the kitchen in thick socks and one of your oldest hoodies, sleeves pushed messily to your elbows. The clock on the microwave blinked 7:13 AM in pale green numbers.

Normally, nobody should be making dinner-sized breakfasts at seven in the morning. But then again, most people weren’t dating an emergency doctor whose sense of time had been completely destroyed by twelve-hour shifts. Especially not Jack Abbott.

You flipped the eggs carefully, watching the edges crisp slightly in the pan before reaching for the toast already stacked beside plates warming near the stove. Bacon rested on paper towels nearby, alongside hash browns you’d probably put too much effort into.

There was also coffee. A dangerous amount of coffee.

Strong enough that Jack once jokingly told you:

“I think this could restart a heart in the ER.”

And then, the weird part. Sitting slightly off to the side on a smaller plate was the thing that absolutely nobody but Jack would request at breakfast: toasted cinnamon raisin bread with peanut butter spread over it while it was still warm.

The first time you saw him eat it, you’d stared at him in genuine horror. He’d defended himself immediately.

“Don’t judge it before trying it.”

You tried it. Unfortunately, he’d been right. Now you made it automatically whenever his shifts got particularly bad.

The smell of breakfast filled the apartment completely now—butter, coffee, toast, syrup warming slowly on the stove—and combined with the soft amber light beginning to stretch across the kitchen floor, the whole apartment felt impossibly warm compared to the frozen world outside.

You glanced toward the clock again. 7:18 AM. He should be home soon. Probably exhausted. Probably pretending he wasn’t exhausted. The thought alone softened something in your chest as you reached for another plate, quietly arranging everything the way you knew he liked it without even needing to think anymore.

And somewhere between the sunlight creeping across the counter and the smell of coffee settling into the apartment, it suddenly felt dangerously close to domestic.

Nine months ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in a shared kitchen at seven in the morning making heart-attack-level breakfasts for Jack, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

Mostly because nine months ago, you met him under deeply humiliating circumstances. Not romantic ones. Humiliating ones. You’d been carrying two coffees and trying to answer a work email on your phone while rushing out of a small café downtown during one of Pittsburgh’s first icy mornings of winter. Which naturally resulted in you slipping immediately on black ice.

Directly in front of him. Not a graceful stumble either. A full, catastrophic collapse. Coffee everywhere. Phone gone. Dignity deceased. And somehow, somehow, the first thing you said while laying on the frozen sidewalk staring at the sky was:

“Please tell me nobody attractive saw that.”

A voice above you answered almost instantly:

“Depends how attractive you think I am.”

You still remembered the absolute horror of turning your head and seeing him standing there holding one surviving coffee cup with the calmest expression imaginable.

You wanted to die. He helped you up anyway. Bought you another coffee too. Then somehow the conversation lasted almost an hour. After that, you kept seeing each other accidentally. Then intentionally.

And before you realized it, late-night dinners, exhausted conversations after shifts, and quiet moments on couches had slowly become something constant. Something important.

Officially, you’d been together for seven months now. Though even the way he asked you to be his girlfriend had been painfully, unmistakably Jack. No grand speech. No dramatic setup.

You’d both been sitting on his couch after one of his night shifts, half asleep under the same blanket while some terrible reality TV show played in the background. And completely out of nowhere, he’d looked over at you and said:

“So… are we doing this officially?”

You blinked at him.

“Doing what officially?”

He looked almost annoyed at having to explain himself.

“This.”

One hand vaguely gesturing between the two of you.

“The sleeping in my apartment four nights a week. Stealing my hoodies. Knowing my coffee order. Acting like you live here already.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

A pause. Then, with complete seriousness:

“I thought I just did.”

You kissed him before he could get embarrassed about it. And now, somehow, seven months later, you actually did live here. Officially for only a month. Unofficially… much longer.

Your toothbrush sat beside his in the bathroom. Your clothes had slowly invaded his closet. The fridge now contained actual food instead of energy drinks and hospital leftovers. The apartment itself felt softer these days. Warmer. More alive.

You knew Jack still struggled after difficult shifts. Sometimes he came home so exhausted he barely spoke before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he carried the hospital home with him in silence, tension still locked in his shoulders hours later.

And even though your schedules rarely aligned perfectly—you working during the day while he survived endless nights at the hospital—you still tried. Small things mostly. Warm food waiting for him. Coffee ready. Clean clothes folded. Your hand in his hair when he looked especially tired. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet reminders that when he came home, he didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

The sound comes right on time. Keys against the front door. A faint metallic jingle followed by the quiet scrape of the lock turning.

You immediately glance toward the hallway as the door opens slowly, cold winter air slipping briefly into the apartment before disappearing again. He’s home. Without even realizing it, you hurry a little faster. You reach for the last plate near the stove, adjusting the toast quickly before carrying everything to the table while listening to him move through the apartment without actually seeing him yet.

The familiar sounds unfold one after another. The soft thud of the door closing. Shoes being kicked off near the entrance with the kind of exhaustion that means he probably stopped feeling his feet three hours ago. Keys dropped onto the little entry shelf. Then the heavier sound of his coat landing somewhere near the couch instead of the coat rack you specifically bought because:

“Normal people hang their coats up, Jack.” He still ignored it completely. You can practically picture him already, slightly slouched posture, tired eyes, hospital fatigue still clinging to him like a second skin.

The apartment stays quiet for another second. Then you hear him inhale. A pause. Long enough that you know exactly what happened. He smelled the food. And somehow that thought alone makes you smile to yourself as you place the final plate onto the table just as slow footsteps finally start making their way toward the kitchen.

You’re still adjusting the plates when he finally appears in the kitchen doorway. Slowly. Like he used the last of his remaining energy just getting here.

Jack leans lightly against the doorframe for a second, still in dark scrubs, hair slightly messy from a shift that clearly lasted too long. There are faint marks beneath his eyes, exhaustion written into every part of him now that he’s no longer forcing himself to stay in “work mode.”

And yet the second he looks up, he stops. His eyes move across the kitchen table.The food. The coffee. The warm light spilling through the apartment. Then finally to you.

You straighten immediately, taking a small dramatic step backward before presenting the whole thing with both arms. “Ta-da.”

The word comes out brighter than the sleepy quiet of the apartment, and for the first time since walking through the door, something visibly softens in him. A smile. Small at first. Then real. You can’t help smiling back immediately, proud despite yourself as you gesture toward the table like some sort of exhausted breakfast waitress.

But then you really look at him. And the pride in your expression softens around the edges. Because he looks tired. Not ordinary tired. The kind of tired that settles deep into someone after too many hours under fluorescent hospital lights, too many decisions, too many people needing pieces of him all night long.

His shoulders look heavy. His eyes slower. And suddenly your chest aches a little with affection and compassion all at once.

Your smile fades into something gentler. Softer. “Rough shift?” you ask quietly. For a second he just looks at you. Then at the food again. And the smallest breath leaves him, almost disbelieving. “You made all this?”

You smile a little at his reaction, suddenly feeling shy about the whole thing now that he’s actually standing there looking at it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I asked for today off.”

That catches his attention immediately. His tired eyes lift back to yours. “You did?” You nod, already walking toward him before you even finish speaking. “I figured,” you murmur, “you’d probably come home exhausted, and we never really get actual time together unless one of us is half dead.” That earns the faintest huff of laughter from him. Tiny. Sleepy. Real.

“And technically,” you continue with mock seriousness as you finally reach him, “we do have the whole day together now.” Your arms slide naturally around his waist. “Even if we’re probably going to spend most of it unconscious.”

That finally pulls a proper smile from him. Not huge. But enough that you visibly watch the exhaustion crack for a second beneath it. His hands settle instinctively at your sides, warm and heavy, like touching you allows his body to finally understand the shift is over.

And god, up close he looks even more tired. There’s still that distant look lingering in his eyes doctors get after difficult nights, like part of him is mentally still under fluorescent hospital lights somewhere. But slowly, as he looks down at you standing there in oversized clothes smelling like coffee and butter and home, he starts coming back. “You did all this just so we could sleep all day?” he asks quietly.

You grin. “Exactly.” A pause. Then, “I’m incredibly romantic.” His head lowers slightly, and suddenly you feel his forehead rest briefly against yours. Not dramatic. Just instinctive. Like he needed one second to breathe. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You’re gonna ruin me doing things like this.”

He just stays there. Forehead against yours. Hands resting heavily at your waist. And slowly, almost unconsciously, you feel him sag a little more into you. Like the simple act of being home is finally allowing his body to stop holding itself together.

Your expression softens immediately. Without thinking about it, your arms slide higher around his shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his neck as you pull him closer.

And this time, he lets you. Completely. Jack lowers his head until it rests against your neck, his breath warm against your skin as his arms tighten around your waist in something quieter than a hug.

Something more exhausted. You go still instantly. Because now you understand. This isn’t just physical tiredness. It’s deeper than that. Mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. The kind that builds slowly over weeks of impossible shifts and fluorescent lights and carrying too much for too long.

And suddenly the way he walked through the door makes sense. The silence. The heavy shoulders. The way he melted into you the second you touched him.

Your heart aches softly. So you don’t speak. You don’t ask questions yet. You simply hold him. Warmly. Patiently. One hand moves slowly through his hair while the other rests steady between his shoulders, grounding him gently while the smell of breakfast and coffee still fills the apartment around you. The morning sunlight continues creeping quietly across the kitchen floor, brushing gold against the walls as the city slowly wakes outside.

But here, everything feels still. Safe. You feel him exhale against your neck after a long moment, deeper this time, like his body is finally remembering how to rest now that someone else is carrying a little of the weight with him. And you stay exactly like that, holding him in the middle of the kitchen while the food slowly gets cold, because right now, he clearly needs this more.

After a long moment, you finally pull back just enough to look at him properly. His face is still close to yours, exhaustion written softly into every detail now that he’s stopped trying to hide it. You brush your thumb lightly near his jaw before speaking gently.

“Go take a warm shower before eating.” Your voice stays quiet, careful. “It’ll help you relax a little more.”

For a second, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. His tired eyes move slowly across your face like he’s trying to absorb the sight of you completely, the messy morning hair, the oversized hoodie, the concern you’re trying not to show too obviously. Then, almost invisibly, something softens at the corner of his mouth. A tiny smile. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you do. Always.

“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. A pause. Then, even softer, “Thank you.” The words themselves are simple. But the way he says them isn’t. There’s something heavier underneath them. Something full of everything he’s too exhausted to explain out loud right now. Before you can answer, he leans down and kisses you gently.

Slowly. Not hungry. Not rushed. Just warm. His hand briefly cups the side of your face while the kiss lingers for a few quiet seconds, carrying entire conversations inside it, gratitude, relief, affection, exhaustion. Things he doesn’t always know how to say directly.

Then he pulls away reluctantly. You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, his movements visibly heavier now that he’s home and no longer forcing himself to stay upright for everyone else.

And suddenly, seeing him like this from behind, the limp slightly more pronounced today, the exhaustion impossible to miss, something tightens painfully in your chest.

The apartment falls quiet except for distant pipes shifting somewhere in the building. You stay standing alone in the kitchen for another second before slowly letting out a deep breath. And just like that, the worry creeps back in. Quiet. Persistent.

Because no matter how many times he says he’s “fine” after shifts like these, you’re starting to realize that sometimes fine simply means…still standing.

You try to busy your hands on the dishes. Hot water, soap, clinking plates—anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling too far. But it doesn’t really work. Because your mind keeps replaying the way he looked when he walked in. The weight in his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.

You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you hear him again. Soft footsteps. Then the familiar presence of someone finally out of “hospital mode.”

When you glance up, Jack is standing in the kitchen doorway again, but this time in loose pyjamas, hair slightly damp, looking… better. Not fully rested. Not magically cured of exhaustion. But softer. Less sharp around the edges. Like the shower washed off just enough of the night to let him breathe again.

Your chest loosens a little without you meaning it to. You quickly wipe your hands on a towel and force a smile. “There he is,” you say lightly. “I was starting to think you went back to the hospital.”

That earns you a faint look—half amused, half tired—but he actually walks over this time instead of just standing there. You both end up at the table again, like gravity naturally pulls you back together. He sits down slowly, stretching his shoulders out with a quiet exhale while you take the seat across from him.

For a second, it’s quiet. Then you tilt your head. “So,” you continue, trying to keep your tone playful, “how was your glamorous night of saving lives and making questionable decisions?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s not exactly what it was.”

“Ouch,” you gasp. “No glamour? No dramatic hospital slow-motion hallway walk?” That actually gets a real, low laugh out of him. Small. Raspy. But real.

And something in your chest unclenches a little at the sound.

He leans back in his chair slightly, watching you now instead of the table. “You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

You blink. “What thing?”

“Trying to distract me.” You pause. Caught. Then you shrug, leaning forward on your elbows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes narrow slightly—but there’s no real accusation in it. Just understanding. You sigh dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I am. But only because I prefer my boyfriend in a semi-functioning state, thank you very much.”

That gets another small smile out of him. This one softer. Longer-lasting. And for the first time since he walked through the door, he looks properly present again—sitting here with you, coffee still waiting on the table, the morning light warming the edges of the room. Not gone. Just slowly coming back.

You both finally start eating. The kind of eating that feels slow and overdue, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore now that the morning has properly caught up with you.

The clink of cutlery fills the kitchen, mixing with the soft light pouring in through the windows. Then, after his first bite, he just stops. Fully. Jack leans back in his chair like his entire nervous system just gave up trying to function properly. His eyes close for half a second.

And when he opens them again, there’s a faint, almost offended expression on his face. “…Okay,” he says slowly.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

He gestures vaguely at the plate in front of him. “This is unfair.”

That makes you laugh immediately. “Unfair?”

He nods once, still clearly processing the fact that he is, in fact, eating something that doesn’t taste like hospital vending machine regret. “I leave for twelve hours,” he continues, “and you come back with culinary warfare.” You snort. “Culinary warfare?”

“Yes,” he says seriously, pointing his fork at you. “This is strategic emotional manipulation.” That sends you fully into laughter now, shaking your head as you set your fork down. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic,” he corrects, taking another bite like he’s confirming evidence in a case. “Just accurate.” But despite the sarcasm, there’s something noticeably lighter in him now. Less tension in his shoulders. Less distance in his eyes. He actually looks like he’s enjoying this. And that does something warm and quiet to your chest.

You take a sip of your coffee, watching him for a second before speaking again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say softer, more honest now. He glances up at you briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, a small nod. “I do.”

And just like that, the conversation drifts. Not into anything heavy. Not into hospitals or exhaustion or anything that might pull him back into the night he just survived.

Instead you complain about something mildly stupid from work, he tells you about a patient story that somehow becomes funny in hindsight, you argue about whether pineapple belongs on anything ever, he calls you “impossible” at least twice, affectionately.

The kitchen slowly fills with something different again. Not urgency.Not fatigue. Just life. And every so often, when you look at him between sentences, you’re reminded of the same thing : he’s still tired. But he’s here, with you.

The conversation naturally tapers off after that, like neither of you wants to force it when the moment already feels full enough. Cutlery slows. The kitchen quiets again.

You’re picking at the last few bites on your plate when you notice him go a little still across from you.

Jack is looking down at his food now, movements smaller, more automatic again, like the warmth from earlier is starting to settle into something heavier. Not bad. Just… tired again. The kind that returns once the talking stops.

You watch him for a few seconds longer than you mean to. The worry you’ve been trying to tuck away all morning slowly starts to push back up again. His shoulders. The way he’s holding himself. The silence creeping in around him.

Eventually, you set your fork down. “Hey,” you say softly. He looks up at you. You hesitate—just for a second—then your voice comes out a little more certain. “Maybe we should leave.”

A pause. His brows knit slightly. “Leave?” His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to catch up with your thought before it slips away. “Where?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what you mean, but because saying it out loud makes it feel real in a different way. You glance down at the table for a second, then back up at him. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. A small breath. “Far.”

That gets his attention fully now. Not alarmed, just focused. You push your chair back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the table. “Far from Pittsburgh,” you continue. “Far from the hospital. From shifts and alarms and…” your voice softens, “…everything that keeps you half somewhere else even when you’re here.”

His expression shifts subtly at that. Not defensive. Just quieter. You swallow once, then add: “Just for a while. A few weeks… maybe months. Just you and me.”

The words hang in the kitchen like warm air after steam. For a second, he doesn’t respond. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. But you’re not. His eyes drop briefly to the table, then back to you. “…You mean like a vacation,” he says slowly.

“Like… disappearing,” you correct softly, almost wry. “In a healthy way.” You stop then add, “I don’t know, let’s go to Paris, or Italy, why not Mexico ?”

That earns the faintest huff of disbelief from him. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, clearly processing it. “You do realize I have a job,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know,” you answer immediately.

“And patients.”

“I know.” A beat.

“And people who will probably call me every twenty minutes if I disappear for ‘a few months.’” That makes you tilt your head slightly. “Let them panic,” you say lightly. “We’ll be busy not answering phones.”

That actually gets a real reaction out of him, something between a laugh and exhaustion. He looks at you more directly now, studying your face again. “And this idea of yours,” he says carefully, “came from where exactly?”

You shrug. “From watching you come home like this,” you admit, softer now. “From realizing you don’t really stop. You just… switch locations.”

The room quiets again. No joking now. Just honesty sitting between you. Then you add, gently, “I just want you somewhere where you can actually rest. Just…think about it…” you say lightly, like you didn’t just suggest upending both your lives for a while.

His expression changes at that. Subtle. But real. And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t respond right away—not because he’s dismissing it, but because he’s actually considering it.

There’s a short silence after you finish speaking. Not heavy. Just thoughtful. You can almost see it in the way Jack sits there, still, eyes slightly unfocused, like your words have settled somewhere deeper than conversation usually reaches him.

Then you grab the plates. One by one. Stacking them carefully, avoiding his gaze as you move toward the sink, trying very hard to act normal. Trying very hard not to let your worry show too clearly in your hands.

Water runs. Ceramic clinks. The kitchen fills with small, busy sounds again. But behind you, you hear him move. Chair shifting. Footsteps. He’s standing too now. You don’t turn around fast enough.

Because the next thing you know, he’s right there—gathering the remaining plates and cups, silent but steady, automatically slipping into “helping mode” even when he clearly should not be in “doing anything” mode.

Your chest tightens a little. “No,” you say immediately, turning around. He pauses. You step forward and gently—but firmly—take the dishes out of his hands. “I’ve got it,” you insist softly. His brows lift slightly. “It’s just plates.” “I know,” you answer, a little sharper than intended, then soften immediately. “It’s not about the plates.”

A beat. You look up at him properly now. “You need to go sleep.” He exhales through his nose, like he’s already preparing a counterargument. But you don’t let him get there.

“You’re exhausted,” you continue, quieter again. “Like… actually exhausted. Not ‘doctor exhausted.’ The other kind.” For a second, he just looks at you.

And you can tell he’s weighing it, the instinct to stay useful versus the fact that his body is very clearly done negotiating today. Finally, his shoulders drop a fraction. “…You’re bossy in the mornings,” he mutters. Despite everything, your lips twitch. “I know.” A pause. Then, softer, “Go.” You nod slightly toward the hallway. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you’re actually okay with this idea of him stopping. Then, finally, he turns. Slowly.

Heading toward the bedroom with heavier steps than before, while you stay in the kitchen a moment longer, hands still wet, heart still a little tight. Because even when he listens…it still feels like teaching someone how to rest.

A few minutes later, the apartment has shifted again. The kitchen is quiet now, dishes left half-finished in the sink, sunlight growing stronger as it rises higher over Pittsburgh. The morning has properly arrived, bright and gold and almost too gentle for how tired everything still feels inside you.

You stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a second. The curtains are half open, letting in soft light that cuts across the room in warm stripes. The bed is slightly messy from where he’d pulled the covers down earlier.

And there he is. Jack is already lying on his side, facing away from the door, one arm tucked loosely under the pillow. Even now, even in rest, there’s still a trace of exhaustion in the way his body has settled, like he only just allowed himself to stop holding tension.

For a moment, you just watch him. Then you step inside. Quietly. The floor doesn’t creak. The room feels softer than before, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment to finally exhale.

You don’t say anything. You simply climb into bed behind him, careful not to disturb him too much, slipping under the covers until you’re close enough that there’s no space left for cold air between you.

Slowly, instinctively, you shift forward. Your arm wraps around his waist. Your forehead comes to rest gently against the back of his neck.

And just like that, he responds. Not with words. But with a small, unconscious movement. His shoulders ease further into the mattress. His breathing changes slightly, deepening, slowing, like his body recognizes you even in sleep and decides it’s safe enough to finally let go completely.

The sunlight spills across the room while you stay like that—held against him, holding him back—both of you suspended somewhere between exhaustion and peace.

He stays like that for a moment.

Breathing still uneven, like he’s trying to hold himself together just a little longer. Then, quietly, “Okay.”

A pause. His voice comes softer the second time. “Let’s leave somewhere.” You don’t move at first. Not because you don’t want to. Because something in the way he says it feels heavier than just a plan. Like it’s been sitting inside him for a while, waiting for the right moment to finally come out.

Slowly, he turn around and you shift back just enough to look at him. And that’s when your chest tightens. His eyes are wet. Not tears falling—he’s holding them back, stubbornly, instinctively—but they’re there. Shimmering at the edges of exhaustion and something deeper he’s clearly been carrying for too long.

He doesn’t look away. He forces himself not to. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Wherever you go… I go.” The words hit you harder than you expect. Because it’s not dramatic. It’s not impulsive. It’s just… honest. Bare. Unarmored.

And seeing him like this—so controlled and still somehow cracking at the edges—makes something in you break softly right along with him.

But it also makes you certain. Certain that this isn’t wrong. That this isn’t “too much.” That maybe this is exactly the moment where things are supposed to shift. Your throat tightens.

You don’t try to fix it with words. You just nod. Once. Enough for him to see. And that’s all it takes. You open your arms, and he leans in immediately, like the decision alone loosened something in him he didn’t even realize he was holding.

His face presses into your neck. And you hold him. Both arms around him now, steady and warm, anchoring him there as he finally lets his weight fully fall into you without hesitation. The room stays quiet around you. Sunlight slowly filling the edges of the bed. And for a long moment, neither of you moves.

Because sometimes love doesn’t feel like a declaration. Sometimes it feels like this :

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JACK ABBOT ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

• somewhere between hate and whatever this is

(ongoing serie)

The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

Chapter 1 before the sirens | Chapter 2 trauma five | Chapter 3 7:00 am | Chapter 4 consistent | Chapter 5 no air | Chapter 6 not like this | Chapter 7 worse than angry | Chapter 8 the pact | Chapter 9 almost | Chapter 10 long day | Chapter 11 no i don’t hate you

contains : Fluff, angst, smut

• everlasting dance

(one shot)

After moving to Pittsburgh and struggling with loneliness, you reluctantly join a tango class recommended by your therapist. There, you meet Jack Abbott, an emergency doctor who quickly becomes much more than just your dance partner. Between late-night walks, quiet vulnerability, and growing intimacy, one winter evening changes everything.

contains : Fluff, smut, MDNI

• whenever you go

(one shot)

After another exhausting night shift, Jack comes home completely drained. You’ve taken the day off to surprise him with a warm breakfast and a slow, quiet morning together.

contains : Fluff, established relationship, hurt/comfort

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOEL MILLER ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, emotional confrontation, hurt/comfort, reconciliation, emotional vulnerability, bar setting, karaoke night, abba is therapy.

a/n : guys I just love Dana so muuuuuuch, she’s basically my second mom. btw y’all the bar scene was so fun to write omgggg can’t wait to write more “fun” events 😖

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

Chapter 8 : The pact

Your mind wouldn’t stop. That was the problem. Even after the shift ended, even after the adrenaline faded and the ER slowly emptied itself into exhausted goodbyes and morning handoffs, your thoughts kept circling back to the same things over and over again.

Dana. Abbot. Robby. The police officers. The way Abbot had looked at you in the hallway. The fact that he had wanted to leave nights. For you.

Every time you tried to settle on anger, something else slipped in and complicated it again. And honestly, you hated that.

By the time the clock crept past seven in the morning, you felt more mentally exhausted than physically. The sunrise outside the hospital windows painted the corridors in pale orange light that softened the usual harsh fluorescent glow, making the ER feel strangely calmer than it ever really was.

The night shift was ending. Finally. You made your way to the locker room slowly, shoulders heavy, your stethoscope hanging loosely around your neck as you pushed the door open.

The room was mostly empty now. A few open lockers. Half-finished coffees abandoned on benches. The distant sound of day shift already taking over outside. You changed quietly, shoved your things into your bag, and tried not to think too hard about anything Robby had said. It didn’t really work.

You closed your locker with a tired sigh and pushed the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder before heading back toward the exit. The hallway outside was calmer now, softer somehow in the early morning haze.

And just before reaching the ambulance bay doors, you saw him. Robby. He was standing near the nurses station with a chart in hand, talking briefly with Princess before his eyes lifted and found yours.

His expression softened immediately. Not pity. Not pressure. Just understanding. He gave you a small smile. The kind that asked nothing from you.

You slowed slightly. And after a second, you gave the smallest nod back. Tiny. Almost invisible. But enough. Because he understood the message too. You heard what you said. I’m thinking about it.

Robby’s smile grew just a little warmer before he let you go without another word.

And honestly, you were grateful for that.

You pushed through the ambulance bay doors and stepped outside at last. The morning air hit your skin immediately—cooler than inside, fresh in a way hospitals never were. After an entire night spent beneath fluorescent lights and recycled air, it almost felt unreal.

The sun had fully started rising now. Soft golden light spilled across the parking lot, across the ambulances lined up near the bay, across the damp pavement still carrying traces of the night rain. The warmth brushed against your face gently as you stopped for half a second, eyes closing instinctively.

It felt… quiet. Peaceful enough that your exhausted brain finally loosened slightly. You adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder and started walking down the small path leading toward the employee parking area, then you saw her.

Dana.

She was leaning against the low concrete wall near the ambulance entrance, coffee cup in one hand, jacket thrown over scrubs that looked just as tired as you felt. The cigarette between her fingers had already burned almost completely unnoticed.

Like she’d been standing there awhile. Waiting. The second her eyes landed on you, she straightened slightly. And suddenly you understood. Robby. Of course. He must have texted her that you were leaving.

For a second neither of you moved. The sunrise painted soft gold along Dana’s face, catching the exhaustion in her eyes and the hesitation in her posture.

And weirdly, you had never seen her look nervous around you before. Almost instinctively, she crushed the cigarette beneath her shoe, suddenly looking awkward about it for the first time in her life.

You stared at her for a second. Then, before your brain could overthink it and ruin the moment, you spoke first.

“You know those things are gonna kill you someday, right?”

Dana blinked. And for the first time in days, the smallest smile appeared on her face. Tiny. Careful. Probably because she was too nervous to let herself hope too much yet.

“Yeah?” she answered softly. “Pretty sure the ER’s gonna get me first.”

The corner of your mouth twitched faintly despite yourself. The tension shifted slightly. Not gone. But softer now. Dana rubbed her thumb against the coffee cup in her hands before glancing down briefly.

“I can go if you want.” That one hurt unexpectedly. Because Dana never avoided you. Never hesitated around you. Never looked unsure about whether she was allowed near you.

And now she was already half stepping back, like she genuinely thought her presence might make things worse. You saw it clearly. The caution. The guilt. The fear of pushing too far again. Dana started turning slightly like she truly intended to leave.

“Stay.” The word came out quiet.Tired. But real. Dana froze immediately. Then slowly looked back at you.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just walked past her toward the low concrete bench beside the ambulance entrance and sat down heavily, exhaustion finally catching up to you now that the shift was over.

For a second, Dana stayed standing there like she still wasn’t fully sure. Then she quietly came over and sat beside you. Not too close. Not too far either.

The sunrise stretched warm light across the parking lot in front of you both, the city slowly waking up beyond the hospital while ambulances hummed softly nearby.

Neither of you spoke right away. And strangely, it didn’t feel hostile anymore. You both just sat there side by side on the cold concrete bench, staring at the pavement in front of you while the morning slowly brightened around the hospital.

An ambulance passed somewhere further down the street. Birds you couldn’t see chirped faintly above the parking structure. The city was waking up. And somehow, after days of tension and silence and hurt, this quiet felt heavier than any argument.

You rubbed your tired hands together slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. “I just…” you started quietly. “From my point of view, it felt like nobody cared about what I wanted. I said no and then suddenly the police were there and—”

“Stop.” Dana’s voice stopped you gently. You looked at her. She was already shaking her head slightly, nervous fingers tightening around the coffee cup in her hands. “No,” she said softly. “I need to say this first.” You stayed quiet.

Dana swallowed once, visibly anxious now in a way you had almost never seen from her before. Dana was usually so confident, so emotionally steady for everyone else.

But right now? She looked terrified of saying the wrong thing. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately. No excuses. No explanations first. Just that. “I’m really, really sorry.” Your chest tightened slightly.

Dana stared down at the coffee between her hands as she continued, voice quieter now. “When I saw you in that trauma room after it happened…” She paused briefly, jaw tightening. “You couldn’t breathe properly. You had bruises around your throat and you still tried to get up and go back to work like nothing happened.” You looked away slightly.

“And I panicked,” Dana admitted. “That’s the truth. I panicked because all I could think about was how bad it could’ve been.” Her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “I know he was sick,” she continued quickly. “I know he needed help and I know you saw that immediately because that’s who you are. But all I saw was someone hurting you.”

You stayed silent. Dana laughed softly under her breath then, humorless and tired. “And instead of listening to you, I convinced myself that protecting you mattered more.”

She finally looked at you then. Directly.

“And that wasn’t fair to you.” The apology settled quietly between you. Real. Honest.

“I should’ve listened when you said no,” Dana said softly. “I should’ve respected that even if I disagreed.”

Your throat tightened slightly again.

Dana shook her head faintly, eyes lowering once more.

“I kept trying to explain why I did it because I thought if you understood my reasons, maybe you wouldn’t be angry anymore.” She gave a tiny self-deprecating smile. “But Lena made me realize I never actually apologized.”

You stared at her for a second.

And suddenly all the anger you had been carrying toward her felt.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Dana admitted quietly. “Especially not you.”

Dana kept talking after that. Almost rambling now. Like once the words finally started coming out, she couldn’t stop them anymore.

“I just kept thinking about all the things that could’ve happened,” she admitted, speaking faster now, nervous energy taking over. “And then Robby agreed and Abbot agreed and suddenly it felt obvious at the time and— which, okay, clearly not obvious because now you barely look at me and honestly that’s been psychologically devastating for me—”

A small smile pulled unexpectedly at the corner of your mouth. Dana didn’t notice.

“I mean seriously, do you know how disturbing it is when you’re polite?” she continued with tired frustration. “You said ‘hi Dana’ like I was a bank employee.”

That made a quiet laugh escape you before you could stop it. Dana froze mid-sentence. Her eyes snapped toward you immediately.

“…Is this funny to you?” You shook your head quickly, still smiling despite yourself now. “No.”

“Yes it is,” Dana accused, though relief had already started slipping visibly into her face. “You’re literally laughing at my emotional suffering.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The laughter escaped you again, softer this time, exhausted more than amused.

And suddenly, looking at her sitting there beside you, eyes tired and nervous, apologizing over and over because she cared too much, your anger cracked completely.

Because this was Dana. Not someone trying to control you. Not someone trying to hurt you. Just Dana. Human. Flawed. Loving too hard sometimes.

Before she could continue spiraling into another anxious explanation, you suddenly reached for her shoulder and pulled her toward you.

Dana let out a surprised noise as you wrapped your arms around her tightly. Warmly. Fully. Like you had both been needing this for days. For one second she completely froze in shock. Then she melted instantly.

“Oh thank God,” she breathed against you, arms immediately tightening around your back. “I was starting to think you hated me forever.” You buried your tired face briefly against her shoulder, eyes closing as the last of the tension finally started loosening from your chest.

“I was really mad,” you admitted quietly.

“I know.”

“And disappointed.”

“I know that too.” Dana’s hand moved gently against your back, slow and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, softer this time. “For real.”

You swallowed against the sudden emotion burning in your throat. “I know.”

You both stayed in the hug for a moment longer. Just breathing. Just holding on like neither of you fully trusted the world not to shift again if you let go too soon. Dana’s arms were steady around you, careful but firm, like she was trying to quietly prove she wasn’t going anywhere this time.

And for a few seconds, you let yourself lean into it completely. The exhaustion hit you all at once then. The long shift. The adrenaline crash. The weight you’d been carrying for days without realizing how heavy it had become. Your shoulders sagged slightly into her. Dana noticed immediately. Of course she did.

But instead of saying anything, she just softened her grip a little, letting you settle. After a moment, you both slowly pulled back. Not abruptly. Just enough to create space between you again.

Dana’s hands dropped first, resting loosely in her lap, while you wiped lightly at your face without really thinking about it. There was a pause. A quiet one. Different from before. Less sharp. More fragile.

You stared at your fingers, jaw tightening slightly like you were trying to organize what you were about to say.

“I think…” you started quietly, then stopped. Dana didn’t rush you. You exhaled slowly. “I think what hurt the most wasn’t even the police thing.”

Dana’s expression shifted slightly, but she stayed silent. You swallowed. “It was you.” That landed.

You saw it in her face immediately—how still she went, how carefully she started listening now, like she understood this part mattered more than anything else she had said before.

You looked down, voice quieter. “It felt like a betrayal.” Dana’s breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. Your fingers curled loosely in your lap.

“I don’t have a good relationship with my mom,” you admitted after a pause. “I don’t really talk about her.” Dana’s eyes softened instantly.

“But you…” your voice wavered slightly, and you had to stop for a second. “You were kind of the person I looked up to instead.”

That made something flicker across Dana’s face—pain, realization, guilt all at once. “And when you did that,” you continued, softer now, “it felt like I lost that too.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you noticed it properly. You didn’t hide it this time. Just let it fall.

“I know you were trying to protect me,” you added quickly, voice cracking slightly with honesty now. “I do. I just… I needed you to trust me more than that.”

A silence followed. Dana looked at you for a long moment, completely still now. Then she shifted slightly closer again. Careful. Reaching. And this time, when she pulled you into her arms again, it was slower. More certain. You didn’t hesitate this time either.

You leaned into her fully, letting your forehead rest briefly against her shoulder as she held you tighter. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, steadier now. “I should’ve trusted you.”

Her hand moved gently against your back, caressing your hair. “You didn’t lose me,” Dana added quietly. “Not even close.”

And this time, you let yourself believe her a little more.

Eventually, the hug loosened naturally. Slowly. Like neither of you really wanted to be the first one to let go completely.

You finally pulled back with a tired breath, wiping quickly under your eyes before the tears could fully settle on your cheeks. The morning air felt colder now against your skin.

Dana looked at you softly for a second. Then, in the most Dana way possible, she reached over and smoothed your messy hair back gently from your forehead with one last affectionate stroke.

The gesture was so familiar it almost made you emotional all over again.

“There she is,” Dana murmured quietly, relieved.

You rolled your eyes immediately, though weakly. “Don’t make this weird.”

“Too late,” she answered without hesitation. “We cried outside an ambulance bay at sunrise. This is legally a trauma bond now.” A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Dana smiled instantly at the sound like she’d been waiting for it all week. Then her expression softened again. “So…” she asked carefully. “We good?”

You looked at her for a second. Really looked at her. And honestly? Yeah. Still hurt a little. Still messy. Still not perfect. But good. You sniffed once and leaned back against the concrete bench dramatically.

“I guess I won’t report you for emotional terrorism.”

Dana gasped softly in fake offense. “Oh wow. Thank you. So generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll put it on my résumé.” That made you laugh again, quieter this time, but real.

The tension between you had finally cracked open enough for warmth to return.

Dana watched you fondly for a second before her expression shifted slightly more cautious.

“…So,” she started carefully. “What are you gonna do about Abbot?” Your smile faded just a little. Of course she’d ask that eventually. You looked away toward the slowly brightening parking lot, suddenly very aware of how complicated that answer actually was.

You let your head fall back briefly against the concrete wall behind the bench and stared up at the pale morning sky turning brighter above the hospital. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. And that was the truth.

Everything involving Abbot felt too complicated now. Too tangled together inside your head.

Anger. Disappointment. Confusion. The stupid things Robby had said. The way Abbot had looked at you lately. The fact that he had wanted to leave nights.

You were too exhausted to untangle any of it right now. Honestly, just thinking about him made your brain feel heavier. You rubbed tiredly at your face. “And I really don’t want to think about it right now,” you muttered. “I’m too tired for emotionally constipated men.”

Dana let out a soft laugh beside you. “Fair.”

You sighed deeply, shoulders finally relaxing properly for the first time in days. “I just want to go home,” you admitted quietly. “Take a shower. Sleep for like fifteen hours. Maybe become a different person entirely.”

Dana nodded sympathetically. “Honestly? Strong plan.”

You sat there another second in comfortable silence before slowly pushing yourself back onto your feet with a groan. “Oh, my spine just made a sound no twenty-something year old should hear.”

“That’s the night shift leaving your body.”

You grabbed your bag from beside the bench and adjusted it over your shoulder again. Dana stood too, looking visibly lighter now compared to when you had first found her outside.

“Text me when you wake up later?” she asked carefully.

You looked at her. Then nodded once. “Yeah.” The relief on her face was immediate. “Okay.”

For a brief second neither of you moved again. Then Dana opened her arms slightly with raised brows. “One last hug or are we pretending we’re emotionally stable now?” You snorted softly despite yourself before stepping forward again.

———————

A few days passed after that morning outside the ambulance bay. Not enough for everything to fully settle. But enough for the sharpest edges to soften. Work continued like always. Patients kept coming. Traumas kept interrupting thoughts before they could linger too long. And somehow, between exhaustion and routine, things became… less hostile. Not fixed. Just quieter.

Then Robby’s birthday came.

And somehow Dana and Princess had managed to organize an actual night out despite half the ER staff surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and unresolved trauma. Which honestly felt medically impressive.

So now, for the first time in what felt like forever, a part of the day shift and night shift crews had gathered together at a crowded bar somewhere downtown Pittsburgh.

Music vibrated through the walls. Colored lights flashed softly against dark wooden booths. People laughed too loudly over drinks and terrible karaoke attempts happening somewhere near the back. Even from outside, you could hear Princess yelling at someone for cheating at pool.

You arrived a little later than everyone else. Mostly because you almost didn’t come. But Dana had texted you three times. Then Lena. Then somehow even Robby himself sent:

if you come i’m making abbot sing karaoke alone

Which sounded threatening enough to force you out of your apartment.

The night air was cool as you approached the bar, the city glowing around you beneath dark skies and neon reflections. And before even reaching the entrance, you saw Dana outside. Of course. She leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance with a cigarette between her fingers, the colorful lights from inside the bar flickering softly across her face whenever the door opened behind her.

Music spilled faintly out into the street. Laughter too. Dana looked up the second she noticed you approaching. And immediately smiled. A real one this time. “There she is,” she greeted warmly.

You stopped beside her, hands shoved into your jacket pockets against the cold. “You’re aware smoking outside hospitals and bars still counts as trying to kill yourself, right?”

Dana scoffed lightly. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, tonight is a celebration.”

“Of Robby surviving another year?”

“No,” Dana answered seriously while taking one last drag. “Of us surviving Robby another year.”

That made you laugh softly. Dana crushed the cigarette beneath her shoe before glancing at you more carefully. “You look nice.”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “It’s literally jeans and a black top.”

“Exactly,” Dana nodded. “Terrifying.” You bumped her shoulder lightly with yours. For a second, things almost felt normal again. Then the bar door opened behind Dana and loud music spilled briefly into the street along with voices. Including one very familiar voice you recognized instantly even over the noise.

Abbot.

Your smile faded just slightly without meaning to. Dana noticed immediately, because of course she did. But this time she didn’t push. She just looked at you for a second before nudging her head toward the entrance. “Come on,” she said gently. “One emotionally complicated thing at a time.”

Colored lights flashed lazily across crowded tables while some old rock song played loud enough that everyone had to half-shout over it. Near the pool tables, Jesse was already losing dramatically to Princess while loudly claiming the rules were “anti-man propaganda.”

Completely normal ER behavior. Dana guided you through the crowd with a hand briefly against your back.

“There she is!” Princess suddenly yelled the second she spotted you. And instantly half the table turned toward you at once. The reaction was immediate. Cheers. Whistles. Someone banging a glass dramatically against the table. “Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “I should’ve stayed home.”

“Too late,” Dana grinned beside you.

Santos reached across the table immediately to shove a drink into your hand before you could protest. “You’re late,” she accused.

“I came voluntarily,” you answered. “That already deserves respect.” That earned a loud agreement from several exhausted doctors already halfway through their drinks.

Almost the entire crew was there somehow.

Lena. Jesse. Perlah. Ahmad. Whitaker. McKay. Mel King laughing loudly at something Ellis was saying. Even a few surgical residents had joined the chaos at some point. And at the center of it all, Robby.

Already slightly red-cheeked from alcohol and attention, smiling helplessly while everyone yelled over each other trying to make birthday speeches.

Princess climbed halfway onto her chair and raised her drink dramatically. “Okay! Before Robby gets old enough to collapse naturally, TOAST.”

Everyone immediately grabbed their glasses. You lifted yours too, laughing softly despite yourself, and then your eyes met his.

He was standing further down the long table beside John Shen, one hand loosely around a beer bottle, dark shirt sleeves rolled slightly up his forearms. He had already been looking at you. Of course he had.

The noise of the bar seemed to dull strangely for one suspended second as you both held each other’s gaze across the crowd. Not angry. Not sharp. Just… quiet. Different from before.

Then slowly, almost carefully, Abbot lifted his bottle slightly toward you in a silent toast from across the room.A tiny nod following it. Simple. Respectful. No teasing. No provocation. No tension pushed onto you. Just acknowledgment.

Your breath caught slightly before you could stop it. And somehow that affected you far more than another argument would’ve. You lifted your own glass a little in return almost automatically. Small. Barely noticeable. Nobody else saw. Nobody except him.

Abbot gave the faintest almost-smile at the corner of his mouth before looking away first. Leaving you strangely speechless standing there in the middle of the noise and flashing lights.

“TO ROBBY!” Princess screamed suddenly beside you.

The entire table erupted instantly. “To Robby!”

“To surviving emergency medicine!”

“To his old age!”

“To his terrible coffee!”

Robby laughed loudly from the middle of the chaos, raising both hands in surrender while everyone clinked glasses together around him.

The night turned out better than you expected. Way better. At some point between the second drink and Princess attempting to perform an aggressively emotional karaoke version of Dancing Queen, the tension in your shoulders finally started loosening for real.

The ER crew outside the hospital always felt surreal somehow. Like seeing wild animals in civilian clothes. Lena was laughing so hard at Jesse’s terrible pool skills she nearly spilled her drink twice.

Whitaker and Santos were arguing over music choices near the jukebox. Mel King had somehow convinced Ahmad to dance, which honestly deserved medical recognition.

And Robby… Robby looked genuinely happy. Which made the entire night worth it already.

After a while, Dana dragged you and half the women in the bar toward the small dance floor when some Rihanna song started blasting through the speakers.

And maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe alcohol. Maybe just finally breathing again after weeks of emotional suffocation.

But eventually, you relaxed. Actually relaxed.

You danced with Dana, Princess Javadi and McKay while laughing breathlessly at their terrible choreography attempts, the colored lights flashing across everyone’s faces while the music vibrated through the floor beneath your feet.

For the first time in a while, your brain stopped replaying everything. You were just there. Living.

At one point you caught Robby watching all of you from the table with the softest fond smile on his face before Princess nearly dragged him into the chaos too.

Even Abbot looked different tonight. Still quieter than usual. Still keeping some distance from you. But not cold.

A few times throughout the evening you accidentally caught him looking at you across the room before he glanced away again behind another sip of beer.

And strangely, it didn’t feel hostile anymore. Just careful. After another song ended, heat finally started catching up to you beneath the crowded lights and packed bodies.

You laughed breathlessly and pushed your hair back from your face. “Okay,” you announced to nobody in particular. “If I stay in here another minute I’m actually gonna combust.” Dana pointed dramatically toward the exit. “Go before Princess starts another dance battle.”

Too late. Princess was already yelling at some poor surgical resident. You escaped before getting recruited again. The cool night air hit your flushed skin immediately the second you stepped outside the bar, music muffling behind the closed door as the city noise replaced it.

You exhaled deeply. God. Much better. Inside the bar, Dana watched the door close behind you before slowly turning her head toward Abbot. Robby did the same from beside her. Neither of them said anything at first. They didn’t need to.

Abbot looked between both of them suspiciously immediately. “Oh no,” he muttered.

Dana raised one eyebrow. “Go talk to her.”

Abbot scoffed softly into his drink. “You say that like she won’t throw me into traffic.”

“She won’t,” Robby answered calmly. Then after a pause: “Probably.” Abbot stared at them both.

Princess appeared beside Dana suddenly out of nowhere. “If you waste this opportunity,” she warned dramatically, “I’m telling everyone you cried during The Notebook.”

Abbot looked horrified. “I did not cry.”

“You absolutely cried.”

“That movie is emotional sabotage.”

Dana smirked. “Go.”

Abbot exhaled slowly and glanced once toward the entrance where you had disappeared outside.

Then, after one last reluctant sip of his beer, he finally stood up.

You leaned lightly against the brick wall outside the bar, breathing slowly as the cool night air helped calm the warmth still lingering beneath your skin from dancing and alcohol. Your heartbeat was still fast.

Music pulsed faintly through the walls behind you, muffled now, mixed with distant traffic and laughter spilling occasionally from inside whenever the door opened. You closed your eyes for half a second, letting the cold air hit your face.

Then you heard footsteps approach beside you. Steady. Familiar. Abbot stopped next to you without saying anything at first. And strangely, it didn’t feel sharp anymore. No immediate irritation.

No instinctive need to fight. Just awareness. You glanced sideways at him briefly. His sleeves were still rolled up slightly, hair a little messy now compared to earlier, probably from hours spent in a crowded bar with half the ER forcing drinks into his hands.

You looked back toward the street. “Are you here to smoke?” you asked lightly.

Abbot shook his head once. “No.” A small silence settled between you. Not awkward exactly. Just careful. Then he exhaled softly through his nose before admitting: “Dana and Robby forced me to come talk to you.”

That made you laugh immediately. A real one. Because honestly? Yeah. You could absolutely picture that scene.

“Of course they did,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly. Abbot glanced at you then, and for the first time in days, he looked a little less guarded seeing you laugh around him again.

“Princess threatened me too,” he added dryly. You looked back at him immediately, amused. “With what?” “She said she’d tell everyone I cried during The Notebook.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “…Did you?” Abbot looked mildly offended. “That’s not the point.”

That made you laugh again, softer this time, and the sound seemed to loosen something in him too because the tension around his shoulders eased slightly. For a moment neither of you spoke again.

The city lights reflected faintly in the wet pavement below while muffled bass vibrated softly through the wall behind you both.

Then Abbot looked forward again, quieter now. “I’m glad you talked to Dana.”

Your smile faded gently at that. “Robby told you?”

“He tells everyone everything,” Abbot muttered. “That’s true.” A tiny almost-smile crossed his face briefly before disappearing again. Then the silence shifted. Deeper this time. Because both of you knew why he was really out here.

You stayed quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the wet street glowing beneath the city lights. Abbot didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Didn’t fill the silence. And somehow that made this easier. You exhaled slowly through your nose before speaking first.

“You know…I’m not really mad anymore.” Abbot glanced at you immediately. You shrugged lightly, hands tucked into your jacket pockets against the cold night air. “I mean… I was obviously for a bit.”

“Days,” he corrected calmly.

You looked at him, trying not to laugh. “Okay,” you admitted. “Days.”

“Several.”

“Don’t ruin my emotional moment.” That finally pulled a small real smile from him.Tiny. Brief. But there. You looked back toward the street again.

“I think I was just…” you searched for the right word. “Disappointed. Hurt. And then I stayed angry because it was easier than trying to think about why it hurt so much.”

Abbot stayed silent beside you. Listening carefully now. The music from inside muffled faintly through the walls behind you, soft bass vibrating under the conversation.

You rubbed your thumb lightly against your cup. “But maybe time did its thing,” you admitted quietly. “Because I’m not really that mad at you anymore.”

The words settled between you. And for a second, Abbot looked genuinely relieved. Not dramatically. Not visibly enough for most people to notice. But you noticed. Of course you did. He lowered his eyes briefly before speaking.

“I really am sorry.” That made you blink. Because the tone caught you off guard immediately. No sarcasm. No deflection. No ego. Just honest.

Abbot leaned lightly back against the wall beside you, jaw tightening slightly like saying the words out loud still felt uncomfortable for him. “I shouldn’t have made that decision for you,” he admitted quietly. “You were right.”

You stared at him a little now. Actually surprised.

“And I knew you’d hate it,” he continued with a dry exhale. “But after what happened… I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly. “When I saw him choking you…” He paused slightly. “I just needed to make sure he couldn’t…” Something in your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in his voice.

“You still should’ve listened to me.”

“I know.”

“And you completely ignored what I wanted.”

“I know that too.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “…You’re apologizing correctly. This is suspicious.”

That finally made him scoff softly. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered dramatically. “Who are you and what have you done with Dr. Abbot?”

He looked down briefly, shaking his head once with the faintest exhausted smile. “Alcohol,” he answered dryly. “Probably.”

You immediately tilted your head slightly, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. “Oh, I see,” you murmured. “Alcohol gives you courage.”

Abbot narrowed his eyes at you instantly. “There she is.”

You laughed softly. “What? I’m just observing clinically.”

“Right. Very professional analysis.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet you followed me outside.” That made him scoff quietly under his breath, though the corner of his mouth twitched again despite himself.

And just like that, it slipped back into place. The teasing. The tension. The familiar rhythm between you both. Not as sharp as before. Softer now. But still there.

And honestly? You had both missed it more than either of you wanted to admit.

The music from inside pulsed faintly behind you while people laughed somewhere deeper in the bar. A cold breeze passed through the street, lifting a few strands of your hair briefly across your face.

Abbot looked at you for a second longer than usual then. And this time, you noticed. His gaze dropped slightly. Toward your neck.

The bruises were fading now, barely visible beneath the dim neon lights spilling from the bar windows. Most people probably wouldn’t notice them anymore unless they looked closely. But he did. Of course he did. The teasing faded quietly from his face. Something heavier replaced it. Guilt maybe. Or something close to it.

His jaw tightened slightly as his eyes lingered there for a moment too long before lifting back to yours. You were still watching him when the words slipped out.

Not planned. Just… right. “Let’s make a pact.”

“A pact?”

You nodded once, more serious now despite the faint exhaustion still sitting in your bones. “Yeah. A real one.”

He studied you like he was trying to figure out if you were joking. You weren’t. You shifted your weight slightly, standing more squarely in front of him now, the city lights catching the edge of your face while the music thumped faintly behind the bar walls.

“A pact that we don’t do that again,” you said firmly. “No deciding things for each other. No acting like we know better about what the other person wants.”

Abbot’s expression tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt. “And,” you added, voice softening just a little, “we try to go back to… whatever this was before.” A pause. You exhaled lightly. “Maybe with less hate,” you added. “And more comprehension.”

That earned a quiet, almost reluctant huff of air from him—half amusement, half disbelief. You stepped forward slightly and held your hand out between you both.

Open. Steady. A simple offer. “Deal?”

Abbot stared at your hand for a second. Then back at you. Then down again like he was weighing the concept of emotional accountability like it was a medical procedure he didn’t fully trust. “You’re really formalizing this,” he muttered.

“It’s called boundaries.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You tilted your head slightly. “It is.” That made something in his expression soften just a fraction.

Finally, after a beat, he sighed. “You’re going to regret trusting me with agreements.”

“I already regret a lot of things,” you answered lightly. “What’s one more?” That got him. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he finally reached out and took your hand. His grip was warm. Firm. Certain. “Fine,” he said. “Pact accepted.”

Then, as if he couldn’t let it end on anything too sincere, he added dryly: “But if you break it, I’m prescribing you night shift exclusively.”

You snorted softly. “Wow. Threatening a colleague professionally. Very ethical.”

“Very effective.” Your hand tightened slightly in his for just a second longer than necessary before you both let go.

And somehow, it didn’t feel like the end of anything.

More like the beginning of something neither of you fully knew how to name yet.

A strange kind of awareness passed between you—subtle, quiet. Not uncomfortable, not quite familiar either. Just… noticeable. Like your body had briefly registered something it didn’t know how to categorize.

Then he let go. Almost at the same time you did.

Abbot cleared his throat slightly, looking away first like it meant nothing at all. “Inside,” he said simply. You nodded once. The cold air outside suddenly felt sharper the moment the connection broke, like the world had stepped back into focus.

He reached for the door and opened it for you without thinking much about it, stepping slightly aside so you could go in first. A habit.Maybe respect. Maybe something in between.

You hesitated for half a second at the threshold, then walked past him into the warm noise of the bar. Music hit immediately. Lights. Laughter. Heat. Chaos.

Abbot followed right behind you, and for a brief moment you were shoulder to shoulder again before he moved past to let the door close.

You paused just inside, adjusting to the sudden noise. Then you turned slightly back toward him with a small, sarcastic smile tugging at your lips. “I still hate you, though.”

Abbot didn’t even hesitate. A quiet laugh left him as he shook his head. “Yeah,” he answered easily. “Me too.”

But there was no bite in it anymore. Just familiarity. Just rhythm. Just… you both refusing to say anything too honest too quickly.

And then, the moment shattered. “HEY!” Princess’s voice cut through the crowd.

Before you could even fully react, she appeared out of nowhere, practically shoving a microphone into your hand. Dana was right beside her, already laughing like she’d been waiting for this.

You blinked. “What is happening?”

Robby, somewhere in the background, looked way too entertained. “Birthday rule!” Princess announced loudly. “Everyone sings at least once!” Abbot was handed a second microphone before he could step away.

He stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the mic like it had personally offended him. And suddenly the speakers shifted.

The opening notes of Lay All Your Love On Me—Mamma Mia version—blared through the bar.

Silence hit you both at the exact same time. A very specific kind of silence. The kind that says: absolutely not.

You slowly turned your head toward Dana and Princess. “…Why is this playing?” Dana just smiled sweetly. “Because it’s romantic chaos night.” Princess pointed between you both with alarming confidence.

“And because you two look like you need emotional intervention.”

Abbot exhaled slowly through his nose. “This is a bad idea.” You nodded immediately. “Extremely.” The chorus started anyway. And neither of you moved.

The intro blasted through the bar speakers while every single person around you waited expectantly. Princess was already screaming before the first lyric even started.

Dana looked seconds away from filming. Robby had both hands over his mouth trying not to laugh too hard. You and Abbot stood there side by side holding microphones like two people moments away from a public execution.

“This is insane,” you muttered. “Completely,” Abbot agreed. The music swelled louder. Everyone started chanting immediately. “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

You closed your eyes briefly in secondhand embarrassment. Then suddenly Abbot leaned slightly closer beside you, voice low enough only you could hear over the music.

“Let’s shock them.” You looked at him. A dangerous kind of amusement had appeared in his eyes now. Loosened by alcohol, softened by the conversation outside, but still very him. “Give them what they want,” he added quietly.

A smile pulled immediately at your lips despite yourself. “Wow,” you murmured. “Alcohol really does give you courage.”

Abbot looked down at you briefly then.

And for one suspended second, neither of you looked away.

Then the first lyric hit. And before you could rethink any of this, Abbot started singing. Actually singing. Fully committing to it too.

“I wasn’t jealous before we met, Now every man that I see is a potential threat.”

The entire bar exploded instantly. People screamed. Dana nearly collapsed laughing. Princess slapped Robby’s shoulder so hard he almost dropped his drink.

Abbot pointed dramatically toward you during the lyrics with the driest, most serious expression possible, which somehow made it ten times funnier.

But underneath the sarcasm, he was still looking directly at you. And somehow that made your stomach flip unexpectedly.

“Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly into the mic. “You’re actually doing this.”

“You started the alcohol accusations,” he answered without missing the rhythm.

Then your part came. The entire bar immediately screamed louder waiting for you. You shook your head once like this was a terrible decision, and jumped in anyway.

“Don’t go wasting your emotion, Lay all your love on me.”

The crowd lost it instantly. Because the second you started singing back at him, something shifted completely.

The tension that had been buried beneath arguments and anger for days suddenly had somewhere to go. You played into it naturally. Stepping closer during certain lyrics. Singing directly toward him.

“It was like shooting a sitting duck, a little small talk, a smile, and baby, I was stuck.”

Mock glaring while he answered back dramatically. And Abbot, God. He matched your energy immediately.

“‘Cause everything is new, And everything is you, And all I’ve learned has overturned, what can I do ?”

Dry sarcasm turning playful now, the two of you circling each other across the tiny stage area while the music blasted around you.

At some point you both ended up laughing too hard to sing properly for half a verse.

Nobody cared. The bar was going insane around you. Santos was standing on a chair screaming. Dana looked genuinely emotional from happiness and alcohol combined. Even Lena was filming openly now.

And somehow, somewhere between the flashing lights and the music and Abbot singing directly toward you with that stupid teasing look in his eyes, you realized this was the first time in weeks you’d forgotten completely about being angry at him.

Maybe he realized it too. Because during one quieter part of the song, he looked at you for just a second too long. Not joking now. Not teasing. Just looking. And suddenly the atmosphere between you changed again. Subtle. But undeniable.

And you weren’t the only ones who noticed it.

Somewhere between the teasing smiles, the way you kept looking at each other instead of the crowd, and how naturally you moved together despite weeks of tension, the others saw it too.

Dana noticed first, of course. She exchanged one long, knowing look with Robby while trying very hard not to smile too much. Even Princess, usually loud about everything, went strangely quiet for half a second as she watched you together on the small stage.

Because this didn’t look like two people who hated each other anymore. Not really. The sharpness was still there. The sarcasm too. But underneath it now there was something warmer. Something softer. A pull neither of you seemed fully aware they were showing so openly.

And honestly? That might’ve been the most shocking part of the whole night.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

a/n : finally I’ve finished it ! I’ve had this idea when i listened to Everlasting dance by Llunr, and this story instantly popped in my head. Anyway I hope you’ll like it !

The winter night presses in close around you as you run.

The air is sharp enough to sting the inside of your nose with every breath, cold enough that it clings to your lungs for a second longer than it should before letting go. Streetlights glow hazy through the dampness, their light diffused into soft golden smears across the pavement, as if the city itself is slightly out of focus tonight.

Your footsteps echo too loudly in the quiet streets. There’s barely anyone out—just the occasional passing car, tires whispering through wet asphalt, headlights sweeping across empty shopfronts and shuttered windows. Everything feels slowed down except you, like the world has decided to settle into winter while you’re still rushing through it.

You pull your coat tighter around yourself, though it doesn’t do much against the cold that keeps slipping in anyway. Your breath comes quick, visible in pale bursts that vanish almost immediately into the dark.

Somewhere ahead, a faint warm glow spills onto the sidewalk.

The studio. You spot it just in time, and your pace stutters—half relief, half panic. Of course. Of course you’re going to be late. And not just late—first class late.

Your grip tightens around your bag strap as you angle toward the entrance, the light above the door flickering gently in the cold night air. The sign reads:

Tango Studio

The warm glow of the studio spills across the pavement, inviting and impossible to ignore.

Inside, the music has already started—low at first, then building into that slow, unmistakable rhythm that feels like it’s meant to be followed, not just heard. It seeps through the walls, through the glass, through you, like it’s already decided you’re part of it whether you’re ready or not.

But your feet don’t move. You stop just short of the entrance. The cold suddenly feels louder again.

Your breath slows—not from exhaustion now, but from something else. Hesitation. That familiar tightening in your chest that shows up whenever you’re about to step into something unknown and your mind starts offering you every possible reason to turn around.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

Your fingers curl more tightly around your bag strap. You look at the door. Then the sign again. Then the faint silhouettes moving inside. And the doubt starts creeping in, quiet but insistent. You don’t know anyone here.

You barely know this city. Pittsburgh still feels too big, too unfamiliar, like it hasn’t quite accepted you yet. Six months of living here, and most days still feel like you’re just passing through someone else’s life instead of building your own.

Work helps. It always has. It gives shape to the hours, something to hold onto. But after that… the silence comes back. Too often. Too easily. That’s what your therapist said she noticed first. Not sadness, exactly. Distance.

“You’re isolating yourself,” she had said gently, not as a judgment but as a fact she’d watched unfold over sessions. A woman with a calm voice and steady eyes who somehow always seemed to see more of you than you intended to show.

“You need something outside of work. Something that forces you to be present. In your body. In the world.”

You remember laughing a little at that. In my body? I’m barely surviving in my head.

She hadn’t laughed back. Just smiled slightly, like she was used to people deflecting exactly like that.

And then she’d mentioned it. A tango studio. Not as therapy, she insisted. Not as a prescription. Just… something alive. “I used to dance there myself,” she had said, almost offhand. “It’s good for people who feel… disconnected.”

You had almost said no immediately. Almost. But something in that word—disconnected—had stuck with you longer than you expected.

So now you’re here. Standing outside the door. Cold air slipping under your coat. Music pulsing faintly through the walls like a heartbeat you haven’t learned how to match yet.

And for a moment, you seriously consider turning around. Going home. Back to quiet rooms and familiar loneliness and the safety of not being seen.

Your fingers twitch on the door handle without touching it.

Inside, someone laughs softly over the music. Life continues without you. And you are still standing there, suspended between stepping in… or disappearing back into the night.

Something in you moves before your thoughts can catch up. Not confidence. Not courage. Just momentum. Like if you wait another second, your body will decide for you—and it won’t be in your favor. So you push the door. It opens too easily.

Warm air rushes out immediately, carrying the scent of polished wood and something faintly clean, almost citrus-like. The contrast hits you hard after the winter cold—like stepping through a threshold into a different world entirely.

For a split second, you don’t move. And then you’re inside. The door clicks shut behind you. And the sound feels louder than it should. Heads turn. One by one. Slowly. Until all of them are looking at you.

Ten people—mid-movement, mid-conversation, mid-breath—pause as your presence interrupts the rhythm of the room. It isn’t hostile. Not exactly. Just… aware. Like you’ve stepped into something already in motion and the entire space has briefly adjusted to account for you.

Your throat tightens. The room is bright. Too bright compared to the night you just came from.

Overhead lights spill warm yellow across every surface, flattening shadows into soft edges. The wooden floor gleams slightly, worn smooth by years of movement—steps, turns, mistakes repeated until they became muscle memory for someone else.

And the mirror. It stretches across the entire wall. Massive. Immovable. Reflecting everything back at you in doubled, slightly disorienting layers—people and their reflections overlapping, multiplying the space until it feels like there are twenty figures instead of ten, all watching, all paused.

Including you. Standing at the entrance. Still holding your bag too tightly. Too late to pretend you didn’t just interrupt the entire room.

Somewhere in the background, the music continues softly, but even that feels distant now, like it belongs to a version of this moment you haven’t caught up to yet.

Your pulse thuds in your ears. And then—A voice, calm and unhurried, breaks through the silence that followed your entrance. “New student?”

The instructor’s voice is calm—steady in a way that gently cuts through the tension hanging in the room.

There’s no sharpness to it. No impatience. If anything, it carries something softer—an ease that suggests he’s seen this before. People arriving nervous, late, unsure of where to place themselves in a space that already feels like it belongs to everyone else.

Your throat tightens anyway. For a second, your brain blanks completely. All those eyes. The mirror doubling them. The brightness. The music still faintly moving underneath it all like nothing has stopped for you.

You swallow. “Y-yes,” you manage, voice slightly smaller than you intended. You clear your throat quickly, as if that might fix it. “I mean—yes. I’m new.”

A beat. You shift your weight awkwardly, suddenly hyper-aware of everything you’re holding—your bag strap digging into your shoulder, your coat still half-open from the cold outside, your hands not knowing what to do with themselves.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” you add quickly, the words spilling out faster now, like you need to make up for the silence. “I didn’t— I wasn’t sure where— I—”

It gets messy halfway through, tangled and rushed, and you hate that it does, but you can’t seem to slow it down. So you just stop.

And then, almost in a flustered reflex, you drop everything. Your bag slips from your shoulder first, landing against the floor with a soft thud. Then your coat follows, shrugged off too quickly, too carelessly, like getting rid of it will somehow erase the fact that you arrived late at all.

You smooth your hands down instinctively, as if you’re trying to reset yourself into something more composed. The instructor watches this—not unkindly. If anything, there’s a flicker of understanding in his expression.

“No need to apologize,” he says gently. “You’re here. That’s what matters.” The words land easier than expected. Not dismissive. Not rushed. Just… simple.

He gestures slightly toward the room, toward the waiting pairs already beginning to reset their positions. “We’re just getting started with partner work,” he continues. “You can team up with Jack.”

At the name, something shifts subtly in the room. Not dramatically. Just enough that you notice it. A small reorientation of attention. A presence already established in the space. Your eyes follow instinctively. And somewhere deeper in the room, you start to feel it—someone waiting for you, even before you’ve fully seen him yet.

All attention shifts—not abruptly, but in that subtle way a room rebalances itself. Toward the left side of the studio. Toward him. And when your eyes follow, you see him.

He’s standing slightly apart from the others, as if he’s never fully folded himself into the chaos of a room unless he chooses to. Composed, steady, shoulders relaxed in a way that reads as controlled rather than casual.

There’s something about him that feels immediately… grounded. Like he knows exactly where he is in space at all times.

He’s dressed simply—nothing flashy, nothing that demands attention—but it suits him in a way that makes it hard not to look anyway. Dark trousers, a fitted shirt that moves easily with him, sleeves subtly rolled as if he’s not here to perform anything other than presence itself.

His posture is upright without being rigid. And his face— Serious, yes. But not closed off. Not distant.

There’s a quiet focus in his expression, the kind you’d expect from someone used to reading situations quickly, efficiently. Someone observant. Someone who notices more than he lets on.

And then, as his gaze meets yours— Something shifts. Just slightly. The seriousness doesn’t disappear, but it softens at the edges, like it’s making room for something gentler underneath.

A small smile forms. Not big enough to announce itself to the room. Just enough for you to notice it. Warm. Brief. Reassuring in a way that feels almost unexpected, given how composed he looked a second ago.

Like he’s silently telling you that you’re not intruding. Not a problem. Not out of place. Just… there. Present.

Your breath catches without permission. Because for some reason, that small smile feels louder than the instructor’s reassurance. And you realize you’ve been staring a second too long.

You nod quickly, almost too quickly, as if agreeing before your nerves can change their mind for you.

Then you move. Your steps are a little too fast across the wooden floor, the sound of your shoes too loud in the quiet that followed your arrival. The mirror catches you as you pass—still slightly stiff, still holding onto that leftover embarrassment like it might anchor you in place.

You stop beside him. Close enough now that the air feels different. Warmer. More aware. But you don’t look at him—not properly. It’s easier that way.

His presence is… a lot. Not in an overwhelming way, not exactly. More like standing near something steady and intense at the same time, something you don’t quite know how to meet head-on yet.

You focus instead on a point just past his shoulder, anywhere but directly at his face.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “For being late. I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t realize you didn’t have a partner before I came in.” Your voice softens at the end, a little uncertain.

You shift your weight, suddenly very aware of your hands again, unsure what to do with them now that everything you were holding is gone. “I hope I didn’t… mess things up,” you add, quieter this time.

A brief pause follows. You risk a glance—just for a second.Enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. Still composed. Still steady. Still watching you, you realize, even if you’re not fully meeting his eyes. And yet there’s no judgment there. Only patience. Like he’s giving you space to land properly in the moment.

He doesn’t rush to answer you. Just like earlier, there’s that same quiet steadiness in him—as if he’s never in a hurry to fill silence that doesn’t need filling.

Then, finally, his voice comes, low and calm. “You’re fine,” he says simply. “It’s the first class.”

Nothing more complicated than that. No correction. No weight. No awkwardness attached to it. Just… permission to exist there without apologizing for it.

A beat passes, and then he adds, almost lightly, “We’re all still figuring it out anyway.” It’s not a joke exactly—but something in the way he says it softens the moment between you anyway.

Before you can respond, the instructor’s voice rises again, reclaiming the room with practiced ease. Everyone shifts slightly back into attention. “Alright,” the instructor begins, pacing slowly in front of the class. “Before we move any further, let’s talk about what you’re actually stepping into.”

He gestures loosely, hands expressive in a way that matches the rhythm of his speech. “Tango isn’t just steps. It isn’t choreography in the way most people think of dance. It began in the late nineteenth century—along the Río de la Plata, between Argentina and Uruguay. Born in working-class neighborhoods, in ports filled with migrants, loneliness, longing, waiting.”

He pauses, letting that sink in. “It was a dance created by people who had something to say but no words for it.” A few subtle shifts around the room—people settling, listening more closely.

The instructor continues. “It’s built on connection. On trust. One person leads, the other follows—but not in silence. There’s dialogue in every movement. A conversation without speech.”

He demonstrates with his hands, shaping invisible partners in the air. “Distance matters. Timing matters. But most of all… awareness matters.”

Your attention drifts, then sharpens again without you fully noticing it. Somehow, your gaze finds him again. Jack. This time, you don’t pull it away as quickly.

There’s something about the instructor’s words—connection… trust… awareness—that makes you more conscious of him beside you. Of how close he stands. Of how still he is even while the rest of the room is subtly moving, adjusting, preparing.

And then, as if sensing it, he turns his head just slightly. Not fully. Just enough that your attention catches. And when your eyes meet for a second longer than before, something quiet but steady sits there in his expression again. Not pressure. Not expectation. Just presence.

And for some reason, that voice of his—calm, grounded, uncomplicated—feels like the first thing in the room that actually makes sense.

The instructor’s voice is still filling the room, talking about connection and timing and trust—but it fades into the background the moment something shifts beside you.

Unexpected. Simple. Direct. A hand appears in front of you. Not intrusive. Not rushed. Just offered. When you glance down, you realize it’s his—turned slightly upward, palm open in a quiet gesture of introduction, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

Then his voice follows, calm as ever. “By the way,” he says. “I’m Jack Abbott.” No performance in it. No effort to impress. Just… fact.

For a second, your brain lags behind the moment. Then you react. A little late. A little shy. Your hand lifts carefully to meet his, fingers brushing his before you fully commit. When you do, his grip is steady—not firm in a way that overpowers, but in a way that immediately grounds you. Warm. Solid. Real.

You swallow. “Y/N,” you say softly. “I’m… Y/N Y/L/N.” And suddenly, the space between you feels different. Smaller. Not because he stepped closer—but because attention has narrowed, quietly, around the contact between your hands.

You become aware of details you weren’t noticing before. The warmth of his skin against yours. The steady pressure of his hold. The faint movement of his thumb, almost imperceptible, as if he’s simply acknowledging the moment without breaking it.

Your eyes lift without you meaning to. And his are already there. Holding yours. Directly. No avoidance. No distraction. Just clear, steady eye contact that doesn’t demand anything—but doesn’t look away either.

The noise of the room softens again at the edges. The instructor’s words continue somewhere far away, but they no longer land the same way. Because here, in this small, accidental introduction, something else is already happening—quiet, unspoken, and unmistakably present.

His hand is still in yours. And for a moment that stretches just a little too long to feel casual, neither of you moves to let go.

A sharp sound cuts through the room. Clap. It echoes against the wooden floor, the mirrored wall, the high ceiling—snapping everything back into place all at once. You blink. The moment breaks. Like something delicate pulled too tight and suddenly released.

Your hand slips from his—almost at the same time he lets go—and the absence is immediate. Noticeable in a way that feels disproportionate to how brief the contact actually was.

You draw your hand back, fingers curling slightly as if they’re trying to hold onto the warmth that was just there.

Around you, the room comes back to life. Shifting feet. Adjusted postures. Quiet movements as everyone reorients themselves.

The instructor steps forward, clapping his hands once more, softer this time but just as commanding. “Alright,” he says, voice carrying easily. “Let’s begin.” He gestures toward the mirrored wall. “Everyone, face the mirror. You need to see yourselves—not just your partner. Tango is as much about awareness of your own body as it is about connection.”

You turn with the others, aligning yourself with the room. The mirror stretches in front of you again, wide and unavoidable. This time, though, it feels different. Less like something exposing you, more like something you’re being asked to understand.

You catch your reflection, and his, just beside you. Close. Closer than before.

The instructor continues, stepping into position to demonstrate. “We’ll start simple. The walk. Everything in tango begins with the walk. If you don’t understand how to walk together… nothing else will work.”

A small pause. Then, more softly, “Leader initiates. Follower responds. But remember—this is not control. This is communication.” The words settle into the space between you and Jack. You feel it now, more clearly than before.

Expectation. Not from him. From the moment. You turn slightly toward him, unsure, waiting without fully realizing you are.

And then, he steps closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just enough that the space between you shifts again, narrowing into something intentional this time. His hand lifts. Hovering for only a second before it settles gently against your upper back.

Warm. Steady. Guiding.

His other hand finds yours again, this time more naturally—like the first contact had already erased the awkwardness of it. You inhale quietly. And through the mirror, you see it, the two of you. Side by side. About to move.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t leave the space between you. Not a command. An invitation.

The music shifts again—slightly clearer now, more structured, the rhythm easier to follow if you focus hard enough. You try. Really try.

Your eyes flick between the mirror, your feet, the instructor demonstrating at the front… and then back to the reflection of the two of you together, trying to make sense of how all of it is supposed to connect.

Jack moves first. Not abruptly—just a subtle shift of weight, a quiet signal that travels through his hand at your back before you even fully register it.

You follow. A step. Then another. It’s… not terrible. But it’s not good either. Your timing slips almost immediately, your foot landing just slightly off, your balance tilting in a way that makes you hesitate for half a second too long.

You feel it the moment it happens.“Sorry—” you start under your breath. But before you can pull away or overcorrect, his hand steadies you. Not tightening. Not forcing. Just guiding. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs. “Keep going.”

There’s something reassuring in the way he says it—like mistakes are expected, already accounted for. So you try again. Step. Shift. Pause— No, too long. You miss the next movement entirely.

A small, breathless laugh escapes you, more out of nerves than anything else. “I told you I don’t dance.” And this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh too. It’s soft, low—barely there, but unmistakable. “I noticed,” he replies. There’s no edge to it. No teasing that stings. Just… amusement, shared instead of directed.

He adjusts slightly, repositioning your hand without breaking the flow. “Here,” he says, guiding your step again. “You’re thinking too much.”

“That’s kind of my thing,” you mutter.

“That makes two of us.” The admission is so casual it almost slips past you. Almost. Because it doesn’t quite match the version of him you’ve built in your head over the last few minutes—the composed, controlled presence that never seems to falter.

And yet, right on cue, he missteps.It’s small. Subtle. But enough.

His foot lands just off the intended line, throwing the rhythm for a split second before he catches it again.

You feel it. You see it in the mirror. And before you can stop yourself, a soft laugh escapes you—lighter this time, less nervous. “You were saying?” you glance up briefly.

There’s that almost-smile again. “Occupational hazard,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Of dancing?”

“Of not doing it enough.”

That earns another quiet laugh from you, and somehow the tension loosens a little more after that. The steps don’t magically become perfect. You still hesitate sometimes. Still miss cues. Still overthink. But something shifts anyway.

Because now, when you get it wrong, you don’t freeze. You adjust. And when he gets it wrong, he doesn’t hide it. He recovers—and lets the moment stay light.

At some point, you stop apologizing. At some point, the space between movements starts to feel less like pressure and more like… possibility.

Your body begins to recognize the rhythm before your thoughts do. Not perfectly. Not consistently. But enough. And through it all, his hand remains steady at your back—guiding, correcting, sometimes just there.

A constant. A point you can return to when everything else feels uncertain. You glance at the mirror again. At the two of you moving—imperfect, slightly out of sync, but still moving together. And for the first time since you walked in, you don’t feel like you’re interrupting something. You feel like you’re part of it.

—————————

Time moves differently after that first night. Not all at once. Not in big, noticeable shifts. Just… gradually. One class becomes two. Two become a rhythm. A routine you start to recognize, then expect, then quietly rely on. You stop rushing to the door. You stop hesitating outside.

And somewhere along the way, the studio stops feeling like foreign territory and starts feeling like somewhere your body knows how to exist. The steps come easier now. Not perfect—but familiar. You don’t have to think about where your feet go every second. You don’t watch the instructor as closely. You don’t check the mirror as often.

Because now, you feel it. The movement. The rhythm. Him. Jack Abbott. You’ve learned the way he leads—subtle, precise, never rushed. The quiet signals in the shift of his weight, the slight pressure of his hand at your back, the almost imperceptible pauses that mean wait, now, turn. And he’s learned you, too. You can tell.

In the way he adjusts before you even make a mistake. In how he gives you just enough space when you hesitate, just enough guidance when you need it. There’s less talking now.

More understanding. More… trust.

The class is different tonight. You feel it the moment you walk in. There’s a kind of anticipation in the air, a subtle energy running through the room as the instructor gathers everyone together. “Tonight,” he announces, “we’re going to try something a little different.”

A few curious glances are exchanged. “You’ll dance in pairs,” he continues, “but one couple at a time. The rest of us will watch.”

A pause. “Think of it as… a small performance. Not perfection. Just presence.” Your stomach tightens instantly. Of course. Of course this would happen. You glance at the mirror, then at the other pairs, then—inevitably—at him.

And just like that, the nerves creep back in. Not as sharp as the first night. But there. Alive.

“I don’t know about this,” you murmur under your breath. Before you can spiral too far into it, he steps closer. Closer than usual. You barely have time to register it before he leans in—just enough that his voice doesn’t have to compete with the room.

His breath brushes faintly near your ear. “Just do what we always do,” he says quietly. “And look at me.” It’s simple. But it lands. Something about the certainty in his voice cuts through the noise in your head.

You exhale slowly. Nod. When your turn comes, everything feels louder. The room. The silence. The awareness of being watched. You step into place with him, your heartbeat a little too fast, your hands just slightly colder than they should be. The music starts. And for a fraction of a second, you freeze.

Then you remember. Look at him. Your eyes lift. And there he is. Steady. Focused. Waiting. The rest of the room fades almost immediately. Not completely—but enough. His hand settles at your back, familiar now. Grounding. Your hand finds his. And then, he moves.

You follow. Step. Step. Turn.

This time, there’s no hesitation. Not because you’re not nervous—but because you’re not alone in it. You stay with him. Focused on his eyes. On the way he watches you—not the room, not the audience, just you. Everything else becomes peripheral. Muted. The mirror, the people, the pressure—it all slips just out of reach. Because here, in the movement, it narrows down to something simpler. His hand at your back. Your steps matching his. The rhythm threading between you like something alive.

You feel it more clearly now—the connection the instructor kept talking about. Not forced. Not performed. Just… there. Natural.

Your body responds without overthinking, your movements aligning with his in a way that feels almost instinctive now. Closer. More controlled. More aware.

There’s a moment—a turn, a shift, a pause—where you end up just slightly closer than before. Your breath catches. But you don’t pull away. Because his hand steadies you. Because his gaze holds yours. Because the movement doesn’t break. And for that stretch of time, however long it actually is, you’re not thinking about the audience. You’re not thinking about getting it right. You’re not even thinking about the steps. You’re just… there. With him. Moving. Connected.

Like the dance exists only between the two of you—and everything else is just background noise.

When the music ends, it feels almost abrupt.

Like being pulled out of something you hadn’t realized you’d fallen into. The room comes back. The silence. The watching. And only then do you remember, you weren’t alone.

For a second, everything stays suspended. Then the sound hits. Applause—warm, immediate, filling the room in a way that feels almost too big after how small your world had just become. It startles you a little. Pulls you back.

The mirror, the other students, the space—you become aware of all of it again at once, like stepping out of something private into something shared. You blink, breath still slightly uneven.

Hands come together across the room, a few smiles, a couple of impressed looks exchanged between pairs. It isn’t overwhelming, not loud enough to feel like a performance hall—but it’s real.

And it’s for you. For both of you. Your hand slips from Jack’s a second later than it probably should. Not rushed. Just… reluctant, in a way you don’t fully process yet.

The instructor steps forward, clearly pleased, clapping once more as the room settles. “Very good,” he says, his gaze moving between the two of you. “That—” he gestures lightly, searching for the right word, “—that is what I mean when I talk about connection.”

You feel your face warm slightly. “There was no forcing,” he continues, addressing the class now but still clearly referring to you. “No hesitation breaking the flow. You listened to each other.” A small pause. “That’s not something you can fake.” His eyes flick back to you, softer now. “Well done.”

Something in your chest tightens at that—unexpected, unfamiliar. Because it doesn’t feel like praise for getting steps right. It feels like he saw something you didn’t realize was visible.

Around you, the class begins to shift again, people relaxing, murmuring quietly, a few glances still sent your way. But your focus drifts back—inevitably. To him. Jack stands beside you, composed as ever. But there’s something different now. Subtle.

A quiet intensity still lingering from the dance, like he hasn’t entirely stepped out of it yet. His gaze meets yours again. And this time, there’s no audience in it. No performance. Just that same steady presence— and something underneath it that feels a little harder to ignore now.

The class doesn’t end right away after your turn. Instead, it continues—quietly shifting into something softer, more observational. One by one, the other pairs take their turn in the center of the room. The energy changes again. Less pressure. More watching.

You find yourself sitting on the wooden floor near the edge of the studio, the warmth of it still lingering faintly even as your legs finally relax from the intensity of the dance.

Your knees are bent loosely in front of you, one foot tucked slightly closer to your body. Your hands rest behind you on the floor, palms flat, fingers angled slightly outward to support your weight as you lean back just enough to give yourself space to breathe. It’s an easy position. Unguarded without being careless.

Next to you, he sits the same way. Close enough that you don’t have to turn your head to know he’s there.

The mirror reflects the room again—couples moving in slower, more expressive rhythms now that the pressure of performing has eased. The instructor occasionally calls out small observations, but mostly it’s just music and movement and people trying things without fear of getting it wrong.

Your attention settles on one couple in particular. You watch them carefully. The way they step into each other’s space, then out again. The timing of their turns. The subtle communication in the shift of weight, the trust in how one body follows another without hesitation.

You don’t even realize how focused you’ve become until everything else around you fades a little.

And then, something shifts beside you. A small movement. Barely noticeable. His hand adjusts on the floor. And in doing so, it brushes against yours. Fingertips first. Then more fully, as his palm settles again for balance. It’s not intentional. At least, not obviously so.

Just a natural repositioning of someone sitting close to you on a shared floor space. But your body reacts before your thoughts do. A quiet stillness. Not outward. Just internal.

A momentary pause in everything. You don’t move your hand away. You don’t pull back. Neither does he. Instead, the contact remains. Light. Unassuming. Warm in a way you didn’t expect to notice so sharply.

Your eyes stay forward, fixed on the couple dancing in the center of the room, but your awareness narrows without permission—shifting sideways, toward the point where your skin meets his.

The brush of his hand doesn’t disappear. If anything, it settles more comfortably now. Like neither of you feels the need to correct it. And that thought alone is enough to make your focus falter for half a second. Just enough to remind you, you are very aware of him. Still. Even when you’re not looking.

You don’t pull away. Not out of boldness. Not even fully out of choice. Just… because you don’t want to. The initial surprise settles quickly, replaced by something quieter, something that lingers just beneath the surface of your focus. Your hand stays where it is, palm still pressed lightly against the floor, fingers relaxed instead of retreating.

And beside you, he doesn’t move either. There’s no hesitation in it now. No second-guessing. Just a shared stillness where neither of you acknowledges the contact, but neither of you breaks it.

You keep your eyes on the couple in front of you, watching the way they turn, the way their steps fall into rhythm. You try to follow it, to stay present in what you’re supposed to be observing. But your awareness is split now. Pulled in two directions. Because you can feel it, the warmth of his hand against yours.

And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shifts. Not away. Closer. His hand moves just enough to settle more fully over yours, the side of his palm covering yours more completely now, his fingers brushing lightly along the edge of your hand as he adjusts his position.

It’s subtle. Deliberate in its quietness. Like he’s testing the moment without breaking it. Your breath catches, but only slightly. You don’t move. Not even a fraction. And that—somehow—is answer enough. The contact deepens. Not tighter. Not restrictive. Just… more.

More present. More intentional. Still casual enough that anyone looking wouldn’t think twice about it. But not accidental anymore. Not really. You both keep watching the dancers. Eyes forward. Expressions neutral. Like nothing has changed. Like this isn’t happening at all.

And yet, your hand remains under his. His hand resting over yours. Warm. Steady. Unmoved. And neither of you says a word.

The music comes to a soft, deliberate end. For a split second, the room holds its breath. Then, applause rises again, filling the studio with that same warm, collective energy. Hands coming together, a few quiet cheers, smiles exchanged across the room as the couple at the center relaxes out of their final pose.

The moment shifts. Back to everyone. Back to normal. And suddenly, You’re aware of your hand again. Of his. Of the contact that had settled so naturally between you without either of you acknowledging it out loud.

A flicker of hesitation crosses your mind. Should I—? Before you can overthink it too much, instinct takes over. You pull your hand back. Not abruptly. Not harshly. Just enough to break the contact as you bring your hands together to join the applause, matching the energy of the room, like nothing had happened at all. Like it had been nothing.

Beside you, he moves at the same time. His hand lifts, the warmth disappearing as easily as it had arrived, and he joins in as well—clapping, composed, perfectly in sync with the rest of the class. Encouraging. Normal.

But the absence is immediate. Noticeable in a way that lingers just a second too long. You keep your eyes forward, focused on the couple bowing slightly, on the instructor stepping in with a few words of praise.

It’s easier that way. To stay in the moment everyone else is sharing. And yet, something quiet settles in your chest. Not regret exactly. But close enough to recognize it when it passes through. Because just a second ago, it had felt… easy. Unspoken. Natural. And now, it’s gone.

You clap along with everyone else, offering the same supportive energy, the same polite smile. But somewhere underneath it all, you’re still aware of the space where his hand had been.

The rest of the class slips by in a blur of music and movement. Couple after couple takes their turn, each bringing something different to the floor—some tentative, some confident, some clearly more practiced than others. You watch, you clap, you listen when the instructor offers small pieces of advice, but your focus drifts in and out.

Every now and then, you catch yourself replaying moments instead. A step. A look. A pause that lasted just a second too long. You don’t dwell on it. Not fully. But it lingers anyway.

Eventually, the music fades for good. The instructor gathers everyone one last time, offering a few final words—encouragement, reminders, a hint of pride in how the class has already started to come together. “Very good work tonight,” he says, glancing around the room. “Keep practicing the walk. Everything comes from that. And—” a small smile, “—don’t forget to listen to each other.”

A few quiet laughs follow. Then it’s over. The room shifts back into something casual again—people stepping out of dance positions, conversations picking up, the soft shuffle of movement as everyone begins to collect their things.

You move toward your bag, crouching slightly as you gather your coat, slipping your arms into it while balancing your weight. The fabric is still a little cold from earlier, but it warms quickly against your skin. Your bag rests open in front of you.

You start placing things inside—phone, keys, small items you don’t even remember taking out. Your movements are automatic, grounded, a way to come back into yourself after everything that happened on the floor. Around you, voices overlap softly. Zippers. Laughter. Shoes against wood. Normal. You focus on that. On the simple task in front of you.

Until, Something shifts behind you. Not loud. Not sudden. Just… presence. Close enough that you feel it before you fully register it. A subtle change in the air. In the space at your back. Your hands pause for a fraction of a second inside your bag. You don’t turn immediately. But you know.

You turn. And it’s him. Already dressed, coat on, bag slung over his shoulder like he’s been ready to leave for a while—but chose not to. Like he waited.

There’s a small smile on his face. Not the quiet, almost unreadable one from earlier, softer, a little uncertain at the edges. It suits him in a way you didn’t expect.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The noise of the room continues around you—people zipping bags, saying their goodbyes, chairs shifting faintly against the floor—but it feels slightly muted again, like it’s happening just out of reach.

“Hey,” he says, simple and careful. You straighten a little from where you were crouched, your hands still lightly gripping the edge of your bag. “Hi.” There’s a brief pause—just long enough to feel it.

And then, something shifts in him. Not confidence exactly. More like… decision. He exhales quietly, glancing down for a fraction of a second before looking back at you. “I was—” he starts, then stops, as if recalibrating his words. One hand adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, a small, grounding movement. “I was wondering…”

Another pause. And this time, you can see it clearly. The slight hesitation. The way he’s not entirely sure how to approach this. It doesn’t match the composed, controlled version of him you’ve seen all evening. And somehow, that makes this moment feel more real. “If you’re free,” he continues, voice a little softer now, “maybe we could… grab a drink. Or something to eat.”

He lets the words settle between you, not rushing to fill the silence after.Then, almost as an afterthought—like he’s trying to make it less of a thing than it feels— “No pressure.” But there is something there. Not pressure. Just… intention.

You can see it in the way he’s looking at you now—steady, but not overwhelming. Hopeful, in a quiet kind of way. Like he’s stepping just slightly outside of his usual certainty. And waiting to see if you’ll meet him there.

Your first instinct isn’t to answer. It’s to look away. Your eyes drift past him, toward the rest of the room—people finishing up, slipping into coats, already halfway back into their lives outside this studio. The familiar pull of hesitation settles in again, quiet but persistent.

You let out a small, nervous laugh, more reflex than anything else. “I—” Your voice trails off. Because it would be easy to say no.

Easy to fall back into something safe, something known. Go home. Tell yourself you’re tired. That it’s been a long day. That maybe next time would be better.

The words are right there. Ready. And then—

You’re isolating yourself.

Your therapist’s voice cuts through the noise in your head with frustrating clarity.

You need something outside of work. Something that forces you to be present. In your body. In the world.

You inhale, slow. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag. This is exactly the kind of moment she meant. And you hate how obvious that feels right now. Because it would be easier to stay where you are. To not take the step, to not risk… whatever this is.

Your thoughts start lining up again, ready to decide for you. And then your mouth moves first. “Yeah,” you say. The word comes out before you’ve fully committed to it. You blink, a little surprised at yourself. Then, more clearly this time, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

There’s a brief silence after. Not awkward. Just… settling. And in that space, you see it. The shift in him. Subtle, but unmistakable. His shoulders ease slightly, like something he’d been holding—something you hadn’t even realized was there—finally lets go. Relief. Quiet, but real.

“Okay,” he says, a small breath of a laugh escaping with it, like he wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go either. “Good.” There’s that hint of a smile again, softer now, less guarded.

And for a moment, it feels like you both stepped into something at the exact same time, without fully knowing where it leads yet.

—————————

“You’re a doctor?” The question slips out easily. Too easily compared to earlier. But something about the setting makes it different now.

The restaurant is small, warm, the kind of place where the lights are dim enough to soften everything but not enough to hide anything. A quiet hum of conversation fills the space around you, glasses clinking softly, cutlery brushing against plates. Outside, the winter night presses faintly against the windows, but in here, it feels… contained. Safe.

You sit across from him, a drink in your hand you’ve barely touched, a plate between you that you’ve been picking at more than eating. And somehow, you’re talking. Really talking.

He looks up at your question, a slight pause before he answers, like he’s used to people reacting in different ways when they find out. “Emergency,” he says. “Yeah.” Simple. Straightforward. Like it’s just another fact.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him a little more openly now than you would’ve allowed yourself earlier.

“I’m surprised,” you admit. A small beat. “But not shocked.”

That earns a faint shift in his expression—curiosity, maybe.“No?”

You shake your head lightly, a small smile forming. “I was trying to guess, actually,” you say, almost amused at yourself now. “Back in class.” His eyebrow lifts just slightly. “Oh?”

You nod, leaning back a little in your chair, more relaxed now, your fingers loosely wrapped around your glass. “Yeah. The way you talk… the way you stand… even how you move.” You gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. “It’s very… controlled. Precise.” A pause. “Like you’re used to paying attention to everything at once.”

Your eyes flick back to his. “Like missing something isn’t really an option.”

The table falls quiet for a second after that. Not uncomfortable. Just… more aware. Because this time, you didn’t deflect. You observed. And said it out loud.

He watches you for a moment, something thoughtful settling in his expression, like he’s not entirely used to being read that clearly. Then, quietly, “That obvious?”

There’s a hint of something in his voice—not quite humor, not quite something else. You smile faintly. “Only if you’re looking for it.” A pause. Then, softer, almost teasing, “And I had time to look.”

That lands differently than you expect. Not heavy. But not nothing either. And for the first time since you sat down, the conversation doesn’t feel like small talk anymore. It feels like something that’s starting to open.

He lets your words sit for a second—like he’s turning them over quietly in his head. Then, a shift. Subtle. Almost playful. One corner of his mouth lifts. “I didn’t know you were looking at me that much,” he says, tone light, but with something warm underneath it. Not accusing. Just… amused.

You blink once, caught off guard, and he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass now. His gaze stays on you. Steady, but softer than before. Then he adds, like it’s the most casual thing in the world— “Wanna know what I saw on you too?”

There’s a pause after it. Not dramatic. Just enough for you to register it. The shift in tone. The way the conversation tilts slightly off its previous axis. Your heart does that annoying little thing again—subtle, but impossible to ignore. Because it doesn’t feel like a joke. Not entirely.

You glance at him, a little slower this time, trying to read what’s behind the ease in his voice. “Depends,” you say carefully, but there’s a hint of curiosity in it now. “Is it going to make me overthink everything I did in class?”

That gets a quiet exhale of a laugh from him. “Probably not,” he says. A beat. Then, more seriously—but still calm, “You looked like you were trying really hard not to disappear into your own head.” That lands gently. Not sharp. Just… observant. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence after that either. Just watches you, like he’s giving you space to react.

“And,” he adds after a moment, tone softening again, “you kept coming back.” A small pause. “Even when you thought you were messing it up.” The noise of the restaurant continues around you—clinking glasses, distant laughter, life going on normally. But your attention narrows again. Not in the same intense way as in the studio. Something quieter now. More personal. Because it feels like he’s not just talking about dance anymore. He’s talking about you.

He doesn’t rush to fill the silence this time. Just lets it sit there for a moment, like he’s deciding how far to go—and then choosing honesty anyway. His fingers rest loosely around his glass, but his gaze stays on you. “I noticed something else,” he says quietly. Not heavier. Just more precise.

“You’re forcing yourself to do things that aren’t easy for you.” A pause. Not accusatory. Not clinical. Just… observed. He leans back slightly, still steady, still calm. “But you’re doing them anyway.” The words land differently than you expect. Not loud enough to overwhelm. But direct enough that there’s no room to pretend he didn’t see it. You don’t answer right away.

Your eyes drop almost on instinct—to your glass, to the table, to somewhere that doesn’t require you to be looked at while you think. The surface of your drink catches the light from above, small reflections shifting slightly with your movement. You swirl it once without meaning to. Then stop. Because your brain is trying to catch up with what he just said.

Forcing yourself.

Like it’s visible. Like it’s something you wear instead of something you hide. The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable—but full. Around you, the restaurant continues its quiet rhythm, but your space feels momentarily paused inside it. You’re aware of your breathing more than you want to be. Of how still you’ve gone. Of how accurate his words feel in a way you didn’t expect them to.

And that’s what makes it harder. Not judgment. Recognition. Finally, you exhale softly, still not looking up. “…You make it sound like it’s obvious,” you say, quieter than before. It’s not defensive. More like you’re testing whether that’s actually true. Whether you’ve been that readable all along. And for a moment, you just stay there—hands near your glass, eyes lowered—processing not just what he said… but the fact that someone actually saw it.

The shift in you doesn’t go unnoticed. Of course it doesn’t. He sees it almost immediately—the way your gaze drops, the way your shoulders settle just a little too still, the quiet that replaces the ease from a few seconds ago.

And just like that, something in him adjusts. A flicker of concern, subtle but real. He leans back slightly in his chair, not pulling away, just giving the moment a bit more space—like he’s careful not to crowd you with what he just said.

His eyes search yours, even if you’re not looking at him yet. “Hey…” It’s soft. Careful.He waits a second, then adds, quieter, “You know… I do the same.” That might have been enough on its own. But he doesn’t stop there.

A small, almost self-conscious smile appears—brief, but genuine in a way you haven’t seen from him before. “I actually did the same for this class,” he continues. “The tango thing.”There’s a lightness in his tone, but it doesn’t quite hide what’s underneath it. “It was my therapist’s idea.”

That makes your head lift. Just slightly. Enough to look at him again. And he holds your gaze this time, not as steady and unreadable as before, but more open. More human.

“Needed something outside of work,” he adds, echoing words that feel a little too familiar now. “Something that didn’t involve… fixing things all the time.”

A small pause. His fingers tap lightly against his glass, then still again. “I didn’t think I’d stick with it,” he admits. “But…” His eyes flick toward you for half a second. Then back. “…it helped.”

The way he says it is simple. No over-explaining. No dramatics. Just honest.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Like your brain needs a second to catch up with what he just said.

“Your therapist?” you repeat, a little incredulous, your voice lifting slightly in surprise. He nods, watching your reaction carefully now, like he’s not entirely sure where this is going.

And then it clicks. Fully. All at once. A short breath escapes you—half laugh, half disbelief—as you lean back slightly in your chair. “No way.”

That gets his attention. “What?” You shake your head, a small, almost stunned smile forming as you look at him properly now.

“No, because—” you let out a quiet laugh, still processing it yourself. “Mine told me the exact same thing.” A pause. You study his face, like you’re trying to confirm this isn’t some weird coincidence your brain made up.

“She literally told me to stop isolating myself and find something physical to do outside of work,” you continue. “And then she mentioned this tango studio, said she used to come here.”

His expression shifts. Curiosity sharpening. “Yeah?” he says. You nod. “Yeah.”A beat. Then, more directly, “Who’s your therapist?” He answers without hesitation. “Dr. Elena Marlowe. Office over on Walnut Street—Shadyside area.” Your eyes widen slightly. There it is. “That’s—” you let out another small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s mine too.”

Silence falls between you for a second. Not awkward. Just… surprised. Because out of everything, the same class, the same night, the same reason. And now the same person who sent you there.

Jack leans back a little, absorbing that, a faint smile pulling at his lips again—this time more genuine, less restrained. “Well,” he says after a moment, a quiet note of amusement in his voice, “that’s one way to build a client network.” You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Did she plan this or something?”

“Feels a little suspicious,” he admits lightly. But there’s something else there too. Something quieter. Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel random anymore. Not entirely.And the space between you shifts again, not just two strangers who happened to meet in a class. But two people who started from the same place… without knowing it.

By the time you step outside, the night has settled deeper. The air is colder now than earlier, sharper against your skin, but it doesn’t hit you the same way it did before. Maybe because you’re not rushing this time. Maybe because you’re not alone.

Jack falls into step beside you easily. Not too close. Not distant either. Just… there. “I can walk you home,” he says, almost casually, like it’s the most natural continuation of the evening. There’s no pressure in it. No assumption. Just an offer. You hesitate for half a second—more out of habit than anything else—then nod. “Okay.”

And just like that, you’re moving again. But slower this time. The streets are quieter now, most of the city tucked away behind lit windows and drawn curtains. Streetlights cast long, soft shadows along the sidewalks, the faint glow reflecting off damp pavement in uneven streaks of gold.

Your footsteps fall into an easy rhythm beside his. Not perfectly in sync. But close enough to notice. Conversation comes easier now. Lighter. You talk about small things at first—work in vague terms, the city, places you’ve both tried or meant to try. It drifts naturally, no effort needed to keep it going.

At one point, you laugh—really laugh—and it surprises you a little, how easily it comes out. He glances at you when you do. Not in a way that interrupts. Just noticing. Like he’s quietly taking it in.

And you catch yourself doing the same thing a few minutes later—watching the way he talks, the way his expression shifts when he’s relaxed, how different it feels from the controlled version of him in the studio.

More open. Less guarded. “Do you always analyze people like that?” he asks at some point, a hint of teasing slipping back into his voice. You glance at him, a small smile forming. “Only when they’re interesting.” That earns a soft huff of a laugh from him. “Good to know I made the cut.”

You shrug lightly, pretending to consider it. “Barely.” He looks at you then—really looks—and there’s something in his expression that lingers just a second longer than the joke. Not heavy.

The conversation drifts again after that. Comfortably. You talk about nothing and everything at the same time—childhood habits, favorite music, the strange things you notice about the city when you’re walking instead of rushing.

And somewhere along the way, the silence between topics stops feeling like something that needs to be filled. It just… exists. Easy.

The walk eventually slows to a stop in front of your building. An old brick townhouse tucked between two others on a quiet street, its windows dark except for one glowing faintly on the upper floor. At the top of a few narrow stairs sits a large dark red door, worn slightly around the edges from years of winter and rain.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then the porch light flicks on automatically, reacting to your movement in a sudden wash of warm light that spills across the steps and catches the edges of his face.

You glance toward the door. Then back at him. “It’s here,” you say softly. Your voice sounds quieter now than it did during the walk. More careful.You climb the stairs slowly—three, maybe four steps—but it feels strangely significant putting even that small amount of distance between you.

At the top, you stop. Turn back toward him. And he’s still there at the bottom of the steps. Hands tucked inside the pockets of his coat against the cold, shoulders slightly drawn in from the winter air. The light catches faintly in his eyes as he looks up at you, steady and quiet in a way that suddenly feels almost unbearably intimate after everything else tonight.

Neither of you moves. The city hums faintly in the distance somewhere behind him, cars far off, wind brushing softly through bare winter branches. But here, everything feels still. There are things you could say.

Thank you for tonight.

I had a good time.

See you next class.

All of them sit somewhere at the edge of your tongue. None of them come out. Because none of them feel like enough. And judging by the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s caught between staying and leaving—you’re not the only one feeling it.

A few seconds passes. Maybe less. Maybe more. Time feels strange suddenly. You just stand there, separated by a few steps and cold night air, looking at each other in complete silence. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… unwilling. Like neither of you wants to be the first person to end this moment.

He breaks first. Of course he does. Not because he wants to—if anything, it looks like the opposite—but because someone has to. “Well…” His voice is softer now in the cold night air, almost reluctant. “Have a good night.” A small pause. “And I’ll see you next week.” His smile returns then, warm and real. “The dance class,” he adds lightly, like he suddenly needs to specify where he’ll see you again.

You smile despite yourself. And still, neither of you moves right away. Then finally, he starts stepping backward slowly down the sidewalk, hands still tucked inside his coat pockets against the cold. But his eyes stay on you the entire time, unwilling to break contact just yet.

You watch him go. One step. Then another. He turn around. And suddenly something inside you tightens painfully. Because this feels too final. Too calm. Too polite for what tonight became.

Your heart starts beating faster—not slowly, not thoughtfully, but all at once, like it’s making a decision before the rest of you catches up.

Don’t let him leave like this.

The thought hits hard enough that it almost steals your breath. And this time, you don’t hesitate long enough to stop yourself. “Wait!” Your voice cuts through the quiet street louder than you intended.

He stops instantly. You barely register his expression changing before you’re moving. Your bag slips from your shoulder and lands carelessly on the porch behind you with a dull thud, forgotten immediately as you rush down the few stairs too fast, your heartbeat loud in your ears, cold air burning in your lungs again.

He barely has time to fully turn.

One moment he’s still facing you, caught in that quiet pause between leaving and staying and the next, you’re there. Right in front of him. Too close to think. Too fast to hesitate.

His name doesn’t even make it out of your mind properly before the feeling takes over completely—something sharp and certain and undeniable, like every careful thought you had dissolves all at once into instinct.

And you don’t stop. You reach for him before you can second-guess it, your hands lifting to his face as if to anchor yourself, fingers finding his jaw, steadying him—or maybe yourself.

You rise onto your toes without even thinking about it. And then you kiss him. It’s not careful. It’s not planned. It’s all the things you didn’t say at the door, and in the restaurant, and on the walk here—compressed into a single moment that doesn’t ask permission to exist.

For a second, everything goes still. The street. The cold. The space between decisions. Even him. Then you feel it, the smallest shift in him as he reacts, surprise first, then something softer breaking through the restraint he’d been holding onto since earlier.

His hand comes up instinctively, not to pull away, but to steady you—warm against your wrist, grounding, like he’s making sure this is real and not something that will disappear if he moves too quickly.

The world narrows. Porch light behind you. Winter air around you. His presence in front of you. And nothing else. When you finally pull back just enough to breathe, you don’t move far. Neither does he. And for a second, neither of you says a word.

Your hand is still against the side of his face, your breath uneven from the suddenness of what you just did. Reality crashes back in slowly—the cold air, your racing heart, the fact that you kissed him first without giving yourself even a second to think about it.

And suddenly, shyness floods in just as quickly. Your eyes search his immediately. Checking. Making sure. Making sure you didn’t imagine the tension between you all night. Making sure he wanted this too.

The silence stretches for a heartbeat. Then another. Jack looks at you like he’s still catching up to the moment himself.

There’s surprise there, yes—but softer now. Warmer. Something deeper settling underneath it as he takes you in standing so close to him, flushed from the cold and from him, still slightly breathless on the sidewalk beneath the porch light.

And then his expression changes. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough for you to see the answer before he even moves. His hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before resting there with quiet certainty.

And this time when he kisses you, it’s different. Slower. Deeper. Intentional in a way that nearly steals the breath from your lungs. Like he’s no longer holding himself back.

The cold night disappears almost instantly beneath the warmth of him, the steady way he draws you closer without rushing, without urgency, but with something that feels far more dangerous than impulse:

want.

Real and controlled and undeniable. You melt into it before you can stop yourself. Your fingers curl slightly against his coat, grounding yourself in the feeling of him as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

And somewhere behind you the porch light clicks off. Darkness settles over the street again, soft and quiet, the two of you left alone beneath the winter night. No music now. No mirrors. No audience.

Just the cold air around you, his warmth against you, and the way he kisses you like he’s been thinking about it far longer than either of you planned to admit.

When the kiss breaks this time, neither of you really lets go. You stay close enough that your breaths still mix in the cold air, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him despite the winter night surrounding you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The porch light is gone now, leaving the street wrapped in darkness, soft and quiet around the two of you. Only a distant streetlamp somewhere behind you casts enough light to outline parts of his face—the bridge of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the faint reflection caught in his eyes when he looks at you.

It makes everything feel strangely private. Hidden. Your heart is still beating too fast. Not from nervousness anymore. Just… from him. Jack’s hand lingers lightly at your waist, steady and warm through your coat, like neither of you is quite ready to create distance again after finally closing it.

You swallow softly. Then, cautiously, almost shy again after the certainty of the kiss, “Do you…” Your voice catches slightly before you try again. “Do you want to stay?”

The question hangs between you in a visible breath of cold air. Simple. But full of implication. Jack looks at you quietly for a second, like he’s taking in the fact that you’re really asking him that.

Then the smallest smile touches his mouth again. Warm, soft around the edges. And he nods. Just once. “Yeah,” he says quietly. Like there was never another answer. And somehow, that simple little nod sends warmth rushing through you stronger than the cold ever could.

You turn before you can overthink the moment again. Your fingers slip into his naturally this time, finding his hand in the dark without hesitation, and warmth immediately closes around yours as he lets you guide him toward the building.

He follows half a step behind you. Quiet. Close enough that you can still feel his presence at your back as you climb the few stairs again, your abandoned bag still sitting crookedly on the porch where you dropped it earlier. You pick it up quickly with your free hand, slightly embarrassed now that the adrenaline has faded.

You hear the faintest huff of amusement behind you. The front door opens with a soft creak. Warmth greets you immediately as you step into the narrow entryway of the building, dim lights humming faintly overhead. The sounds of the street disappear almost completely once the door shuts behind you, replaced by quiet old-building silence and the distant ticking of pipes somewhere in the walls.

You lead him upstairs. Your hand stays in his the entire way. And somehow, that feels more intimate than the kiss did. By the time you stop in front of your apartment door, your heartbeat has started climbing again. Not fear. Just awareness.

You unlock the door quickly, suddenly hyper-conscious of the fact that he’s about to see your space. Your things. Your life. The door swings open. You reach in first to switch on the light.

A warm glow immediately spills through the apartment, soft amber lamps replacing the harshness of overhead lighting. Then you step aside slightly. “Um…” A shy smile flickers across your face. “You can come in.”

Jack steps inside slowly, quietly observant without making it feel invasive. The apartment is small, but deeply lived-in.

Warm blankets drape over the couch in imperfect folds, one corner still slightly collapsed from where you’d probably been sitting earlier that week. Books rest in uneven stacks on shelves and side tables, mixed with candles burned halfway down and mugs that clearly got left behind during long evenings alone.

A soft lamp glows near the window instead of the ceiling light, casting the entire living room in warm gold. Plants sit near the radiator, some thriving, some barely surviving winter.

There’s music records leaning beside a cabinet, loose papers near the kitchen counter, a sweater thrown carelessly over the arm of a chair like you stopped thinking about where things belonged once you were home.

Nothing about it feels staged. It feels… safe. Comfortable. Like a place built carefully to soften loneliness. Jack takes it in quietly, removing his coat slowly as his eyes move across the room.

You step inside after him more slowly this time. The door closes softly behind you, shutting out the last traces of the winter night, but your heart still hasn’t settled from any of it—the walk, the kiss, the fact that Jack Abbott is standing inside your apartment like this is actually happening.

For a moment, you just watch him. Carefully. Trying to read him the same way you did back at the restaurant. He moves quietly through the space—not wandering, not intruding, just taking it in with calm curiosity. Respectfully. His gaze lingers on details without judgment: the books stacked unevenly near the couch, the framed prints on the wall, the blanket draped over the armchair.

There’s something strangely intimate about someone seeing the private shape of your life like this. Especially him. You try to understand what he’s thinking. If he feels as aware of this moment as you do. If he’s nervous too. But his expression remains soft, composed in that familiar way—though not unreadable anymore. You’re beginning to understand the subtle shifts in him now. The quietness doesn’t mean distance. If anything, it means he’s present.

You turn away before he catches you staring too long. Your hand finds the lock automatically. Click. The sound echoes a little louder in your head than it should. And suddenly, the reality of it hits you fully. He’s here. Inside your apartment. Because you kissed him. Because you asked him to stay.

Your fingers linger against the door for a second longer than necessary as your thoughts trip over themselves.

What am I doing?

Not regret. Never that. Just disbelief at your own boldness. At how quickly tonight slipped out of your control in the best possible way. You inhale quietly, grounding yourself against the cool wood of the door before finally turning back toward him. And when you do, he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped.

There’s a softness in his expression now, something warmer than before, but still steady, still deliberate. One of his hands lifts slightly toward you, palm open. Not demanding. Not rushing. Just… offering. An invitation.

For a second, you just blink at him. Then a small laugh slips out of you, breathy and disbelieving, as you shrug out of your coat a little more properly now, as if you suddenly remember you’re supposed to be doing normal human things in between life-altering moments.

“Is this…” you start, glancing at his hand, then back at him. “A formal invitation?” You try to make your tone serious. It almost works. Almost.

He doesn’t break eye contact when he answers. “Depends,” he says quietly. “Are you accepting it seriously?”

That earns another laugh from you—softer this time, warmer, a little unsteady around the edges. You shake your head like you’re trying to ground yourself back into reality, even though you don’t really want to.

Still, you step forward. Your fingers slide into his without hesitation now. And the moment you do he pulls you in. Not roughly. Not abruptly. But decisively. Like the answer was already known.

The space between you disappears in an instant, and suddenly you’re close enough that everything else in the room fades out completely. Your free hand finds his torso instinctively, palm pressing lightly against him as you steady yourself in the sudden closeness.

His hand settles at your waist again like it belongs there. And then, stillness. Just the two of you. Breathing. Close enough that the air between you feels shared instead of separate.

His face is right there now. Close enough that you can see the small details you couldn’t outside—the quiet focus in his eyes, the faint softness at the corners of his mouth, the way his expression has fully shifted from composed stranger to something unmistakably present.

You’re looking at him. He’s looking at you. Neither of you moves away. The moment stretches, suspended, like the world has politely stepped back and closed the door behind it.

The pause between you doesn’t last. It doesn’t really have time to. Something shifts—quietly, inevitably—like the last thread of restraint finally loosens all at once.

There’s no more hesitation in the way you look at each other. Only certainty. And then you both close the distance again. This time, it’s not careful. It’s immediate. Like neither of you can stand the space anymore.

You meet him halfway, breath catching as your hands rise instinctively—finding him, holding onto him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He pulls you closer with the same urgency, grounding you against him as if the world outside your apartment doesn’t exist at all anymore.

The kiss deepens fast. Not rushed in confusion—but in recognition. Like everything unspoken all evening has finally found its language. Your thoughts scatter completely. There’s no analysis left, no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just him. Warmth. Closeness. The steady reality of his presence anchoring you in place while everything else fades into the background.

The kiss keeps unfolding between you in slow waves of warmth and breath and closeness, until at some point neither of you are really standing still anymore. You move together without thinking about it. Small steps. Careless ones.

Your apartment blurs at the edges as your focus narrows entirely to him—to the feeling of his hands steady at your waist, the warmth of him close enough that you can barely tell where your breathing ends and his begins.

You guide him backward almost unconsciously, your fingers tangled lightly at the nape of his neck, brushing through his hair every time you pull him closer again. And he follows. Easily. Like he’d follow you anywhere right now.

The kisses grow slower for a moment—not less intense, just heavier somehow, deeper with everything that’s already passed between you tonight. Eventually you part just enough to breathe. Barely. Your faces remain close, foreheads nearly brushing, warm breaths mingling in the dim golden light of your apartment.

You can still feel the ghost of his mouth against yours. His hands remain at your waist, holding you there like he has no intention of letting you drift too far away. Then he smiles. Small. Breathless around the edges. And with that teasing warmth you’re already starting to recognize in him, he murmurs softly, “So…” His thumb brushes lightly against your side. “Are you forcing yourself into this too?”

The words hit you instantly. And despite everything—the racing heart, the closeness, the fact that your thoughts are barely functioning anymore—a laugh escapes you. Soft and incredulous. You pull back just enough to look at him properly, your fingers still resting against the back of his neck.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing now. “You’re unbelievable.” His smile widens slightly at that, eyes warm and impossibly fond as he watches you.

You answer him with another kiss. Soft at first. Then warmer when he melts into it immediately again. Your fingers slip back into his hair as you kiss him again, softer at first, then deeper when he immediately responds, pulling you close enough that you can feel the tension in his body melting back into warmth beneath your hands.

Your smile lingers against his mouth as you guide him further into the apartment, toward the hallway leading to your room, as it fades into dim light and blurred shapes. Your hands slowly find the buttons of his shirt almost absentmindedly—more focused on feeling him close than on what you’re actually doing

You feel him react instantly. Not pulling away. But tensing. Subtle at first. A hesitation in the way he kisses you back. Then another.

Until finally he parts from you slightly, breath uneven, his forehead briefly resting near yours before he takes half a step back. “Wait—” The word comes out soft. Careful.

You stop immediately. Your hands still against his chest. For the first time since you kissed him outside, genuine uncertainty crosses his face. Not rejection. Not regret. Something more vulnerable than that.

Your stomach drops instantly. Every possibility crashes through your mind at once. Too fast. Regret. Changed his mind. You pull back a fraction more, searching his face immediately, and he must see the doubt appear in yours because his expression softens almost painfully.

“No—hey,” he says quickly, voice gentler now. “It’s not that.” His hands remain on you, grounding, reassuring. But he still looks uncertain. Like he’s trying to figure out how to say something he doesn’t usually say out loud.

“I just…” He exhales softly, glancing down for a second before looking back at you. “There’s something I should probably tell you first.” You stay still, heart still beating too hard, waiting.

He opens his mouth once. Stops. A faint, almost shy frustration crosses his face. Then finally, quieter, “I think it’ll be easier if I just show you.” Before you can respond, he guides you gently the last few steps into your bedroom.

The room is dimmer than the living room, softer somehow, lit only faintly by the spill of warm light from the hallway lamp. He sits down slowly on the edge of the bed behind him while you remain standing a few feet away, still trying to understand what’s happening.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts his position. “I had to show you before anything went further,” he says quietly, eyes lowered for a second like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

His hands move to his pant leg. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just deliberate. And then he reveals it. The prosthetic. For a second, the room goes completely still. You don’t speak.

Not because you’re shocked in the way he might fear—but because your mind is trying to align everything you’ve seen of him tonight with this new piece of reality. The way he moves. The control. The precision. The ease with which he led you across a dance floor like it was nothing at all.

You look at the leg. Then back at him. He keeps his gaze lowered at first, jaw tight in a way that suggests this is the moment he’s been dreading more than anything else tonight. “I just—” he starts, then stops, exhaling quietly. “I didn’t want you to find out later and think I hid it from you.”

His voice is steady, but softer now. Less guarded, but also more exposed. The silence stretches again. And then, slowly, he completes the gesture. The prosthetic comes free. The room doesn’t change—but everything in it feels different. Not in a frightening way. In a revealing one.

Jack sits there for a moment, hands still resting near it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself now that it’s fully visible. Like this is the part he can’t control with precision or distance or composure.

You take a step closer. Then another. Careful, but certain. You don’t say anything. There’s nothing that feels necessary right now.

Instead, you close the remaining distance and lower yourself carefully sitting on his lap, close enough that your presence fills the space he’s been holding alone for too long.

It shifts the air immediately. Not breaking anything. Just softening it. Your hands find his shoulders instinctively, steadying yourself for a moment before sliding up gently, resting around the back of his neck.

He is still looking down, like he’s bracing for something he can’t quite control. But you don’t look away from him. Not even for a second. Your gaze stays on his face—on the tension he hasn’t fully let go of yet, on the way he’s waiting for a reaction that never comes.

He looks up at you slowly. Carefully. Like he’s still waiting for something to go wrong. But you’re already there, closer than doubt, closer than fear. Your expression doesn’t change—still that small, steady smile that doesn’t ask him to explain anything or defend anything. It just stays. Present. Certain.

And that’s what finally breaks something in him. The tension in his shoulders eases a fraction, like his body is starting to believe what you already decided.

You lean in. Gently. Not rushed, not uncertain—just enough to close the space between you. The kiss is soft. Quiet. Not a question this time, but an answer. I’m here. I’m not leaving. I’m not looking away.

For a brief moment, everything else fades again—the room, the weight of what he showed you, the fear he carried into it. His arms settle around you in a quiet, steady hold—careful at first, then more certain, like he’s letting himself believe he doesn’t have to brace for rejection anymore. He pulls you closer against him, feeling you settle into his lap. One hand slides up your back while the other traces along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of your top.

Jack’s breath hitches as the kiss deepens, his hands roaming more freely now. He breaks the kiss only to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck. Jack's large, warm hands slide up your sides, gently pushing the fabric of your scrub top higher until it's thrown on the ground. As the fabric fell away, the cool air of the room met your skin, but it was instantly replaced by the warmth of her body pressing against yours. He can feel your smooth skin under his palms, your hips rolling slightly in his lap as he kisses and bites gently at your neck.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with a silence that spoke louder than any words. You stood beneath his gaze, feeling the weight of his eyes tracing every line of your body, a silent promise that lingered in the space between your breaths.

Jack lets out a low, appreciative growl as you push him back onto the mattress, the sheets giving way under his weight. He watches you from below, eyes dark with desire, his chest rising and falling heavily as your fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. With each button undone, more of his toned chest and abdomen are revealed, the warm skin flushed with arousal.

Jack groans softly, his hands squeezing your backside as you grind down against him, feeling his growing arousal press against you through his pants. He tilts his head to the side, giving you better access to his neck, a shiver running down his spine as you bite gently at the sensitive skin there.

His touch was electric as his fingers pressed against your ass, Each movement was a conversation, a silent dialogue of desire and trust that required no translation.

The rhythm of your movement was a language of its own, a slow, deliberate dance that seemed to pull the very air from the room. You felt the weight of his presence not just as a physical pressure, but as a profound emotional anchor, grounding you in a moment of absolute stillness amidst the rising tide of sensation.

When his hands finally found their way to your back, the touch was tentative at first, seeking the curve of your spine as if tracing a map. The friction of his skin against your back sent a jolt through you, not just of desire, but of a deep, resonant recognition.

Jack deftly unclasps your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your shoulders and tossing the garment aside to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. His warm hands immediately cover your bare breasts, thumbs brushing teasingly over your hardened nipples while you continue to roll your hips against his, drawing a ragged moan from deep within his chest.

His gaze held yours, dark and intense, stripping away any remaining defenses you might have tried to keep in place. It was a look of total acceptance, a silent invitation to let go of the world and exist only in the space you shared.

Jack suddenly flips you over onto your back without warning, his large frame looming over you as he settles between your spread thighs. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep as his hips grind down against yours, his hard length pressing insistently against your core even through the fabric of your remaining clothes.

"I need... more..." he says, between two kisses.

The world narrows again until there’s nothing left but the two of you. The hesitation that once lived between you is gone now—completely replaced by something steady, certain, and mutual.

You caress his abs as you start to unbutton your own pants, and Jack quickly pushes his pants and boxers down, kicking them aside to reveal his muscular body. Clothes are shed gradually, not as a spectacle, but as a quiet continuation of trust—of choosing each other without doubt in the way that matters most.

He climbs back over you, his hips pressing against yours as you finish sliding your pants off, leaving you both completely bare. When you look at each other again, there’s no uncertainty left in his expression.

Everything shifts again—faster now, less careful, like the restraint that had been holding both of you together finally gives way completely. The space between you disappears in waves of closeness and breath and heat, every movement driven by mutual urgency and trust rather than hesitation.

Jack groans appreciatively, his hands squeezing and caressing your sensitive breast as he worships them with his mouth. He kisses and licks his way back up to your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin as he positions himself at your entrance, his thick head pressing against your wet, ready opening.

Nothing about it feels uncertain anymore. Only overwhelming. Only real. The rest of the world fades out entirely—the apartment, the city beyond it, even time itself—until there’s nothing left but the feeling of being chosen and choosing in return.

Jack's eyes burn into yours with intense love and desire as his fingers slowly slide through your wet folds, coating himself in your arousal. He circles your clit slowly, making you squirm beneath him before bringing his hand back to grip himself, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

The moment slows again. Jack grits his teeth as he sinks inside you inch by inch, his jaw clenching at the overwhelming sensation of your tight, wet heat surrounding him. A low groan escapes his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he bottoms out, completely buried within you.

"Fuck... you okay ?" His voice is careful, soft, but still full of pleasure. It’s a question that holds everything—attention, respect, and the same steady care he’s shown you since the very beginning, even before either of you knew where the night was heading.

"Yes… I’m good, really good…"

Jack kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours as his hips begin a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust is deep and measured, hitting places that make your breath hitch and your legs tighten around his waist. His large size stretches you perfectly, filling you completely with every movement. He breathes against your lips, setting a pace that has you seeing stars.

The moment deepens, and the room seems to fall away completely around you—no sound, no time, nothing except the closeness between you and the steady way he stays with you through it all.

Your moans feels like music to his ears, and as the intensity rises and settles in waves you can’t fully put into words, what remains constant is him—steady, focused on you, never letting the moment drift into anything that isn’t mutual.

"This is so good, oh my god…" you were so overwhelmed from the pleasure building up, his warm body over you.

"You like that ? Fuck you’re so tight…" He growls softly, somehow knowing exactly how to hit your spot. His voice drops an octave lower, huskier with desire. "So good, you're doing so well, taking me so well..."

You start moving your hips under him, helping him go deeper, feeling his length all the way. "Fuck... just like that, use me…" He encourages, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he thrusts up to meet your movements, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your moans and his grunts.

The tension that had been building between you finally snaps, sending waves of overwhelming pleasure crashing over both of you. Your bodies move in perfect, frantic synchronization, trembling uncontrollably as the sensation becomes too much to bear. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning your name deeply as his hips rock relentlessly. "Let go... I've got you…"

Everything between you tightens into something overwhelming—too close, too full, too consuming to hold onto in any structured thought. There’s no distance left now. No hesitation.

Just the two of you, completely caught in the same moment, carried by everything that has built between you since the first dance step, since the first look, since the first silence that didn’t feel like loneliness anymore.

And then, it crests. In a way that feels like release rather than escalation—like something inside both of you finally lets go at the same time. Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air.

"That's it, fuck..." He moans, his thrusts becoming more erratic and forceful as he chases his own release. He leans down to suck a mark onto your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he feels you start to unravel beneath him.

His cock pulsing deeply inside you as you make him come. He collapses onto you gently, careful not to crush you with his larger frame, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs.

The intensity slowly fades, not all at once, but in gentle waves that leave everything quieter than before. Breathing becomes something you both notice again.

The room settles around you—warm, dim, familiar in a way it wasn’t an hour ago, like it has absorbed everything that just happened and chosen to hold it gently rather than echo it back.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. There doesn’t feel like a need to. You’re both still close—closer than before in a different way now, not driven by urgency but by something calmer. Something steadier. Like the rush has given way to understanding.

He shifts slightly first, careful, as if checking in without words. Then his voice comes quietly, low against the silence.

“You okay ?”

It’s the same question as before. But softer now. Different weight to it. Not anticipation anymore—just care. And in that moment, it hits you how present he still is. How he hasn’t pulled away emotionally just because the intensity has passed. How he’s still here, still attentive, still him.

The vulnerability doesn’t disappear after the moment. It deepens. Because now there’s nothing left to hide behind. Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, trying to understand how something so unexpected already feels so… safe.

Outside, the world continues without you. But in here, everything has shifted. And neither of you seems in any hurry to leave it behind.

You breathe out slowly, still coming down from everything, but steadying now in the quiet that follows. I’m okay,” you say softly. Your voice is calm—more certain than you expected it to be.

That seems to ease something in him. The tension in his shoulders finally loosens as he shifts beside you, carefully settling back onto the bed. The movement is slow, unhurried, like neither of you wants to break the fragile calm that has replaced everything else.

And then he pulls you in gently. Not urgently. Just enough to close the space again. You end up resting against him, tucked into his side, your head finding a natural place where you can still hear his breathing—still feel the steady presence of him there.

His arm stays around you, warm and grounding, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a while, neither of you speaks.

The silence now is different from before. No tension in it. No uncertainty. Just quiet. Shared. And in that stillness, everything that happened earlier doesn’t feel like something that needs to be understood right away.

Just something that brought you here. Together.

The room stays quiet long after the last words fade. Warmth lingers in the sheets, in the slow rhythm of breathing, in the way your body has finally stopped bracing for anything at all. Outside, the city continues without you—cars passing distantly, wind brushing against glass—but it all feels very far away now.

In here, there’s only him. And the steady way his arm stays around you, like it never needed to learn how.

You shift slightly against him, not to move away, just to settle in more comfortably. Your fingers rest lightly where they land, absentminded, grounded in something real after a night that still feels almost unbelievable when you try to think about it too hard.

Jack exhales softly above you. Not a word. Just presence. And for a moment, you let yourself think back—briefly, gently—to how this started.

A late arrival.

A dance class you almost didn’t enter.

A stranger who looked too composed to feel like home.

A hand offered in a mirrored room under yellow light.

You almost smile at the memory. Because none of it looked like this from the beginning. And yet…it led here.

Your eyes drift half-closed as his hand traces an idle, absent motion at your arm—more habit than intention now, like he’s still making sure you’re real beside him.

And now you’re something. Something that doesn’t feel like it needs a label yet, because it already feels like more than what it was supposed to be.

More than a dance partner.

More than coincidence.

More than a first meeting that should have ended at the studio door.

The room stays quiet for a while after everything settles. Not awkward. Not empty either. Just calm. The kind of silence that only exists when two people stop feeling the need to fill every space between them.

You remain tucked against Jack, your head resting near his shoulder while the warmth of the blankets and his body slowly replaces the cold memory of the winter night outside.

For a moment, neither of you moves much. Then a quiet laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Small. Breathy. You lift your head slightly, looking at him. “What?”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth as he stares up at the ceiling for a second. “I’m just thinking,” he murmurs, “your therapist is never going to let us hear the end of this.” That makes you laugh immediately. A real one this time—soft and tired and warm. “Oh my god,” you whisper, covering part of your face with your hand. “She’s going to look so proud of herself.”

“She basically orchestrated the whole thing.”

“She really did.” You both fall quiet again for a second, smiling a little into the dim light of the room. Then you glance toward him again, softer this time. “Did you actually want to come to the dance class at first?” He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost amused at the memory. “Absolutely not.” You laugh again. “I knew it.”

“I thought it sounded ridiculous,” he admits. “A tango class? Me?” He shakes his head lightly. “I almost left after the first session.” That surprises you enough to look at him properly. “Really?”

He nods once. “Then you showed up late.” Your chest tightens a little at that. The room grows quieter again after his words—not heavy, just more intimate now. You trace lazy patterns against his chest while gathering the courage to ask your next question. “And now?”

His eyes shift toward you immediately. There’s no hesitation in his answer this time. “Now I’m glad I stayed.” The simplicity of it nearly hurts. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s honest. You hold his gaze for a moment longer before smiling faintly, unable to stop yourself. Then, softer, “I almost didn’t go inside that night.”

“I know,” he says quietly. You blink. “How?” A small smile appears on his face again. “You had the exact look of someone trying to convince herself to run away.”

You groan softly in embarrassment, hiding your face against him for a second as he laughs quietly above you. But his arm tightens around you immediately after, grounding the teasing with something gentler. Something affectionate.

And slowly, as the conversation drifts into softer things—random thoughts, quiet jokes, the comfortable exhaustion of the night—you realize something strange :

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, blood, angst, arguments.

a/n : ooooh she’s maaaaaaad ! What do y’all think will happen next 🤓

archiveofourown link

Spotify playlist link

CHAPTER 7 : Worse Than Angry

Two shifts had passed since the incident. Two shifts since the waiting room. Since the hands around your throat. Since the police officers dragging that terrified man away while you stood there trying to understand why nobody had listened to you. And somehow, that part was what stayed under your skin the most. Not the bruises. But the feeling of having something taken from you.

Your choice. You had said no. More than once. And they had done it anyway. So now, you did the only thing that felt safe enough not to explode into another argument. You pulled away. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly enough for it to hurt.

Dana still texted sometimes. You answered with short replies hours later. Robby tried once or twice to smooth things over, but you never let the conversations go very far. And Abbot…you simply stopped engaging.

No teasing. No sarcasm. No sharp little remarks thrown over your shoulder. Nothing. At first, everyone thought you were just tired. Then they realized this was worse. Because you weren’t angry anymore. You were disappointed. And disappointment was colder.

The ER was still half asleep when you arrived that evening, the outside sky dark blue with the last remains of sunset fading behind the hospital windows. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting that familiar pale glow over the halls, over the empty stretchers waiting along the walls, over the nurses station where the first coffee cups of the night had already started to accumulate.

You were early. As always. Mostly because you didn’t want to walk in with everyone else. You didn’t want conversations. Didn’t want looks. Didn’t want another careful silence falling every time you entered a room. So you changed quickly in the locker room, tied your hair back, slipped your stethoscope around your neck, and started your shift before anyone could stop you.

The bruises at your throat had faded to a angry purple now. You knew people noticed them. You noticed the way eyes lingered before politely moving away again.

You stepped behind the nurses station, already scanning the scattered reports and patient charts left for the incoming shift, grateful for the distraction of paperwork and routine.

Then, “There she is.” Dana’s voice. Warm. Familiar. Too familiar. You looked up automatically.

She was sitting behind the station with a coffee in one hand, smiling the second she saw you, relief flickering briefly across her face like she’d been hoping you might actually acknowledge her tonight.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Usually, that would have made you smile. Or at least one of your dramatic French responses muttered under your breath just to make Princess laugh from across the station.

Tonight, you barely looked up from the reports in your hands. “Hi, Dana.” Neutral. Professional. The smile on Dana’s face faltered almost invisibly. Not because you were rude.

Because you weren’t. That was the problem. You sounded like you were speaking to any coworker in the hospital. No warmth. No affection. No teasing. Just distance. A small silence settled between you.

At the other end of the station, Lena arrived almost at the same moment, coffee in hand and jacket half hanging from one shoulder. She slowed automatically when she noticed the atmosphere. Her eyes moved between the two of you once. Then twice.

Ah. So it was still bad. Lena quietly set her coffee down near one of the computers without interrupting, pretending to focus on logging into the system while very obviously listening.

You kept looking through the charts. Dana watched you for another second before speaking more carefully this time. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Your answer came instantly. Too instantly. You grabbed another report from the counter before she could continue, eyes staying down. “Do we already have rooms assigned?”

Dana leaned back slightly in her chair, studying you quietly now.

“Y/n—”

“Trauma or general tonight?” you interrupted gently, still calm, still professional enough that she couldn’t even call you out for it. And somehow that hurt her more.

“…General for now,” she answered after a moment.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Then you turned slightly, already preparing to walk away. “Hey,” Dana called softly. You paused. Not turning fully.

“I miss talking to you.” That one almost got you. Almost.

Lena saw it immediately in the way your shoulders tensed almost invisibly, in the tiny pause that lasted just a second too long. For a moment, Dana looked hopeful. But then you lowered your eyes back to the chart in your hands, your voice stayed even. “I have patients to check on.” And then you walked away before she could answer.

And then you walked away, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than any argument you could have started. Lena slowly turned her head toward Dana once you disappeared down the hallway.

“…Damn,” she muttered quietly. Dana stared after you for another second before exhaling softly and rubbing a hand over her face. “Yeah,” she said. “Damn.”

For a few seconds after you disappeared down the hallway, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the ER slowly filled the silence back in—phones ringing somewhere further down, the distant squeak of stretcher wheels, monitors beeping softly in empty rooms waiting for patients.

Dana kept staring in the direction you had left, her jaw tight, fingers tapping absently against the side of her coffee cup.

Lena watched her quietly for a moment before leaning back against the counter beside her.

“She’s really hurt.” Dana let out a tired breath through her nose. “I know.”

“No,” Lena said gently, shaking her head once. “I mean really hurt.” That made Dana finally look at her.

Lena’s expression stayed calm, understanding, but honest. “I get why you did it,” she continued. “Honestly, I probably would’ve wanted to do the same thing.”

Dana looked down briefly. “He assaulted her, Lena. He was about to kill her.”

“I know.”

“And she would never have pressed charges herself.”

“I know that too.”

Dana rubbed a hand over her forehead, exhaustion visible on her face. “We weren’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” Lena repeated softly. “That’s the problem.” Dana frowned slightly. Lena leaned her elbows lightly against the counter, lowering her voice a little. “What you did was human,” she said. “Seeing someone you care about get hurt like that and wanting justice for it? That’s human.”

Dana’s eyes flickered briefly toward the hallway again. “But what she’s feeling is human too.” That one settled heavier. “She told you no,” Lena added carefully. “More than once. And then it still happened behind her back.”

Dana stayed silent. Because there wasn’t really a defense for that part. Lena sighed softly.

“I’m not saying you were wrong for wanting to protect her,” she continued. “I’m saying she trusted you to listen to her, and right now she feels like nobody did.”

Dana swallowed slightly, her gaze lowering to the counter. “She won’t even look at me.”

“She will eventually.”

“You don’t know that.”

Lena gave her a small look. “She came back, didn’t she?”

Dana didn’t answer immediately.

“She could’ve transferred,” Lena continued quietly. “Could’ve avoided all of you for a while. But she came back here.”

A small silence settled again. Then Lena’s mouth curved just slightly. “She’s angry because she cares.”

Dana let out a humorless little laugh. “That sounds dangerously optimistic.”

“Maybe,” Lena admitted. “But if she truly didn’t care anymore, she wouldn’t even bother being disappointed.” That one hit differently. Dana leaned back in her chair slowly, arms crossing as she stared toward the hallway where you had disappeared. “…I hate this.”

“I know,” Lena said softly. “So does she.”

Dana finally picked up her coffee again, though it had probably gone cold by now. She took a distracted sip anyway, still visibly tense.

Lena stayed beside her a second longer before speaking again, quieter this time. “Did you apologize to her?”

Dana blinked. Actually blinked. Caught completely off guard by the question. “What?”

“Did you apologize?”

Dana opened her mouth automatically, ready to answer— Then stopped. Because suddenly she realized something awful.

No.

She hadn’t. Not really. She had explained. Defended it. Argued about why they did it. But apologize?

No.

The realization settled visibly across her face. “Oh.” Lena watched her carefully, not unkindly. Dana looked back down at the counter slowly, almost replaying every conversation in her head.

“I…” She frowned slightly. “I didn’t even think about it.”

“Because you thought you were protecting her.”

Dana nodded faintly. “Yeah.”

And that was true. Every decision she made after the attack had come from panic and fear and protectiveness. From seeing someone she loved get hurt and immediately wanting to fix it, defend her, do something. She’d been so focused on protecting you that she never stopped to think about how deeply you might feel betrayed by it.

Lena gave her a small, understanding look. “You can have good intentions and still hurt someone.” Dana sighed quietly, rubbing at her temple. “She looked at me like I was a stranger.”

“That’s because right now she doesn’t really know what to do with you.”That hurt more than

Dana expected. Lena let the silence sit for a second before nudging her gently with her shoulder. “Maybe apologizing would be a good start.”

Dana looked uncertain for the first time in a long while. “You think she’ll even listen to me?”

“I think,” Lena said carefully, “that she deserves to hear it.”

Not excuses. Not explanations. Just that. An apology. Dana looked back toward the hallway again, thoughtful now, quieter than before. And for the first time since the incident, she realized maybe protecting someone also meant respecting when they said no.

———————

The night settled in slowly after that. Not chaotic. Not calm either. Just the usual rhythm of the ER—stretchers moving through hallways, monitors beeping somewhere in the distance, tired conversations passing between nurses stations and trauma rooms under the harsh fluorescent lights.

You kept yourself busy on purpose. It was easier that way. Easier not to think when your hands were occupied, when someone needed something from you every five minutes.

You were crouched beside a teenage boy sitting on one of the hallway beds, his volleyball knee pads still half hanging around his legs while he tried—and failed—not to look embarrassed.

“I swear it looked worse in front of the team,” he muttered while you adjusted the wrap around his ankle carefully.

You glanced up briefly. “Oh yeah? Dramatic fall?”

He sighed dramatically. “Like… movie-level dramatic.”

That got the smallest smile out of you. “Well,” you said while securing the bandage properly,

“good news is your ankle survived the performance.”

The boy grinned slightly at that, relaxing a little as you finished checking the swelling. “Keep weight off it for a few days, ice regularly, and if you ignore my advice and go back to volleyball tomorrow, at least try not to fall in front of an audience this time.”

“Can’t promise that.”

“Of course not.” Your voice stayed gentle. Easy. Professional. You stood back up slowly, writing a last note onto his chart when movement at the end of the hallway caught your attention.

The day shift. Finally leaving. A cluster of tired doctors and nurses crossing toward the exit with bags over their shoulders, jackets half on, conversations quieter now after the long day.

Your eyes moved over them automatically, then stopped.

Dana.

She was walking with Perlah at first, one hand holding her bag strap against her shoulder, until she looked up. And saw you. For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The hallway noise faded strangely around the moment. Dana slowed just slightly. You could see it immediately in her face—that hesitation, like she was thinking about coming over, about saying something. Maybe apologizing. Maybe trying again. But you were still too tired for another conversation. Too raw.

So after only a second longer, you looked away first and turned back toward the teenage patient beside you. “Alright,” you said quietly, focusing back on the chart in your hands.

“You’re good to go.”

Behind you, you heard the automatic doors open. Then close. And when you glanced back again a moment later, Dana was gone.

A little later, you made your way back toward the nurses station, the chart from the volleyball patient tucked against your chest while you scanned the large patient board ahead, already looking for where you were needed next.

The ER lights reflected pale against the screens and polished floor, the atmosphere calmer now that the evening rush had passed. Nurses moved around with quieter steps, phones ringing less often, conversations softer from exhaustion.

You slid the chart into the correct tray without really paying attention. Then someone stepped beside you. Close enough that you recognized him before even looking.

Abbot.

You felt it immediately in the shift of your posture, in the way your shoulders subtly stiffened before you forced yourself to relax again. He placed his own chart down beside yours, glancing briefly toward the patient board.

“You know,” he said casually while typing something into the computer, “most people say hello before entering their silent revenge era.”

Nothing. You kept your eyes on the board. Room twelve needed reassessment. Trauma one was waiting on scans. Psych consult still pending.

You reached for another chart. Abbot glanced sideways at you. Usually, by now, you would’ve answered. Something sarcastic. Sharp. Probably in French just to irritate him.

Usually, he’d already be halfway through another remark and you’d both be standing here pretending not to enjoy the argument.

But tonight, nothing. You didn’t even look annoyed. Just distant. Professional. “Still ignoring me?” he tried again, lighter this time.

You finally spoke, but only because you needed information. “Did room seven already get their bloodwork back?”

The question caught him off guard for half a second. “…Yes.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

And that was it. No eye roll. No biting response. Just work. Abbot watched you for another moment while you checked the panel again, and for the first time since he’d met you, he realized something uncomfortable: He hated this.

Not the anger. Not even the shouting from the other night. This. This cold distance. Because when you fought with him, there had still been something alive in it. Something warm beneath the irritation, even when neither of you admitted it. Your arguments had become a rhythm, a strange language between the two of you.

Now that rhythm was gone. And in its place was this polite emptiness that made him feel strangely… shut out. Like a door had quietly closed somewhere without him noticing.

“You know,” he said again, trying one last time, “you’re significantly scarier when you’re calm.”

Still nothing. You grabbed another file from the counter. “If you need something medical-related, tell me,” you said evenly. “Otherwise I have patients waiting.”

Then you walked away. And Abbot stayed there for a second longer than necessary, staring after you with a tightness in his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

The silence between you barely had time to settle before the ER doors burst open. “Need a trauma team!”

The shout cut clean through the hallway. Both of you reacted instantly.

The charts you had just picked up hit the counter with a loud slap as you turned and ran toward the incoming stretcher, Abbot already moving beside you without hesitation. The

familiar switch happened automatically—whatever existed between you personally disappearing behind training, instinct, urgency.

Two paramedics pushed the stretcher through the doors fast, wheels rattling violently against the floor. Young girl. Maybe twelve. Blood running down the side of her forehead, one arm hanging at a wrong angle against the straps while she cried weakly in pain.

“She fell from a carousel at the county fair,” one of the paramedics explained quickly while keeping pace. “Around twenty feet, maybe a little more. Witnesses said the safety bar failed during movement.”

The girl whimpered sharply as the stretcher jolted slightly. “Vitals?” you asked immediately, already moving beside her.

“BP’s dropping slightly, ninety-eight over sixty. Tachy at one-thirty. Oxygen stable for now at ninety-four but she’s getting more confused during transport.”

“She lose consciousness?”

“Briefly at scene,” the paramedic answered. “Came back responsive but disoriented.

Complaining about abdominal pain and left arm pain.”

Possible internal bleeding. You exchanged a quick glance with Abbot. Professional. Focused.

“Any spinal precautions?”

“C-collar in place since extraction,” the second paramedic answered while adjusting one of the IV lines.

The girl let out another broken cry, trying weakly to move her arm. “Hey, hey—don’t move for me, okay?” you said immediately, leaning slightly closer so she could focus on your voice. “You’re safe now. We’re taking care of you.”

Her eyes found yours briefly through the panic. “Hurts…” she whispered.

“I know,” you answered softly while keeping pace beside the stretcher. “I know.” Ahead of you, Lena looked up from the nurses station the second she saw the team rushing in. “Trauma six!” she called immediately. “Move, move!”

Everything accelerated at once. Nurses splitting off toward the room. Doors opening. Gloves snapping into place.

You reached for the side rail of the stretcher automatically as everyone turned the corner toward Trauma Six together, fluorescent lights flashing rapidly overhead while the girl’s frightened breathing mixed with the fast rhythm of the monitor beside her.

And without thinking, you and Abbot moved perfectly in sync beside her. The second the stretcher crossed into Trauma Six, the room exploded into movement.

“On my count,” Abbot ordered quickly, already pulling gloves on. “One, two, three—move.”

The team transferred the girl carefully from the EMS stretcher onto the trauma bed while keeping her cervical spine stable. She cried out weakly the moment her body shifted.

“Easy, easy,” you murmured, immediately moving to her side again. “You’re okay.” Not okay. But alive. And that was enough for now.

The monitor leads were attached within seconds, the room instantly filling with the rapid beeping of her heart rate.

One-thirty-four. Still climbing. You grabbed the trauma shears and cut through the remains of her sweatshirt carefully while another nurse removed her shoes and secured the IV lines the paramedics had started.

“BP dropping,” Lena called from the monitor. “Ninety over fifty-eight.”

“Let’s move faster,” Abbot answered immediately. The girl winced sharply when you pressed lightly against her abdomen. “There,” she gasped. “It hurts there—”

Right upper quadrant. You exchanged a quick glance with Abbot. Internal bleed was moving higher on the list.

“Focused assessment first,” he said. You nodded once and immediately started the primary trauma survey together.

“Airway intact,” you said quickly while checking her responsiveness. “She’s talking.”

“Breathing?” Abbot asked. You pulled the stethoscope from around your neck and moved fast, listening to both lungs carefully despite the noise around you.

“Breath sounds present bilaterally,” you answered. “Slightly weaker left side but still there.”

Abbot was already examining her chest and ribs with quick practiced hands.

“No obvious flail chest.” The girl cried again when he pressed lower along her side. “Possible rib fractures,” he muttered.

“Pulse weak and thready,” you added while checking her wrist. “She’s cold.”

Shock. Maybe hemorrhagic. You moved lower immediately, checking her pelvis carefully.

The second your hands applied gentle pressure she screamed. You stopped instantly.

“Pelvic instability,” you said sharply. Abbot looked up immediately. “Alright. Possible pelvic fracture. Get blood ready now.” The room moved even faster. A nurse rushed toward the blood fridge while Lena already prepared additional IV access.

“Doctor, FAST exam,” Abbot said. You were already grabbing the ultrasound. The portable machine rolled beside the bed as you squeezed gel onto the probe with slightly shaking fingers—not panic, just adrenaline.

Focus. The girl was starting to drift now, eyelids heavier. “Hey,” you called immediately while placing the probe against her abdomen. “Stay with me. What’s your name?”

“…Emily…”

“Good. Hi Emily, I’m Dr. Y/L/N. You stay awake for me, okay?” You moved the probe carefully across her abdomen, eyes locked on the screen.

Darkness pooled where it shouldn’t. Free fluid. Your stomach tightened instantly. “There’s fluid,” you said sharply. “Positive FAST.” Internal bleeding confirmed. Abbot swore quietly under his breath. “Call surgery.”

“Already paging them,” Lena answered. The monitor suddenly beeped faster. Heart rate one-forty-two. Blood pressure lower again. Emily groaned weakly, her breathing becoming more uneven.

“She’s crashing,” you said.

“Hang blood now,” Abbot ordered. The nurse connected the transfusion while you moved back toward Emily’s head, checking her pupils quickly.

“One pupil slightly slower,” you muttered. Possible concussion. Maybe worse.

“Emily,” you called again, louder now. “Look at me.” Her eyes fluttered open briefly.

“Good,” you encouraged immediately. “That’s good.”

Abbot moved beside you again, both of you working shoulder to shoulder automatically despite everything else between you.

“Pressure’s eighty-four systolic now,” Lena warned.

“She needs OR immediately.” The trauma surgeon finally entered the room at the same moment, already gloving up while Abbot gave the report rapidly.

“Sixteen-year-old female, fall approximately twenty feet from carnival ride. Positive FAST, unstable pelvis, hypotensive despite fluids, likely intra-abdominal hemorrhage.”

The surgeon looked at the monitor once. “We’re taking her up now.” The room moved again instantly. More hands. More movement. Controlled urgency everywhere.

You stayed near Emily while the bed began rolling toward surgery, one hand briefly

squeezing hers when she looked at you again through the fear and pain. “You’re doing really good,” you told her softly. The team disappeared through the trauma doors with her.

And just like that, the room fell quiet again. Not silent. Trauma rooms were never really silent.

The adrenaline slowly loosened its grip from your muscles as the remaining nurses started cleaning around the room, throwing away bloody gauze and opening fresh supply packs for the next emergency that would inevitably come.

You pulled your gloves off slowly, tossing them into the biohazard bin before grabbing a towel to wipe the ultrasound gel from your hands and forearms.

Across the room, Abbot watched you. You could feel it without looking. The way his attention lingered too long now. The way he almost seemed hesitant for once.

You ignored it. You grabbed the chart from the counter near the door, already mentally moving on to the next patient waiting somewhere in the ER.

Work. Focus on work. That was easier. You stepped out of Trauma Six and immediately reached for the sanitizer dispenser mounted beside the door, rubbing the cold gel between your hands while scanning the patient board down the hallway.

Footsteps followed behind you. Of course they did.

“Hey,” You kept walking. Fast enough to avoid conversation. Slow enough not to look childish.

“Hey, seriously.” Abbot caught up beside you near the nurses station, still holding Emily’s chart in one hand. “She’s gonna be okay,” he said first, maybe because it was the safest thing he could start with.

“That’s good.” Your answer came automatically. Short. Professional. You reached for another patient file from the counter.

Abbot stayed there beside you anyway. “You handled that well.” You flipped open the chart without reacting.

“Room fourteen still waiting on labs?” you asked Lena instead. Lena looked between both of you for half a second before answering carefully.

“Uh… yeah.” You nodded once.

“I’ll go check on them.”

Then you turned immediately. But Abbot followed again. Persistent this time. And honestly, that irritated you more than the teasing ever had.

“Can you stop walking away every time I talk to you?” he asked quietly. You finally stopped.

Not because you wanted to. Because you were getting tired of being followed.

You turned toward him slowly in the middle of the hallway, exhaustion visible all over your face now beneath the professionalism you kept trying to wear like armor.

“I’m working,” you said evenly.

“So am I.”

“Great.” You started to move again.

“Y/N—”

“What?” you snapped finally, turning back sharply enough that a nearby nurse instantly pretended not to listen. Abbot paused briefly, maybe surprised you had finally reacted at all.

And somehow that made the tension worse. Because for the first time tonight, there was emotion in your voice again.

Abbot looked at you strangely. Not annoyed. Not amused. Not defensive.

Just… affected.

And that alone threw you off more than you wanted to admit. You had seen him irritated a hundred times. Sarcastic, exhausted, arrogant, sharp-edged. You knew the look he gave difficult patients, difficult interns, difficult coworkers.

But this? This was different.

There was something unsettled in his face now, something quieter that you couldn’t fully place, and for one dangerous second it made your anger falter. Because he almost looked hurt.

Your chest tightened immediately at the thought, like your own brain rejected it the second it appeared.

No. You crossed your arms tighter against yourself instead, forcing distance back into your posture.

But your eyes betrayed you. You knew they did. Too full. Too tired. There was anger there still, yes.

But underneath it, sadness. And disappointment most of all. Disappointment from Dana had already hurt enough. But this… this felt different somehow, and that frustrated you more than anything because you couldn’t explain why. You weren’t supposed to care this much about what he thought. About what he did.

You spent half your time arguing with him. You were supposed to hate him. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. So why did this feel so personal?

Abbot looked at you for another second, his voice quieter when he finally spoke. “Can we talk?” Not teasing this time. Not provoking. Just honest. And somehow that almost made it worse.

Your expression flickered slightly despite yourself, hesitation slipping through the cracks for only a second before you shut it down again.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” The words came out less steady than you wanted. You hated that. You immediately looked away before he could notice, tightening your grip on the chart still in your hands.

Then you turned and walked off down the hallway before he could answer. Leaving him standing there alone beside the nurses station, watching you disappear again.

———————

By six in the morning, the ER had fallen into that strange in-between state where exhaustion settled over everything like fog. Not quiet. Never quiet. But slower.

The waiting room had thinned out, monitors beeped softer in half-dark rooms, and the nurses station was now mostly fueled by reheated coffee and pure stubbornness. You were in room nine with an elderly woman who had slipped in her kitchen sometime around midnight and stubbornly waited three hours before calling an ambulance because, according to her, “it didn’t seem dramatic enough yet.”

Thankfully, nothing appeared broken. Mostly bruising, a mild wrist sprain, and a bruised hip that would probably turn every shade of purple by morning.

“You’re very lucky,” you told her gently while writing the last notes onto her chart. “At your age, falls like this can become serious really fast.”

The woman sniffed softly. “At my age,” she answered, “everything becomes serious fast.”

That earned the smallest tired smile from you. “Fair enough.”

You finished adjusting the wrap around her wrist carefully before continuing. “A nurse is going to bring you pain medication soon, and we’ll make sure someone helps organize follow-up care before discharge, okay?”

The woman nodded gratefully. “You’re very kind, doctor.”

You gave her a small polite smile and lowered your eyes back to the chart for one last note.

Then movement outside the room caught your attention through the partially open curtain.

A familiar silhouette crossing the hallway. You frowned slightly. Robby. You glanced automatically toward the clock on the wall. 6:07 AM. Too early for day shift.

Your brows pulled together slightly as you watched him continue down the hallway carrying two coffee cups and a folded jacket over one arm like he had just arrived. Weird.

You quickly finished signing the chart before clipping it back into place. “Alright,” you told the woman softly while stepping back from the bed. “Try not to get up alone for now, okay?”

“Oh, trust me,” she muttered dramatically, “I’ve learned my lesson.” You let out a small breath that almost counted as a laugh. “A nurse will bring your medication in a minute.”

Then you stepped out into the hallway, your curiosity already getting the better of your exhaustion as your eyes searched for Robby again beneath the pale fluorescent lights of the nearly-ending shift.

You spotted him near the nurses station, leaning slightly over the counter while flipping through a few patient charts with one hand, one untouched coffee cup resting beside him.

Definitely too early.

You walked over quietly, sliding the elderly woman’s chart back into its slot beside him.

“You know day shift doesn’t start for another hour, right?”

Robby glanced sideways at you, and for a second a faint smile appeared. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“You lost a bet or something?” That earned a soft huff of amusement from him, but it faded quickly. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted simply. “Didn’t really know what to do with myself.”

You frowned slightly at that. Now that you were closer, something felt… off. Subtle. But there.

Robby always carried himself lightly, easygoing even during chaos, but right now he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with work. His hair was messier than usual, jaw slightly tense, and his eyes…slightly red.

Like he either hadn’t slept at all or had spent part of the night trying very hard not to think about something. You studied him for a second longer. “Are you okay?” The question came softer than you intended.

Robby’s fingers paused briefly against the chart in his hands. Then, almost immediately, he deflected.

“And you ? You okay with Dana and Abbot?”

Smooth. Too smooth. You narrowed your eyes slightly. “That’s not what I asked.”

“And you didn’t answer my question either.” You let out a quiet breath through your nose and leaned back lightly against the counter beside him.

“No,” you admitted finally. “Not really.” Robby nodded slowly like he had expected that answer.

“They did this for you, you know.” You looked away toward the hallway immediately.

“That doesn’t give them the right to decide things for me.”

“I know.” Robby stayed quiet for a moment, eyes lowered toward the chart in his hands like he was debating how much he should say. Then he exhaled softly. “It’s really affecting Dana.”

Your expression tightened almost immediately.

You looked away toward the hallway again, crossing your arms loosely against yourself. “She should’ve thought about that before.” Robby nodded slightly. “She knows.”

That answer caught you off guard more than you expected. Not defensive. Not argumentative. Just honest. You stayed silent.

Robby rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck before continuing. “I’ve known Dana a long time,” he said quietly. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this upset over someone being angry at her.”

You swallowed slightly but kept your face carefully neutral. “She’ll survive.”

“She’s scared you won’t forgive her.” That landed harder than it should have. You frowned faintly, eyes dropping to the floor tiles for a second. “I didn’t ask her to protect me.”

Robby glanced sideways at you carefully. “She realized too late that she never actually apologized.”

That made your eyes flicker slightly. “…What?”

“She told herself she was helping you,” he explained softly. “So in her head, she kept trying to justify it instead of just saying sorry.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Because part of you hated how much hearing that affected you. Robby studied your face quietly for a second before speaking again.

“And Abbot—” Your expression closed slightly at the name. “He’s handling this badly,”

Robby admitted immediately. “Honestly? Terribly.”

That almost pulled a tired laugh out of you. Almost. “But he wasn’t trying to go against you just to control things,” Robby continued. “When he pushed that guy off you, he got hit too.”

You looked up slightly. Robby motioned vaguely toward his own ribs. “The guy caught him hard in the side before security got there. Bruised him pretty badly.”

“He filed the complaint under himself too,” Robby added quietly. “Not just for you.”

You frowned faintly. “What do you mean?”

“He used the fact that he got assaulted during intervention so the hospital could move forward without forcing you to be the one pressing charges alone.”

You stayed silent for a second. Because that complicated things again. Of course it did.

Robby glanced sideways at you carefully.

“He thought he was protecting you from having to carry all of it yourself.”

Your throat tightened slightly. You looked away again, exhaustedness settling heavier onto your shoulders now.

“But Dana’s not sleeping,” Robby added after a moment. “And Abbot came to me yesterday asking if he should transfer off nights.”

Your brows pulled together immediately. “…What?”

“He thought maybe you’d feel more comfortable if he wasn’t around.”

You stared at Robby for a second, genuinely unable to answer. Because somehow that hurt in a completely different way.

Abbot wanted to leave nights? That didn’t make sense.

Everyone knew he loved night shift. The chaos, the autonomy, the strange family atmosphere that formed between exhausted staff surviving impossible hours together. He complained constantly, sure—but he belonged there. Everybody knew it. The night team was his team.

And somehow the idea that he had actually considered leaving it, Because of you made something twist painfully in your chest. You looked away quickly, like that might stop the thought from settling too deeply.

“That’s stupid,” you muttered quietly. But the words lacked conviction. Robby watched you carefully for a moment, clearly noticing the shift in your expression. “He wasn’t trying to manipulate you,” he said softly. “He genuinely thought giving you space might make things easier.”

You stayed silent. Because suddenly the anger didn’t feel as simple anymore. Still real. Still justified. But heavier now. Messier. You rubbed tiredly at your forehead, exhaustion catching up to you all over again.

“I don’t know what to do with any of this,” you admitted quietly. And it was probably the most honest thing you had said in days. Robby’s expression softened slightly.

“You don’t have to decide tonight.” The overhead speakers crackled somewhere down the hallway, announcing a consult request neither of you paid attention to.

Robby grabbed the untouched coffee cup beside him and finally pushed himself away from the counter. “Just…” He hesitated briefly before continuing. “Think about it.”

You looked up at him again. “They messed up,” he admitted. “Both of them. But they care about you more than they handled this correctly.”

Your throat tightened slightly at that. Robby gave you one last small look before starting to walk backward down the hallway. “And maybe,” he added gently, “when you’re ready… forgive them a little.”

Then he turned and disappeared further into the ER, leaving you alone beside the nurses station with a thousand thoughts suddenly crashing together far too loudly in your head.

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