It’s not like your little girl doesn’t cling to you at all, but when Daddy is home, then Daddy has to do everything for her; bathing? Daddy. Thirsty? Daddy. Hungry? Daddy. Bedtime story? Daddy, please!

  And Michael Robinavitch folds the second his precious daughter opens her mouth.

  It irritates you, frustrates you beyond belief, not your daughter, though, god no, you would kill for her. Still, she is always around when you want to take a few seconds to cuddle with your husband, she shows up at the most inconvenient moment when you are sneaking your hands under Robby’s shirt.

  Take last week, for example. You and your daughter were coloring in her book on the coffee table in the living room when you heard the keys jiggle from the other side of the door, knowing your husband was just a second away from entering the house.

  “Hey, girls!” 

  “Daddy!” She shrieks and drops her pencils on the table, nearly tripping over the cushion she was sitting on as she bolts toward Robby, “Daddy, hi!”

  “Princess,” he groans as he picks her up, kissing her cheek as she wraps her little arms around his neck, “How are you? Were you good for mommy?”

  “Hey, baby,” you stand up and walk up to them, kissing Robby softly when he leans down to capture your lips with his. “How was your day?”

  “Exhausting,” he sighs, dropping his forehead on yours before smiling and looking at his daughter, who just nuzzles his neck and pouts, “But it’s so much better now that I’ve got my girls with me.”

  “I drew something for you!” Your daughter wiggles her way out of Robby’s arms, rushing to her room to grab something, leaving the two of you alone.

  You pull Robby in for a deep kiss, your hands going to his cheeks as he kisses you back just as eagerly, his hands going to your waist to pull you closer. But the tension is broken just as quickly as it was built when your little girl runs back outside with two large drawings in her hands.

  “Look, daddy, look!”

  You break away in haste, putting your hands on your hips as you throw your head back, letting out a loud sigh as your daughter jogs toward you in the living room, waving the papers as she waits for Robby to pick her up.

  “What did you draw, princess?” He asks, dropping his backpack on the floor before he scoops her up in his arms, moving to sit on the couch to look at what she has drawn for him, leaving you breathless and needy.

  The second time was when you thought Robby had put her to sleep successfully. You both thought she was dreaming of seven kingdoms and fairies, so without wasting a second, you were straddling him with your lips chasing his and his hands roaming your body.

  Unfortunately, you were wrong.

  “Daddy!”

  Robby pushed you off him, making sure you were okay with a quick glance as you caught yourself on your elbows on the cushions, chest heaving and lips swollen as you stared at your daughter with wide eyes.

  “What happened, sweetheart?” Robby cleared his throat, shifting on his spot to hide the evidence of his arousal as he ran a hand over his daughter’s head, “Why are you up?”

  “You didn’t read this part, it is the most exciting part of the story!” She pouted, the spitting image of Robby that made you melt right there, but you nearly choked on your saliva when she turned her face to you, pouting even harder when she noticed what state you were in, “Mommy, are you okay?”

  “Yes, little birdie, come on up here! Daddy will read to both of us, yeah?” You collected her in your arms, moving so your back was against Robby’s chest as he reached for his readers before he began.

  The next time you were sure she was busy, you knew she was busy. That was why you chose that moment to slip inside the shower with your husband, clothes soaked and pressed up against the wall.

  Your daughter was watching her favorite cartoon, eyes practically glued to the TV while she ate her fruit. That was the routine, she wouldn’t pay attention to any distractions when this specific cartoon was on, she never did.

  So you seized the moment, bathroom door locked, and lips collided under the steaming water while Robby tried to get your pants off without having you both slip down.

  But the spell was broken as soon as he got his hands on your wet thighs, ready to haul you off the ground. You knew it would be reckless, but you had no choice; you needed your husband, and that seemed the right moment to do something about it.

  “Daddy?” A confused voice made you freeze under the hot shower, eyes terrifyingly wide and no longer dark with arousal, “Mommy?”

  You somehow managed to take all of your clothes off and put on the clothes Robby had taken with him to the shower to wear after he cleaned himself. With a racing heart, you opened the door only to find your daughter looking around the room, equally terrified as if you had left her.

  “Baby, what happened?” You crouched down next to her, gently rubbing a hand down her back as she shrugged, “I thought you were watching your favorite cartoon!”

  “I was!” The kid nodded and wrapped her arms around your neck, waiting to be picked up. You did as she asked, holding her on your forearm while walking back into the living room, hissing when water droplets fell over your shirt, “Until I couldn’t hear anything! It was too… quiet? Why is your hair wet? I thought Daddy was taking a shower!”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, he is! I just spilled something on my hair and had to do a quick rinse.” You tried to act like nothing happened, and nothing did, but it was apparently enough for your daughter’s genius brain to run ten different scenarios. 

  “Oh, okay— daddy! Can you watch cartoons with us, please?” Robby managed to catch her in time when she threw herself towards him, looking up at him with the same brown eyes he possessed.

  “Yes, princess, I can,” he kissed her head, sitting back down on the couch before he grabbed your hand and pulled you down on the cushions gently, “Let’s see what you got there.”

  He gave you an apologetic look when the kid settled against his chest, bringing your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles, humming when you kissed his shoulder in return, and laid your head there.

  Tonight, though, there is no way you are letting your little angel get in the middle of your plans.

  “What’s going on?” Robby walks out of his study, smiling when he finds you and his daughter packing a bunch of clothes and dolls, “Going on a trip without me?”

  “A sleepover!” She grins, jogging back to her dolls to pick another one from them before she scrunches her face and runs to hug Robby’s legs, “I won’t go on a trip without you, daddy…”

  “I know, baby,” he kneels in front of her, cupping her little face in his hands before he pecks her chubby cheek a few times until she is giggling and trying to push him away, “I’m just messing with you! Now, where are you going to have a sleepover?”

  “At Aunt Dana’s! Mommy called her and asked if her daughter wanted to play, and she said yes!”

  “How exciting!” He picks her up, slowly walking to you when you zip up her bag, smirking when you side eye him, knowing exactly what he is thinking about, “A sleepover? You? Since when?”

  “Since today,” you hiss at him, picking up the brush from your daughter’s vanity with a few hair clips to do her hair, taking her from Robby before sitting her down on the chair in front of the mirror, watching as she kicks her feet in excitement, “It’s Dana and I trust her, so I thought why not!”

  “Aha, okay,” he crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you when he tilts his head down, trying to hide the amusement in his tone, “And what are we going to do without our princess around?”

  “Don’t have fun without me!” 

  “Oh, nothing is fun when you’re not around, babygirl.” You kiss the crown of her head, gently untangling the strands before you glance at Robby, “Us? Boring adult stuff, reading a book, cooking dinner, maybe watching a sad, boring movie.”

  “It doesn’t sound fun,” your daughter beams when you are done with her hair, and you watch as she gasps and bolts out of the room when she hears the sound of the doorbell.

  You know Robby wants to say something cheeky, so you pin him to his spot with a glare but it only spurs him on, the smirk turning into a cocky grin as he throws his hands up in the air, grabbing the pink bag on the floor to follow you out of the bedroom.

  “Aunt Dana!” 

  “Hi, thank you for picking her up.” You hug Dana tightly, making sure she knows how much you appreciate her stepping up to have your little girl over for the night, “I’m sure they’re going to have so much fun.”

  “They will. Don’t worry about anything, okay? Just worry about your man,” she winks at you, spotting Robby approaching the door with his daughter’s bag in hand, “Hey, Robby.”

  “Hi, thank you for taking care of her, we owe you one,” he hands Dana the bag before he crouches down in front of the kid, hugging her one last time, “Be good for Aunt Dana, yeah?”

  “I’m always good, Daddy!” She hugs him back, “I’ll call you when I’m not here so you won’t miss me a lot.”

  “Okay, baby,” he chuckles, smooching her cheek before he sends her off to you, watching as you tickle her sides and kiss her head gently.

  “See you tomorrow, little birdie.”

  “See you, mommy!” 

  You both watch as Dana takes her hand and waves at you, walking into the elevator while she listens to your daughter’s ramblings about her day. 

  You sigh with relief, body already burning with unresolved sexual frustration, as you shut the door before turning around, finding Robby standing there with a curious smile, waiting for you to say something.

  You don’t. Instead, you fist his t-shirt in your hands, yanking him down to meet your lips halfway, stumbling back to the nearest wall as he struggles to keep his weight up from crushing you.

  You need him to crush you, you need to feel him all over you, on top of you, under you, in any position you can get him. 

  He braces himself by one palm on the wall and the other on your hip, lips tangled in a dance of dominance that has your mind swirling in desire. He tastes like his evening coffee and brownies you and your daughter made, a bittersweet flavor that is enough to make you moan wantonly.

  “What’s going on, love?” He asks breathlessly, his forehead resting on yours, as the hand on the wall comes down to tilt up your head by grabbing your neck.

  “It’s Mommy’s playtime with Daddy now.” Your hand goes to the nape of his neck, craning your neck to crash your lips into his once more, finally letting the noises you have been holding back for weeks pour out of you.

  He groans back in reply, teeth clashing and tongues meeting in a battle of dominance which he wins immediately, pulling out a desperate whine from your throat.

  He grabs the back of your thighs, large palms spread against the flesh as he picks you up like you weigh nothing, pressing himself to you as he holds you up against the wall with ease, making home between your legs.

  You can feel his hardened length resting over your clothed sex, ready to be released and taken care of, and the idea excites you that he seems to be just as frustrated as you have been.

  “You’re crazy,” he mumbles against your lips, carrying you to bed slowly while your lips travel down to his jaw, pressing kisses all over his beard, going lower with each nibble until you reach his neck and he digs his nails into your thighs as a warning, fearing he might drop you while making his way to the bedroom with you in hus arms, “Sending our daughter just so you can have your way with me? Real fucking crazy, wife.”

  “Your mouth’s saying one thing,” you grind yourself down as best as possible, biting your lips as the bulge in his sweats rubs on the wet spot, “Your dick is saying another.”

  “Keep talking and I’ll show you—“

  You cut him off as soon as he lowers you on the bed, pushing him on his back on the mattress roughly with a hand on his chest, straddling him swiftly while he is in shock.

  “No,” you place your heat right on top of the tent in his pants, hands bracing against his chest to keep him pinned down, “My turn to show you what happens when you don’t fuck me fast enough when our daughter isn’t paying attention.”

  “What my princess wants, she gets—“

  “Neglecting the queen has never been in the benefits of the kingdom, Michael,” you pull his shirt off, raking your nails on his exposed skin, caressing his pecs and soft grey hair dusting his chest, “I will fuck you tonight cause it seems you have forgotten how to do it.”

  “Oh, so bitter,” he laughs, looking at you with a smug and playful expression, “Jealous of your own daughter? Baby, don’t be like that—fuck!”

  You pull on his nipple, pinching the bud between your thumb and pointer finger. Now it is your time to get smug and move lower on his thighs, pulling his sweats down in one motion, watching as his cock bounces free.

  “No underwear? Were you planning to get fucked, Daddy?” You ask, cocking your head to the side as you bring your palm to your mouth, spitting on it before grabbing a hold of his twitching member and stroking him.

  “Fuck, that’s my line,” he throws his head back, hands moving to reach for you but you swat them away, tightening your hold around his dick as you go faster, watching how a few droplets of precum ooze out of the red tip.

  “I don’t care,” you shake your head, stepping out of your pants and underwear quickly before moving back to crawl into Robby’s lap, “Not tonight at least.”

  He doesn’t reply, he can’t when you are already lining him up with your soaked entrance, sitting down on him as he breaches past your walls, splitting you on his cock without even trying.

  You shut your eyes, feeling so full and stuffed with how his thick cock opens up your cunt for him, sitting deep inside your core like he belongs there. He does.

  You keep yourself up by your hands on his belly, beginning to circle your hips, moving them slowly and steadily. Finally, you’ve got him inside you, finally, you can come without any interruptions.

  He seems to have the exact same thought with how fast his hands move to hold on your waist, lips parted, and eyes blown with lust as he helps you grind down on him. Robby enjoys how your weight pins him down; he can easily overpower you, but he has needed this for too long not to enjoy the sight of you taking what you want from him.

  You ride him vigorously, nails digging into his skin and thighs aching from the stretch around his wide hip bones while bouncing on him with your eyes glued to his flushed face.

  You have never seen a man so beautiful like him, so tantalizing that makes you turn into a feral woman, feisty and pathetic with how much desire he awakens in you — that’s why you have a child, maybe another won’t hurt.

  “C’mere—“ he groans, noticing how you got lost in your head before he grabs the back of your neck and tugs you down, laying you flat on top of him, “It’s daddy’s playtime again.”

  You can only wail out his name as you hide your face in the crook of his neck when he plants his feet on the ground, making sure his hips are secured on the edge of the bed before he starts thrusting into your puffy cunt with abandon.

  Fisting the sheets as hard as he is groping your ass, your eyes roll to the back of your skull when one of his hands goes to your waist to keep you in place, hammering his cock in a pace that he knows makes you gush around him.

  And you do; you come with a choked moan, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave your teeth marks while your cunt spasms around him, waves of euphoria going straight to your core.

  He isn’t too far behind, his thighs tremble, balls tightening before he goes numb under you; head thrown back, deep throaty groans falling from his lips as his cock twitches inside you, spurting his cum deep into your cunt.

  Breathlessly, you start kissing a line from his neck to his throat, sucking a mark right over his Thyroid, high enough for the entire world to see. 

  You can feel the tension leaving your body as you bask in the warmth of Robby’s body, the thumping of his heart right under your ear as you both try to calm down from the shocks of your orgasms.

  “I hate you for not wanting to do quickies,” you say, running your hand through his sweaty hair, snickering when he playfully slaps your ass.

  “Not my style,” he shrugs, smiling down at you, hissing when you sit up with his soft cock still inside you — even when he is soft, you feel so full — and he caresses your bare stomach, “Although this wasn’t a romantic love making either.”

  “Just wanted to call you out for your hypocrisy, thank you for being self aware, daddy,” you pinch his arm playfully, “Can’t believe I sent her to her first sleepover just so I can fuck her dad, wow.”

  “You mean your husband,” he sits up with you still naked on top of him, chest flushed against yours, “Besides, kid’s gotta learn how to be independent.”

  “Right, at the ripe age of five,” you laugh, resting your head on his shoulder, “I mean, yeah? But.. I don’t know, dude, I know it’s Dana—“

  “Did you— what the fuck did you call me?” He pulls your head back by grabbing your neck, forcing you to look into his widened eyes and a shocked smile on his lips, “You’re in trouble, young lady.”

  He flips you over, making you squeal when he nudges you upper on the bed before crawling over you, holding himself up by his forearms next to your head.

  “You’re a fifty-something-year-old dude, I doubt you can get it up again.”

  “Fortunately I’m not like other dudes, wife,” he slowly inches lower, kissing a path from your chin to your stomach, “I might need some time to ‘get it up’ as you so rudely put it, but I’ve got a mouth and ambitions to keep you up all night.”

But that’s because it was more of a loud bang rather than a knock.

You sat up straight, blanket falling from your chest, exposing the thin tank top you had on. Your heart beat roared in your ears as you blinked away the sleep and tried to process the sound. 

BANG BANG BANG

You reached for your side table, pulling out the hand gun your ex had bought for you years ago. 

You steadily made your way to the front door, reminding yourself of the self defense steps he taught you.

Keep the lights off, no one knows your house better than you. You took a deep breath when you made it to the door, trying to calm yourself and slow your heart rate.

You glanced through the peep hole and your shoulders immediately relaxed. You let the breath you were holding out and put the safety back on your gun. You pulled the door open.

“Deran, is there some sort of bar emergency you need me for at three in the morning?” You said, waving the gun around dramatically. 

He looked up from the ground and frowned. Your demeanor immediately changed to one of concern. 

You stepped aside and he moved passed you, mumbling a thanks. 

He sniffed, wiping his eyes as he moved to your couch, “you gonna use that?” He nodded towards the gun. 

Your lips twitched as you softly placed it on the counter. You opened the fridge and grabbed him a beer. 

“I need a favor,” he said rather rushed as he took the beer from you. You stared at Deran Cody for a long moment. 

“That’s never good,” you replied, taking a seat across from him. 

“It’s not that bad,” he said after taking a sip. 

“You showed up at my apartment at three in the morning wearing sunglasses,” you tilted your head towards him. 

Deran pulled them off with a grimace, “okay, maybe it’s a little bad.”

You crossed your arms. “What happened?”

His eyes flicked around your tiny living room before finally blurting it out. “It’s Pope.”

Your stomach tightened immediately.

Even after all this time, hearing someone mention Pope Cody still felt like somebody grabbing your ribcage with both hands.

Andrew to you, but Pope to pretty much everybody else.

Your ex-boyfriend.

The man you’d spent years loving before everything between you became too heavy, too complicated, and too painful for you to survive.

You hadn’t seen him in almost eight months you’d realized. 

“What about him?” you asked carefully.

Deran scrubbed a hand down his face, “he’s doing bad.”

You frowned slightly, “bad how?”

“He barely leaves the house. He doesn’t sleep. He just sits there staring at walls half the time,” Deran sighed harshly, “J keeps trying to get him involved in jobs, but he won’t touch anything. Or when he does he’s totally reckless. Craig’s about two days from punching him just to get him to react.”

That sounded painfully believable, “and this involves me because…?”

Deran looked at you like the answer was obvious, “because he’d do anything you asked.”

You laughed once softly, humorless, hiding the pain you felt, “not anymore.”

“Yeah,” Deran said immediately, like it was obvious, “still.”

Silence stretched for a second. You hated that part of you that hoped he was right, that wanted to test it out.

Deran leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, “I need help at the bar. I’m drowning over there and Craig’s useless unless the problem can be solved by throwing someone through drywall or snorting something up his nose.”

Your lips twitched, despite yourself, “and you think Andr— Pope working there will help?”

“I think he needs something,” Deran’s voice softened slightly, “and I think you’re the only person who can get him to listen.”

You looked away. Because that was the problem with Andrew. No matter how much time passed, some part of him still listened when you spoke.

And some part of you will still come running whenever he needs help.

“Okay,” you said softly, knowing you wouldn’t be able to let it go if you tried.

The relief in Deran’s face eased some of the uncertainties.

~

When the gates to the Cody driveway opened, it didn’t take long for your eyes to land on Andrew’s form. He was exactly where Deran said he would be, boxing in the driveway, hitting the bag like the world depended on it. He didn’t even look up as you put your car in park. 

You don’t say anything as you walk up to where he is standing. The closer you get, the slower he punches, until he’s holding the bag and trying to catch his breath.

”You shouldn’t have come,” he says flatly. 

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest loosely, as if to guard yourself from the conversation.

”Your brothers are worried about you,” you responded quietly. 

He laughed bitterly at that. 

You tried not to let your eyes roam his shirtless body. You hate to admit it but he looked good. Something about him all cut up and bulked was driving you a little wild, but you swore you would go into this conversation with a clear mind, and with one goal, to talk to him. 

You were always the only one that could get through to Andrew. When you had started dating a while after he got out of prison, it felt like you communicated in a way no one ever understood. Deran used to say that you could read each other's minds. 

And sometimes you thought he was right.

It all came crashing down after Baz’s death and losing Lena. You tried so hard to push through it all, but when Andrew told you he was moving back in with Smurf, you lost it.

It will always be her, you will never take priority. You couldn't do it anymore. 

He moved away from the punching bag, turning his body to fully face you. Your breath caught, but you tried not to show it. Although you knew nothing got past him.

He looked so tired.

Like somebody had sanded all the sharpness off him and left only exhaustion behind.

Your chest ached immediately, “Andrew,” you said softly, softer than anyone else ever says his name. Nobody called him Andrew anymore except you.

You saw the way it hit him as his shoulders loosened slightly.

“You been okay?” he asked automatically.

The question nearly killed you because he still sounded exactly the same. Like your wellbeing mattered more than his own breathing.

“I’m okay,” you gave him a sad smile.

He nodded once and then the silence fell again. It was a painfully familiar silence.

Finally you sighed, “Deran came to see me.”

Pope’s expression flattened immediately, like he was deciding the conversation was over, “don’t wanna talk about him.”

“Well, unfortunately, you’re going to,” you said gently, but firmly. 

His eyes flicked back to yours instantly at the tone. You used to be one of the only people on earth who talked to him like that, because you were never afraid of him. 

“He needs help at the bar,” you continued. “And apparently you’re driving everyone insane.”

Pope looked away toward the yard, “I’m fine.”

“You look terrible,” you said curtly. 

That actually made him almost smile, “you always did that,” he muttered.

“Did what?” You asked. 

“Say everything so bluntly,” he responded. 

You crossed your arms, not in defense but to guard yourself, “somebody has to.”

He stared at you for another long second before asking quietly. “Why’d you come?”

“Because I was worried about you,” you said softly. 

The look on his face hurt like he didn’t know how to respond to kindness anymore because it had been so long since he received it. 

Finally, he nodded once, “you want me to work at the bar?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. 

“You gonna be there?” He asked quickly. 

You blinked. “…What?”

“If I work there,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on you, “you gonna be working there still?”

Your heart stumbled stupidly hard.

He was really asking whether he’d have to stand near you again after spending months trying to forget you existed.

You should’ve said no, should’ve told Deran it was you or Pope at the bar. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll still be there.”

Pope looked down immediately, jaw tightening slightly. “Okay.”

You glanced at him suspiciously, “that easy?”

A quiet shrug, “you asked.”

Like it was really that simple. There it was. The same terrible soft spot he’d always had for you.

~

The bar was chaos, Deran had not exaggerated.

You knew, but Pope had assumed it was more of an overdramatization on his brother’s part. 

“This place is a nightmare,” you muttered.

Deran pointed at Pope immediately, “good. Tell him. He listens to you. And he’s OCD, so he can fix it.”

Pope leaned against the back counter watching you unpack liquor bottles. He hadn’t stopped watching you since you got there. Not in a creepy way, in a way you had grown so comfortable with you often missed it. 

“You hired idiots,” Pope told Deran flatly.

“Hey!” You said throwing your hands up in offense, making Deran laugh and Pope almost smile. 

“You see my problem then,” Deran responded with a grin. 

~

Over the next few weeks, things slowly started changing. The bar got cleaner, more organized, and even got a better health score. It was mostly because Pope scared everyone into competence without even trying. One look from him and cooks suddenly remembered how to do their jobs.

“You know everybody here is terrified of you, right?” you asked one night while wiping down the counter.

Pope glanced up from counting receipts,  “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s the scary part,” you said with a smile. 

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth again. You’d started noticing how often those appeared around you now.

He’d hand you drinks before you asked.

Walk you to your car without mentioning it.

Stand slightly too close behind you at the register.

And every single night, no matter how late it got— “Text me when you get home.” Like he physically couldn’t stop caring about you.

Tonight the bar was finally emptying out around one in the morning.

Deran had gone home to Adrian an hour ago and left you and Pope alone to clean and lock up… again.

You carried glasses toward the sink while Pope wiped tables nearby.

“You know,” you said carefully, “Deran’s really happy you’re here.”

Pope shrugged, “he needed help.”

“So you did it?” You asked as you wiped your hands.

Another shrug, “you asked me to.”

You set the glasses down slowly. “Andrew.”

His eyes lifted immediately. Always immediately when you said his name, like he had no time to waste.

“You can say no to me sometimes,” you said sweetly.

“No,” he said quietly.

The honesty of it knocked the breath from your lungs. Pope stared at the floor for a second before speaking again.

“I tried stayin’ away from you,” he shook his head. 

Your heart started pounding. “And?”

His jaw tightened slightly, “didn’t seem to work.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

He stepped closer slowly, “I think you were the only good thing I ever really had,” he admitted softly.

Emotion climbed painfully into your throat, “Andrew…”

“I know I messed it up,” he said honestly, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes finally met yours fully then. 

“S’okay,” you took a deep breath, “ I forgave you a long time ago.” 

He nodded, and you grabbed your keys, “don’t forget to lock the door.” You slipped out into the humid night, trying to keep yourself composed after you processed the apology you just received.

~

It happened on a slow Tuesday, the bar only had its regulars hanging off the stools. You were behind the bar picking at your nails while Pope finished mopping the floor for the third time because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to do it correctly.

“You’re doing too much,” you muttered, watching him.

“The floor’s sticky,” he said without looking up.

“It’s a bar,” you said. 

He shrugged like that explained everything. You smiled softly to yourself and went back to your nails.

A few quiet minutes passed before he spoke again, “I got a place.”

You looked up automatically. “What?”

“A house,” he clarified quietly, still focused on the floor, “over near the marina.”

Your brows furrowed immediately, “a house?” you repeated.

He nodded once. Something about the way he said it made your stomach tighten because Andrew Cody did not do change easily. That was something you knew all too well.

“And you’re… living there?” You asked again. 

Another nod.

“…Not at Smurf’s?” You really needed clarification on this. 

This finally made him glance up, “no.”

The answer was simple, but your genuine shock must’ve shown because Pope’s mouth twitched slightly.

“You’re surprised,” he stated. 

“Andrew,” you said carefully, not knowing that the way you said his name gave him chills, “you’ve lived under Smurf’s roof basically your whole life.”

His jaw shifted slightly at the mention of her.

You stared at him harder. “Wait.”

Pope went back to mopping which immediately told you there was absolutely something he wasn’t saying.

“What happened?” You asked.

“Nothin’ happened,” he said while focusing on the floor. 

“That’s a lie,” you quipped back, walking around the bar so that you were in front of him.

He shook his head in response. You gave him a look.

Pope sighed quietly through his nose, abandoning the mopping entirely before leaning against the table beside you. 

“We just…” he searched for the words awkwardly, “aren’t talkin’ much anymore.”

That nearly made you laugh in disbelief, “you and Smurf aren’t talking much?” you repeated.

His eyes dropped briefly, “it’s better this way,” he said it calmly, like there were no regrets in the decision. 

Your chest tightened unexpectedly at the honesty in his voice. You faced him slowly meeting his eyes that were already staring at you, “Andrew… why?”

He immediately looked away.

Your eyes widened slightly, ”oh my god.”

Pope frowned faintly. “What?”

“This is because of me?” It came out as a question, but it wasn’t. 

“No.” But he said it too fast.

You crossed your arms immediately. “Andrew.”

He rubbed the back of his neck roughly now, suddenly unable to look at you at all.

“Oh my god,” you repeated softer this time.

“It’s not just you,” he muttered, “Smurf kept…” he stopped himself, jaw tightening hard before starting over quieter, “she kept sayin’ stuff.”

You stepped closer carefully. “Andrew…”

“She kept actin’ like you leaving was good,” he said flatly now, emotion slipping through despite himself, “like things were better after.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, “and they weren’t.”

The room went quiet. You could physically feel how hard this conversation was for him.

“You moved out because she talked badly about me?” you asked softly.

Pope shrugged immediately, uncomfortable with the weight of it now that it was out loud, “it wasn’t just that.”

“But, yeah,” he admitted quietly.

He was standing in front of you telling you he chose something else, whether that be peace, or himself, or maybe it was you. 

“How do you feel about it?” you asked gently.

Pope looked down at the floor for a second like he genuinely had to think about it, and then with a deep inhale, “good.”

Your brows lifted slightly as a tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Feels… quiet,” he admitted softly, “at the new house.”

“No yelling. No people watchin’ me all the time,” his eyes met yours again, “I sleep better there.”

That one nearly broke your heart. You stepped closer without thinking, your hand sliding gently into his.

“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.

“You are?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you smiled sadly. “I think this might be the healthiest thing you’ve ever done.”

A rough little laugh escaped him at that, “probably.”

There was a beat of silence, and you squeezed his hand gently for letting it go. 

“You should come see it sometime,” he spewed. 

You gave him a soft smile in response. 

~

The first time you realized you were in trouble again was over something stupid.

It wasn’t one of the late-night conversations.

Or the way Pope kept instinctively touching the small of your back whenever he passed behind you.

Or even the way he looked at you now—like losing you once had physically altered him.

It was because some drunk asshole grabbed your wrist at the bar.

And before you could even react, Pope was there.

His hand wrapped carefully around your wrist above the man’s tight grip, easing the guy off you with a terrifying calm.

“She said no,” he said with a tight jaw. 

The guy laughed nervously. “Hey man, I was just—”

“You should leave.” That was it, the man practically stumbled over himself getting out of the bar.

Pope didn’t move again until the door shut behind him.

Then he looked down at your wrist, “you okay?”

Your chest hurt instantly. Because nobody had ever loved you the way Andrew Cody did. You must have stared at him too long because his brow furrowed slightly. 

“What?” He asked after not receiving a response. 

“Nothing,” you whispered quickly,  “it’s fine, I’m fine.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Because later that night, lying alone in your bed, you kept replaying the feeling of his hand around your wrist.

And somewhere around three in the morning, staring at your ceiling, the truth finally slipped through your defenses: you never actually stopped loving him.

~

The second time it hit you was the last.

You were sitting on the counter in the bar after close counting tips while Pope fixed one of the broken stools near the wall. His large hands worked carefully with the screwdriver, completely focused.

You found yourself staring again. God, it was embarrassing at this point.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he asked suddenly without looking up.

You nearly dropped the stack of bills in your hand.

“I’m not.” You answered too quickly. 

“You are,” he said simply. 

“I literally am not,” you doubled down, as if that would change it. 

He looked up and you saw that little almost-smile he only seemed capable of around you.

“You get this face,” he said quietly.

“What face?” You asked, again too quickly. 

“Like you’re thinkin’ too hard,” he said with a smirk. 

Your stomach flipped. You looked down at the money in your lap, trying to avoid his eyes, “you’re imagining things.”

Pope stood slowly, setting the screwdriver down before walking toward you. Every instinct in your body became hyperaware immediately.

He stopped between your knees.

Close. Too close. Not close enough. Your mind was swirling.

“You remember that apartment you had over on Ocean Drive?” he asked suddenly.

Your brows furrowed. “The terrible one with the leaking ceiling that you were always trying to fix?”

A soft huff of laughter left him. “Yeah.”

“It had a really good view,” you said nonchalantly, “what about it?”

“You used to fall asleep on the couch waitin’ for me,” you swore his eyes flicked to your lips as he said it. 

Your heart squeezed painfully.

Because you did. After jobs, fights, nights where Smurf dragged him away for god knows what. You used to try to wait up anyway.

“I remember,” you said with a soft smile.

Pope’s eyes dropped briefly before lifting back to yours. “Nobody ever waited up for me before you.”

There it was again. That unbearable honesty.

“And nobody has since,” he said softly, holding your gaze. 

Emotion climbed into your throat so fast it scared you and suddenly you understood why this whole thing felt so impossible to walk away from.

Andrew knew every ugly, complicated piece of you and loved you anyway. And somehow, despite everything he’d done and everything that happened between you— you loved every broken piece of him too.

The realization settled so deeply in your chest it almost made you dizzy.

Pope tilted his head slightly. “What?”

You blinked quickly, “nothing.”

But this time your voice cracked. His expression changed instantly, feeling concerned that he had upset you somehow.

He stepped even closer, hands settling lightly on your hips gently, like he always was with you,  “hey.”

You looked at him and that was your mistake. The second your eyes met his, you felt it completely. The years, the grief, the love. All of it, and God, you were so still in love with him. Tears burned unexpectedly in your eyes.

Pope looked genuinely alarmed. “Why’re you cryin’?”

You laughed shakily, wiping at your face. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, his eyes searching your face. 

“I hate you,” you said with a wet laugh.

“No you don’t,” he whispered. 

The quiet certainty in his voice destroyed you a little.Your hands grabbed lightly at the front of his shirt before you could stop yourself.

“I tried so hard to,” you whispered.

Pope went perfectly still.

“I tried to move on,” you admitted quietly. “I tried to be angry enough. I tried to hate you for choosing Smurf over me and for making me leave and for all of it but—” your voice broke completely. His hands tightened carefully against your hips. “But I still love you,” you finished softly.

Pope looked at you like the world had just stopped turning, “you still love me?” he repeated quietly.

You nodded once.

And suddenly he was kissing you. One hand was cradling your jaw while the other pulled you impossibly closer against him.

You melted immediately, the kiss felt desperate and needy and it was everything you craved for the time you had been without him. 

Because this was the thing you’d been missing for months. This was the only place you’d ever really felt safe.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of your breathing uneven, “I didn’t know how to stop loving you,” he admitted roughly

Your eyes closed, “me either.”

For a long moment neither of you moved.

“You should probably know,” Deran’s voice called suddenly from the office doorway, “I absolutely knew this was gonna happen.”

You both jumped apart violently.

Deran stood near the liquor shelves eating chips like he’d been there for hours.

“Oh my god,” you groaned.

“What?” Deran shrugged. “I’m happy for you guys. Sickened. But happy.”

Pope looked one second away from homicide.

Deran pointed between the two of you. “By the way, everybody already knows.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“You guys are far from subtle,” Deran grinned. “Also, you guys owe me because now I gotta pretend I didn’t see that.”

Pope glared at him. “Get out.”

Deran grinned around another chip. “Love wins,” he laughed all the way out of the bar.

Pope looked back at you a second later, expression softer than you’d ever seen it, “you stayin’ this time?”

You slid your arms around his neck gently.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I am.”

Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point. 

So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake. 

(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.) 

Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number. 

It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers. 

In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord. 

He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand. 

Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department. 

Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.

It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them. 

The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.

“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.

Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”

“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed. 

The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark? 

Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys. 

It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident. 

You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest. 

“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.

You press your lips together. 

Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.” 

It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.

He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up. 

Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you. 

Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you. 

Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)

“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”

“Does that make you the human I tasted?” 

You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”

Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.

The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.

“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”

“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon. 

“You don’t want to?” 

You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.” 

“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to. 

“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.” 

Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg. 

He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created. 

Instead, you answer for him. 

“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.” 

Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour? 

Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.” 

There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at. 

Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.) 

Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics. 

You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.” 

You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark. 

What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration? 

Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off. 

“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add. 

Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?” 

“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.” 

(Risqué insult, but it paid off.) 

“Do I look like I go to Pilates?” 

You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?” 

Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter. 

Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?” 

“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.

It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.

Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you. 

He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.” 

“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.” 

Jack manages to intercept you before you’ve even made it to your third iced coffee. 

You’re standing at the desk with a chart half-open in your hands, whispering to yourself as you read, because sometimes the information only becomes real if you say it under your breath in a running little stream of nonsense commentary. 

To be fair, this is not remotely out of the ordinary for you. 

At hour thirteen of a double, very little about you resembles a person operating under regulated conditions. Your ponytail is in the late stages of collapse, your notes look like they were taken mid-exorcism, and your whole body has that bright, fried, over-caffeinated buzzing to it, like if someone touched your shoulder right now you might either diagnose a patient or burst into glitter.

What is out of the ordinary is the shit-eating grin Jack is wearing when he steps up beside you and drops his forearms into the space to your left.

“Y’know,” he says, entirely too pleased, eyes skimming your face while his spoon clinks a slow waltz through the mug, “I had a really interesting handoff this evening.”

Your pulse skips a beat, already bracing for impact. “Did you?”

“Mm.” He takes an appreciative sip. “Robby’s a great storyteller.”

Back-stabber.

Green-jacket-wearing, gossip-leaking back-stabber.

You had known, in the aftermath, that what you had said in a moment of fun might come back to bite you. You just hadn’t expected it to boomerang back this quickly. Or with Jack looking downright delighted to wield it. 

Slowly, like it’s made of nitro, you lower the chart to the counter. “It was a joke.”

It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all you have on such time constraints.

“Was it?”

You lift your gaze to find him already studying you, lip curved in that infuriating almost-smirk, just enough teeth to say jackpot. Luxuriating in your discomfort. Wallowing in it, even.

“It was funny in context,” you insist, defensive squeak slipping out. 

“Then by all means,” he says, lifting one hand. “Give me context.”

You skewer him with a glare. He merely idles, waiting like he has all night.

And yes you technically have the entire shift to burn, but unlike him you’ll be spending it duck-and-covering through live psychological artillery if the story’s made it to any of your other co-workers.

It started near the end of your first twelve, right as the ER tends to slide into a carnival of cranky zombies.

Espresso counts climb, call lights chorus, and every resident sprints on whatever’s left in their IV of vending-machine sugar and unfiltered determination. 

Robby was hunched at the nurses’ station, glasses slid halfway down his nose, peering over Santos’s shoulder with that chronically jet-lagged look he wears like a spare ID. You shambled past, juggling a granola bar and a dog-eared chart, when the date finally flicked.

So you paused, gave the counter a jaunty little tap, and chirped, “Happy Father’s Day, Robby!” 

He glanced up, weariness sharpening to confusion. “I’m… not a father.”

“Right, but you still do the whole dad-energy thing, so… honorary title.”

Santos snorted from behind the monitors. “Wouldn’t Abbot make more sense as your father figure substitute? He enforces nights like a walking curfew.” 

You flicked her away with a granola-crumbed hand. 

“Jack is… a daddy figure. Totally different classification. No offense, Robby.” Robby only blinked, owlish and exhausted. So, naturally, you plunged the shovel deeper, aiming a finger right at him.  “And before you tell him, remember I’m technically one of the few people in this hospital who’d be willing to choose your nursing home.” 

“I’m not that old.”

“You are to me.”

And then you had floated away thinking, stupidly, naively, beautifully, that maybe the moment had passed.

It had not passed.

It had apparently been preserved in amber and delivered word-for-word at handoff to the one man on earth who would enjoy it most.

Now Jack parks his coffee, arms cinching across his freakishly broad chest.

“So,” he deadpans, “daddy figure?” 

You make a mental note to reserve Robby a retirement home where ‘recreation’ is a single dusty puzzle and reach for anything coherent you can muster, ignoring the impeding lump in your throat.

“Strictly taxonomy, Jack. Think kingdom-phylum-class. Father figure is, like, sensible minivan and Roth IRA energy. Daddy figure is an entirely different genus — high-performance emotional support with optional leather interior. Totally complimentary, I swear.” His eyebrow arcs; your hands start semaphore-panicking. “Not, like, kink compliments — just, you know, admiration for your, uh, management style.” 

He’s silent for a second, eyes making slow work from your mouth to your nose to your own eyes. He leans in closer.

You try to dampen the fiery feeling prodding at the tips of your ears until his intense gaze. It’s hard to do.

“For the record, kingdom-phylum-class is an incomplete taxonomic ranking. You skipped order, family, genus, species. If I’m your daddy genus, what does that make you? Under the same umbrella, or something considerably more… subordinate?”

You sputter. Suddenly it’s a hundred degrees and you’re a busted radiator.

“That’s, um, well… I think we’re, uh, past my flash-card set.” You laugh-hiccup, cheeks on fire.

You wonder if he can feel the heat emitting from them.

Jack’s smile unfurls into full smirk. One finger hooks under your chin, tilting until panic meets espresso-dark amusement. 

“Thought so,” he murmurs, stepping back. “Now run along, kid — Daddy’s got rounds to patrol.” 

MARIA NOTE happy father's day to any who celebrate and especially mr dr jack abbot... clock out and come home, babe; the kids miss u ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌼🧺˚˖𓍢ִ🌿˚.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).