andy/star ۪ ֹ ᮫

It sounded so simple when you framed it like that- clean, decisive, adult. Your mother would be proud, though she'd shake her head and mutter obscenities about how on earth you allowed yourself to be in this position in the first place.

You convinced yourself it would be easy; a resolution you could fold neatly into the mental list you kept somewhere between drink more water and stop doom-scrolling before bed.

End it. Let go. Move on. Let the tides roll in and the earth spin and the universal threats disappear, one by one- you could do this.

You even let yourself feel proud for a moment, standing there in the glow of cheap string lights you'd both taped to the ceiling, Clark’s hands warm at your waist, his mouth familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

Seven months.

That was how long it took for his apartment felt like a second home; already housing a drawer for you, a toothbrush and a couple late-night reads.

It was long enough that you knew which mug he reached for first in the morning, and how he liked his eggs when he cooked breakfast- which was often, because Clark was the kind of man who cooked breakfast for you without being asked, who moved around the kitchen with quiet certainty.

The type of guy who always remembered to buy oat milk because you once mentioned it made your lattes taste more like a Sunday morning than regular milk ever did, so now it was a staple on his shopping list, as essential as eggs and bread.

It was also long enough to have found out- only three months in- that he was the same man who often tore red and blue through the vast Metropolis sky.

It was a one time thing.

Initially.

"It was lovely, Clark. I, just..." you grimaced as you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger, bottom lip bitten in reluctance as he blinked back at you through black rims.

It had been the morning after a hazy, slightly tipsy night- one where you’d practically begged to jump on top of him, and a bewildered Clark had insisted on double-, triple-, quadruple-checking that you were of sound mind before even thinking about giving in.

When you eventually proved yourself sober, the moments that followed quickly became the best three and a half hours of your entire life.

Tangled sheets. Drooling, face-down, into his navy pillows with nothing but your body giving into everything he needed and was allowed to take.

In your entire lifetime, no man had ever come close to how Clark made you feel.

And that was exactly why you couldn't have it happening again.

"...I'm just not looking for a relationship." you'd finished guiltily.

You half expected Clark to pout. He had that doting charm about him, the vibe that he lived off of being loved and wanted, simply unable to function otherwise.

So when all he did was give you a slight nod and a small smile back, you had to admit- even you felt a little bit crushed.

"That's okay, I understand. I still had fun last night." he'd said softly.

"Yeah," you smiled, "Me too."

Eagerly, you left it at that, wrapping up the conversation with a query that was strictly work related and nothing more.

The workday carried on. Printers still jammed, deadlines were still handed out like candy, and you managed- impressively- to keep your thoughts about your delicious coworker out of the office and safely confined to your bedroom.

But then, of course, came the Planet's annual Summer Party on the rooftop.

And even you knew it probably wasn't going to end well.

Champagne. No Perry. All floors of the Daily Planet congregating to celebrate the paper's quarterly wins; bylines and headlines and front pages toasted to by drunken patrons and loose reporters. Who said journalists didn't know how to have fun every now and then?

Lois insisted that you come; claiming that you didn't even have to drink if you didn't want to.

"Just come for the social," she'd said, and you'd been so bogged down with work that, in that moment, you very distractedly agreed.

But predictably, a few glasses of Merlot had you raking the crowd for that familiar pair of broad shoulders again; his mop of dark curls, the frames, the sparkling blue eyes that soon bore into yours fifty minutes later as Clark pressed you up against the wall of a supply closet.

"Easy, sweetheart," he rasped in your ear, roaming hands hungrier than his tone, "Gonna have to keep quiet for me. You can do that, right?"

You'd nodded, teeth clenched tight as Clark planted a trail of kisses from your jaw, down the skin of your stomach (exposed by the open shirt he'd skillfully managed to unbutton with one hand) all the way down to the plush of your thighs.

"Good girl."

And when his mouth finally found the heat collecting between your legs- tongue soothing the ache that had been growing for him since the very first time- you swore you could see stars.

The next day, you both agreed to being friends with benefits.

No strings attached, the biggest cliché to grace both of your lives that day.

At least, that was the label you’d both agreed on back in June, when the weather was warmer and everything felt lighter. Back then, it felt possible to keep things casual because neither of you were really looking too closely at what casual meant.

You had agreed because truthfully, you didn't know what you wanted. It wasn't like you were emotionally inept. You liked Clark, everything he was and everything he stood for- but relationships were often complicated, and there were far too many things going on in your life to justify adding another.

"Who's got time for a boyfriend nowadays, anyway?" Cat once scoffed, flicking her hand up dismissively as you clung onto her every word, "It's all a big game everyone's playing. Best not to take part- it can get pretty messy."

So you kept it easy. You googled what it meant to be 'friends with benefits', and you stuck to the steps like gospel. You left immediately after breakfast. You didn't stick around for a cuddle. You never called him babe and baby and tried not to combust when he hit you with the sweetheart and darling.

You followed his queues instead of inciting your own. You even looked away when a new reporter joined and she was punchy like Lois and kind of looked like you, and on her very first day, she gravitated toward Clark while he remained none the wiser.

Sure, your entire body had gone rigid and you had to read a couple hard-hitting articles on micro-anti-feminism and how to avoid it, all while turning emerald green with envy- but hey, at least you tried.

When Clark finally noticed, a familiar curve took to his dimpled smile as he asked you- lightly, one arm secure around your waist- if you were jealous, you just rolled your eyes and told him to stop being stupid.

Even so, you never saw him linger with her after that. And in time, she left him alone.

Nevertheless, you told yourself you could do this.

But seven months later, standing in his arms as fireworks went off somewhere outside the apartment, you knew you couldn’t.

Clark kissed you like he always did.

Slow, unhurried, like it was Christmas day and you were a gift he'd been promised all year. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be but right here, right now, with you.

His thumb brushed your jaw absentmindedly, a touch so familiar it almost hurt, and you closed your eyes because if you looked at him for too long you might do something reckless. Like ask him what you were to him. Like tell him you were falling in love with him.

You didn’t say anything when he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Stayed silent when he smiled that soft, private smile that always felt like it was meant just for you.

And you didn’t say anything when he murmured, "Happy New Year," like it mattered, accompanied by a gentle kiss on the forehead. Not even when he turned you around, swift and slow, plush lips planted against the nape of your neck as he pressed you up against the glass wall of his apartment; sliding himself in, making you his, though you knew it was far from the truth.

You told yourself it was the last time you’d let it feel like this.

The thing about falling in love with Clark Kent was that it didn’t happen all at once. The world wasn’t that kind. You fell quietly, dangerously, without an ounce of warning.

It happened in the way he always brought you a pastry when he got himself a coffee, even if you hadn’t asked. How he never forgot that you hated nuts but almond croissants were the only exception, matching your order after claiming casually that he wasn’t much of a sweets person himself. He'd eat with you, eagerly, as if he didn’t want you to be alone at the table.

You could feel it in the mornings, mostly; how your heart would thump when he’d pad around his apartment barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, handing you a mug before you even asked as a towel hung languidly off his waist. And then he’d listen- really listen- when you talked about your day, your frustrations, your half-formed dreams. Never looking away when you spoke, never even alluding to the idea that he had better places to be.

It didn’t mean anything, you told yourself. He was just kind. Clark Kent was kind to everyone. That was his way of being in the world.

But kindness like that felt personal. And that was the problem.

By the second week of January, you were exhausted from pretending you didn’t want more. The constant mental gymnastics ruined you; the never-ending reminders of the rules you’d set together, of the agreement you’d made. Casual. No expectations. No pressure. No future-talk.

So, you started pulling away.

At first, it was subtle. You took longer to respond to his texts. You declined invitations with vague excuses- busy, tired, rain check?

You stopped staying the night, even when he asked you to, even when he looked a little disappointed but nodded like he understood.

The drawer in his apartment stayed untouched. Your toothbrush sat neatly next to his in the holder, a reminder of the sudden change of heart.

It was a necessary evil. A way for you to get the space needed to get your feelings under control, to remind your heart who was in charge; even as every step away from him felt like pressing on a bruise.

Clark noticed. Of course he did. Years and years of looking out for danger meant that he had quite a knack for spotting abnormalities in behaviour.

When it came to you, it was no different.

He noticed when you stopped showing up at his place unannounced because you 'were in the neighbourhood.' His sweaters, previous victims of your own forgetful nature of never packing a complete overnight bag, suddenly ceased to be stolen. The conversations between you both were lighter now, safer; your smile easy but not as relaxed as it could be.

He didn’t say anything at first. He never pushed. That, too, was part of why this hurt so much.

It was a grey afternoon towards the end of January when he finally asked.

You were sitting across from him at your usual café, the one with the scratched wooden tables and the barista who knew your orders by heart. The scent of coffee beans filled the air like the world's most burnt car freshener; delicious and dizzying, the perfect way to describe how your brain had been feeling all week.

Snow clung to the edges of the windows, and the world outside felt muffled, distant. You liked it here. Oddly enough, it felt like a bit of an escape from the outside world.

Clark slid a plate toward you- an almond croissant, still warm. He watched as you stared at it for a moment, your throat tight.

"Everything okay?" he asked you.

You nodded, but beneath the table, your fingers found a way to combat the discomfort. They tugged and pulled and twiddled with the other, nervously, without rest.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." you said, clipped. You felt rude, but at that point, anything was better than the feeling of helplessness.

"It's just..." his eyes narrowed slightly. One hand steadied your plate, and the other used a wooden knife to cut your pastry in half.

You waited for him to continue, the sweet aroma of candied almonds filling the air between you.

"You’ve been kind of… distant," Clark said gently. No accusation. Just concern. Gently, he placed the knife back on the table. “Did I do something?”

The question landed heavier than you expected. You shook your head quickly.

"No. No, of course not."

He watched you for a moment, those steady eyes searching your face like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"Then what is it?"

You took a breath. Then another. You hadn’t planned to do this today.

You’d imagined this conversation a hundred times in your head- maybe in the quiet of his apartment, or yours, where your confessions could be swallowed, rejected, or reshaped in private, without anyone else seeing.

You’d pictured having control. More confidence, rehearsed words sliding off your tongue exactly as you wanted. But Clark had a way of disarming all of that, disarming you.

One look, one small tilt of his head, and all your careful preparation was ready to unravel, threatening to leave your heart out in the open.

“Really,” you said, forcing a small smile, “it’s no big deal.”

He didn’t look convinced. But again, if there was anything he wanted to say, he kept it to himself.

For the next two weeks, it carried on like that. And it broke your heart every single time.

You left him on read more often than you even opened his messages. You showed up to work hours earlier than Clark did so you could slip out before he arrived, minimising the time spent in the same room.

You buried yourself in assignments; drowning in research, spreadsheets, articles that demanded every ounce of your attention- but never quite enough to quiet the ache when you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

"Everything okay between you and Smallville?" Lois quipped once, raised eyebrow packed with a mirage of other questions you didn't have the answers for.

You'd nodded; lips taut, head down, like you had been for weeks and weeks.

"We're fine."

Clark kept noticing, and you could feel it. But he didn’t press.

He adapted quietly, finding little ways to bridge the distance you’d built. If you came in early, he lingered a few blocks away, returning with coffee and a pastry for both of you to enjoy on your lunch break instead; carefully placing yours on the edge of the table so you could pretend it wasn’t about him, that it was just a routine, a convenience.

He hoped for a chance- however brief- that you might eat with him like you used to. But when you murmured the familiar, apologetic, "I’m so swamped with this article, Clark… I’m really sorry." he only nodded, letting you retreat back to your work without protest.

Polite, understanding, sweet Clark Kent. Who broke you in two when he placed his own pastry bag on your desk when you weren't looking, alongside a little post-it note he'd written carefully for you to find.

Doesn't taste the same without you. CK

Sometimes, you caught his eye across the newsroom. You forced that broken little smile, the one meant to hide the storm inside, and felt your chest tighten as it met his. Isn’t this what you wanted? you wondered, even as your own heart ached. But every traipse of guilt pulled you back, building walls you weren’t sure he’d ever try to climb.

Part of you hated yourself for it. But you couldn't stop. It had become an obsession of sorts, to see just how far you could push him away and protect your own.

But somehow, someway- Clark stayed.

Even when your avoidance grew more obvious; translating into the way your shoulders stiffened as you typed furiously, head down, coffee cup shivering in your hand.

He stayed incessant, determined. He'd reach across the divide without demanding anything in return; encouraging notes on your laptop, texts he didn't expect answers to, even a few private conversations with Perry on being re-assigned some of your deadlines- like that was the problem. Gestures so small they could be ignored, yet impossible to overlook.

Each one pressed quietly against your heart, a reminder that he was there; steady and patient, refusing to let go, even when meeting him halfway felt impossible.

You took that year's Valentines Day as PTO.

You simply refused to deal with the thousands of bouquets you'd have to walk past on your commute to work- never mind the constant reminders that you were single by everyone else happily taken in the office. Even Lois had started dating someone new, and though it had taken him a good few months, Jimmy was finally starting to warm up to Eve.

You hadn't expected anyone to reach out. Long holidays had never been your vibe, so your fellow colleagues got used to you using your paid time off for the odd Monday or Friday throughout the year. Truthfully, this wasn't too out of character for you.

Except, just as you were finally settling in for the night- the intro to How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days playing quietly on the TV- you heard it; three gentle taps against the window of your fire escape.

No introduction needed. You didn’t have to ask who it was.

Half of you stayed still, almost hoping he’d go away on his own, respecting the invisible boundary you’d built. But when the window began sliding open with that familiar, deliberate creak, any hope of solitude evaporated.

The heavy, careful thuds of his boots followed as he stepped into the apartment. Even from here, you could hear the subtle drag of his cape against the floor.

A little laugh escaped you, more habit than humour as you tried to keep it light, "Superman. Didn’t know I was on your patrol list tonight."

Clark didn’t respond. No joking retort, no teasing smile, not even a soft apology for entering unannounced.

The silence pressed against you, heavy and unfamiliar and so unlike him, you had to double check it wasn't somebody else in a long cape and matching suit.

You turned slowly to face him, heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with movie soundtracks or casual quips. For a moment, you drank him in; the symbol of Hope, Metropolis' hero, reduced to a pained expression in the middle of your apartment.

Then, Clark spoke. His voice came out quiet and careful, like the mere premise of saying the words out loud was frowned upon.

"I’ve… upset you, haven’t I?"

Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t accusatory, but every word felt like it landed straight in the hollow space your own avoidance had carved.

With a slight shake of your head, you opened your mouth to speak- but the words got caught on their way out.

You had rehearsed so many excuses, so many ways to explain your distance- but right now, none of them seemed enough.

He took a step closer, boots soft on the floor, cape brushing lightly behind him. "I’ve done something wrong," he said again, softer this time, almost a whisper. "I need you to tell me what."

It was patient. Gentle. Lashes of Superman's assertion peeked through Clark's tone. But beneath the calm, you heard the subtle ache he’d been carrying for weeks- the same hurt you’d been trying to avoid taking accountability for.

You forced a small, tired smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes.

"You haven't done anything, Clark."

"I have. I know I have," his jaw flexed at his words, "Otherwise, we wouldn't be like this. You wouldn't be so far away from me,"

"It's not you." you said again.

"Then what is it?" he pressed, eyes shining with a quiet plead. "Please... I... I've thought about it. I've retraced my steps and thought about everything we've ever done and I can't- gosh, I can't work it out. It's my fault, I know that, but I don't know how,"

You stared at him, chest tight, words caught somewhere between your mind and your mouth.

"Please tell me how."

Everything you’d been running from, every careful plan to keep him at a distance, all of it was collapsing in a single moment.

You’d kept him at arm's length for months; convinced that space would keep your feelings contained. But right now, just looking at Clark made it impossible to pretend any longer.

It wasn’t about something he’d done. Not at all.

It was you, and only you, struggling against the truth you could no longer deny. The fear of ruining what you had kept you quiet. But staying silent in this moment felt cruel, and the thought of walking away from this- from him- without ever speaking your heart, was unbearable.

So the words tumbled out before you could stop them, fragile and raw;

"It’s my fault, Clark. It's not yours,"

His eyes snapped up from the floor to meet yours. You continued, sadly.

"I stopped wanting casual."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t rush to fill the space. He just stood there, thinking, like he always did before saying something important.

You braced yourself.

You’d rehearsed this part- the gentle letdown, the apology, the reassurance that you were amazing but he just wasn’t in the right place.

You could handle that. You had to. You'd already done the brunt of it, the hard work of pulling away and allowing him time to do the same. He hadn't taken the opportunity then, but he could now; all Clark had to do was leave.

Nod, turn around, fly back home or towards whatever threat he'd ignored just to be here, with you, right now.

But he didn't.

Instead, after the long stretch of confusing silence where the cogs seemed to turn restlessly in his head, he finally spoke.

"You know..." he started slowly, swallowing thick, "I eat breakfast at home."

You blinked, thrown. “What?”

“I eat breakfast at home,” Clark repeated, a faint, almost nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “Every morning. I'm not really hungry when I get to work.”

You frowned, confusion knitting your brows.

“Okay…”

“And I don’t actually like almond croissants that much,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fine. Just… not my favorite.”

Your heart started pounding, like it sensed something before your brain did.

“But you love them,” he went on, voice steady yet soft. “And I know you don’t like eating alone. Especially in the morning. So I suck it up, and I have one with you every morning for breakfast. Just because you like them." he paused then, as if contemplating on what to say next.

"I did that way before we even started this whole thing. Didn't know who I was trying to fool, even back then. Does that seem casual to you?"

The city noise seemed to fade into the background. You stared at him, chest tight, emotions colliding all at once- shock and fear and something dangerously close to relief.

Clark's words begged to be answered. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to even nod a reply, far too stunned with disbelief.

"I didn’t realise you thought I didn’t want more," he said truthfully, brows knitted at your expression. "I thought I was giving you space. I didn’t want to push you into something if you weren’t ready."

You laughed weakly, a sound caught somewhere between a crack and a breath. "I was the one who didn't want anything,"

Clark’s expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. "And now?"

"I'm scared." you said, honestly. He simply shook his head.

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"There is," you said back, "Because at the start, I didn't want anything. I couldn't. And now, I want everything."

"What's so bad about that?"

The words hung between you, fragile and terrifying. You weren't too sure of your surroundings anymore- the candle that you'd lit prior to his arrival merged into everything else in your cosy little apartment. All you could focus on was Clark.

And all he could see was you.

In a sweatshirt far too big, hair far too unruly to have expected company tonight. Yet he looked at you like you like you were something to be praised; sacred, not an emotional wreck in a faded Metropolis Meteors sweater who couldn't even look him in the eye.

It was his turn to take you in, for his gaze to graze over the way you simply existed. His shoulders relaxed, eyes following suit as his lips parted.

"I love you." Clark said softly.

The ringing in your ears halted, long enough for his words to begin to register. He'd just theown you completely off balance, yet he carried on like it was nothing.

"And I think I have... for a long time. Way before any of this," he cleared his throat. "But then we started doing that benefits thing, and I panicked because, well, I- it's not me. And I wanted to do this right."

Outside, trickles of rain start to fall, quiet and steady, like the world was holding its breath. Inside, Clark crossed the threshold of your living room and took your hand, warm and solid and real.

"Then why did you agree to it?" you asked, though your mind was still fighting to catch up with his words.

He loved you.

Clark Joseph Kent was in love- with you.

Every memory you ever shared clouded over, replays of all the times you spent tangled in each other's arms. All the lingering looks, the pauses and pecks you assumed were Clark's personal quirks when it came to 'casual sex'- now coming together to prove you so, very wrong.

Especially when he chuckled lightly, not all humour, most of it apologetic and said, "Figured I'd rather have a part of you than nothing at all."

It was the most gut-wrenching thing he could have said.

Because while you were adamant on not giving in, on staying far away in fear of getting hurt, Clark dove straight in; suffering the repercussions of every single day you were at war with your own mind, yet choosing stick by you anyway.

"Maybe," he then said, carefully, as though not to scare you. His hands found yours, taking it with a gentle squeeze. "we can stop pretending this is casual."

Your fingers tightened around his. The ache in your chest didn’t disappear- not completely- but it shifted, softened into something that felt like possibility.

"I'm not good at this sort of stuff, Clark," you warned him, swallowing thickly.

You saw his dimple before anything else. He began to smile, soft and slow, pleased with your (albeit reluctant) way of letting your heart win for once; for letting it drive everything you'd kept under lock and key.

"You don't need to be. Not with me," Clark said, cupping your jaw as a broad thumb trailed over your lips, "We can work it out. Together."

And for the first time that dreaded countdown, you let yourself imagine a resolution you hadn’t written down.

Something less neat, and more terrifying. Something real; with Clark at the forefront.

"Alright?" he asked you then, a question behind the glimmer in his eye as his nose brushed against yours.

You tilted your head upwards, braving the weight of his gaze. You nodded slowly, hammering heart worsening as Clark's grin widened.

The warm brush of his breath ghosted across your lips, causing your body to relax further into him as you spoke back,

"Alright."

And Clark didn’t rush it.

You’d kissed plenty of times before. They were all careless, fleeting, stolen in the middle of moans and gasps, or in the quiet aftermath of everything that had happened beneath the sheets- but this was different. Entirely.

This kiss was steady, sure; weaving itself into the promise of a conversation you would definitely have later- but for now, it could wait.

He lingered, giving you time to breathe, to notice the small tremble in your fingers as they tightened into a fist against his chest. And then, he leant his head down, and kissed you properly.

His lips were warm, his movements unhurried.

The act felt familiar- Clark felt familiar. The faint bitterness of coffee lingered on each breath, softened by something sweet as he pressed a flat hand on your lower back and pulled you closer; almond, sugar, comfort, home.

oh my lord have i missed you all ! (i say that, i was definitely around - just haven't been able to write with all the festivities going on!) but i hope you all had a wonderful christmas and an even happier new year <3

following what must’ve been the filthiest night of his life, jack woke up to an empty and lawless bed. a mixture of boxers, scrubs, under shirts, and one lacy bra lies forgotten on the floor. the smell of eggs and turkey bacon wafts through the room.

weird, considering that robby rarely eats breakfast, even on his days off.

through his sleep-addled mind jack manages to reach and screw on his prosthetic, and hop out of bed. sun dances through the blinds, painting the hardwood floors honey brown.

he walks into the kitchen and is confronted with what must be heaven.

robby’s glasses are pushed up on his nose as he reads today’s news out loud. you’re pressed against the stove and nursing a fresh batch of eggs. both of your faces are flush and glowing like his own personal set of angels.

robby pauses, eyes flicking up to his husband. both men smile, crinkling their crows feet in a learned kind of similarity.

“morning!” you chirp, still pushing eggs around the pan.

“hi” jack’s voice is laced with the slightest bit of hesitation.

you hadn’t been trained to pick up on it yet, but robby has. he raises an eyebrow but quickly relaxes as jack’s hands take up purchase on your waist and his lips brush your hair.

every interaction they have is a silent conversation, and right now jack was humming “see? this could work.” robby’s answer comes in the form of a good morning kiss against jack’s lips.

they both feel your eyes on them, just watching. jack licks the inside of micheal’s mouth, earning a fond groan from his counterpart. it was a silent question for you, an initiation of sorts. they were trying to teach you their language and so far you’re a quick study.

jack anticipates a soft glance from you and maybe a few pecks on the lips here and there but what you do next makes robby all the more certain of you.

the heel of hand presses into robby’s throat while you pull him down to your level. his pulse hammers against your hand but his hands clasp and squeeze around your waist.

he’s teasing, putting on a show just like jack did. just like you did last night when you pulled off your dripping panties with no urgency, knowing how badly they wanted to take you. the kiss only breaks when jack grabs you by the chin and presses his tongue in your mouth.

he swirls your spit and sucks your tongue till you gag. he’s challenging both of you now, begging robby to do something drastic and telling you to try and savor what they give you.

robby’s hands try to slip beneath the waistband of your pants but a burning smell pulls you out of the moment they’d been trying to curate.

fuck.

you burnt jack’s eggs.

forever yours,

vanni 💋

p.s ୨୧ hey so this is short.

don’t kill me.

i also ADORE this dynamic so if

you ever wanna see more of them

just ASK!!!!

Pushing into the ED, you shoot a nod towards Abbot. He’s always been nice to you - patient without being passive, and informative without being condescending. He has this odd way of keeping you calm during traumas - even when he’s watching you cut a hole into someone’s throat, you don’t feel like he’s judging you, or doing anything out with your best interests.

You wish you could say the same for Robby.

It’s like he’s had it out for you since day one. From your very first shift, he’s seemed utterly convinced that you’re a bad fit for emergency medicine - better suited for something calmer, like psych.

Were it not for Frank, you’re pretty sure you’d have tried to get a permanent swap to nights - Abbot and Shen you could live with.

While you and Doctor Robinavitch don’t exactly see eye to eye most of the time, you’ll never be able to fault him for pairing you up with Frank on day one. You’d heard chatter from the nurses the morning you’d arrived about him - apparently, he’d dated one of the labour and delivery nurses, before ghosting her a month in. Your hopes were less than high when Robby had announced you’d be shadowing him.

Sure, Frank’s a little arrogant. But he’s also been nothing but kind to you. He walks you through procedures, voice low as he murmurs soft instructions. His proximity is more than distracting, but you’ve found it to be effective in the long run.

You want to do well. Want Frank to be proud of you. Maybe if you can make him like you, he won’t be as susceptible to Robby’s dislike. You know they must all talk about the residents. Discuss who they think will make the cut, versus those who'll crumble under the pressure.

So far, your charm offensive seems to be working. In just a few months, you’ve developed a rapport, to the point where Frank rarely works with any of the other junior residents. You've heard rumblings about favouritism from the nurses. It must be getting him into some kind of trouble.

You head for the lockers, and change out of your thermals and into your scrubs, before heading to Central for the morning brief. A few of the other doctors are milling about, and you watch Robby take Gloria across the room to talk away from you all.

He doesn’t look happy.

That doesn’t bode well for your shift today.

When Frank walks through the door, five minutes late as usual, his eyes find you immediately. He’s already in scrubs, flashing you a smile as he deposits his bag.

“Who pissed in his cornflakes?” He asks, slipping in behind you as he watches Robby’s scowl grow with every passing second he stands with Gloria.

“Pulse has a boyfriend,” A voice cuts in from over your shoulder. You turn, coming face to face with a girl, round about your age. “He came to pick her up after the night-shift, with a bouquet of roses. Robby’s been in a shitty mood since. I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet. Resident?”

“Uh, yeah,” You reply, and offer your name.

She tells you hers, ignoring the way Frank rolls his eyes. “Everyone calls me Skipper though. EMT. The Pitt’s finest.”

“No,” Frank corrects. “Abbot calls you Skip, and you’re so desperate to get into his pants that you adopted it-”

“Fuck off, Langdon-”

“Don’t you have a job to be doing?”

She sticks her tongue out, but begins to retreat anyway. “I just dropped Myrna off - told her you’d look after her today. And I’m only going so that I don’t have to deal with Robby. Hope you and your girlfriend have a fun shift!”

As soon as she’s gone, Frank is turning to speak directly into your ear. “Ignore her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I didn’t know Robby was into Pulse,” You comment, chancing a glance at your boss. His expression doesn’t look any happier.

Pulse is the Dana of the night shift. Quite where she got her nickname, you’re not sure, but she’s been good to you on the occasions your shifts have overlapped. On your first ever night-shift, she’d pressed a coffee into your hand right when you’d been about to crash.

You’ve felt a little indebted to her ever since.

“He’d never admit it, but I think he’s been into her for years. They were like that when I was a med student here.”

“Huh,” You murmur, falling silent as Robby finally makes his way over.

“Alright guys - busy day today,” He starts, clapping his hands together. “New Year’s is always rough for ERs - we can expect firework incidents, and more drunk and disorderly patients than we get at any point in the year. I want efficiency-”

A glance at Samira.

“-compassion-”

A glance at Trinity.

“-and assertiveness.”

His eyes land on you, and you fight the urge to shrink under his gaze. It’s no secret that you’re not Robby’s favourite resident. In fact, in a programme with thirteen residents at various levels, you’re not sure you even crack the top ten.

Frank’s definitely top three - potentially top one, now that Heather took an attending job in Philadelphia.

You can feel your cheeks starting to burn, embarrassment rising.

Everyone here knows you’re not cut out for emergency medicine. That you’re too weak for this specialty. Not a good enough advocate for your patients. You can almost hear his thought process.

Maybe family medicine is more your speed.

Then a hand claps down on your shoulder. You know before you even turn around that it’s Frank. “Don’t mind him,” He murmurs, as everyone disperses. Like clockwork, Frank falls into step beside you. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“He’s the Chief of Emergency Medicine,” You reply, unconvinced. “I think he knows his stuff.”

“Not in this case,” Frank insists. “This place needs empathy - which you have in spades. I bet if you asked every patient in here if they’d rather be treated by you or me, they’d choose you.”

“No they wouldn’t,” You roll your eyes.

“They would so. And who cares if you’re not assertive enough? You shouldn’t ever be alone in a scenario where that’s an issue. You know I’d coming running if you paged me, Page.” He finishes off with a grin, as you let out a sigh.

Page had been a recent development. After managing a whole shift without realising your pager was dead, and getting bawled out by Robby, Santos had taken to calling you the nickname. Unfortunately, it had spread like wildfire.

You wish Frank wouldn’t call you it. Wouldn’t see you like a failure.

Your brow furrows a little, and he frowns. “Hey, come on - I was just kidding. But the sentiment still stands. You call, I come. Okay? What are you on today?”

“Triage. You?”

“Unfortunately not. I’ve got Santos today.”

On a normal day, you’d defend Trinity. You do like her, even if she is the root of your nickname, and has moderately abrasive tendencies. But today has already gotten off to such a terrible start, that you can’t bring yourself to manage. “I should probably go, before Robby chews me out for being slow.”

7AM

“So,” You start, glancing nervously at Whitaker. “You ready to get started?”

Where you’d been hoping for some assurance from Dennis, you’re met with a stressed and nervous energy, maybe even worse than your own. “Uh, sure?”

“Great!” You force a smile, and lead him out to the waiting room. Almost immediately, you’re ambushed by a crowd. “Uh, Whitaker, could you take a Ms. Precious Abebe to room three? She just needs sutured - can I leave you to that?”

He nods, and stands at your back.

“I’ve been here for five hours-”

“There’s green stuff coming out of this wound-”

“I was told I’d be next, but someone else got to go-”

“Sorry,” You interject, trying to move past to the middle of the room. “We’ll be with you as soon as possible. We’re understaffed today, that’s why things are a little backed up.”

A lie. But people tend to be more understanding if they think that this is out of the norm. That the Pitt isn’t backed up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

You check your iPad, glancing at the next name on the list. “Beth Garcia?”

A lady stands up across the room, away from the group that immediately approached you both. At first glance, there’s nothing obviously wrong. She’s maybe a little pale, but that’s about all you’d say. “Hi,” She smiles.

You introduce yourself and lead her to one of the consultation rooms, leaving Whitaker to grab Ms. Abebe. “What’s brought you in today?”

“I’ve had a really bad stomach-ache, for the past twelve-ish hours.”

You nod, sitting her up on the bed. “Do you mind if I have a feel?”

“Go ahead.”

You examine her abdomen, while asking some more questions.

Yes, it feels sharp and stabbing.

No, she hasn’t eaten anything.

There’s been some vomit, but no blood. No changes to stool or urine output.

Six out of ten pain.

“Alright, well, I’m going to take some bloods and do a quick ultrasound, just to rule out stones, okay? But then, until we get the results back, you’ll have to go back to the waiting room, I’m sorry. We don’t have the facilities for everyone to wait back here.”

Normally, this is where patients get mad, if they haven’t already. Nobody likes being seen, before being told you need to wait again. What they don’t seem to realise is that the people who get seen immediately are the ones you very much do not want to be.

But Beth just nods again, and gets to her feet. “No worries. I wrote the day off anyway.”

*****

“Jesus Christ, can you look a little happier to see me?” Santos rolls her eyes, snapping Frank out of his haze. “I know I’m not Page, but I’d still like to learn something today, if that’s alright with you.”

“You know, you could really learn a few things from her,” He replies, unimpressed at being caught staring. “Like basic human empathy, for starts.”

“I have empathy,” She retorts. “Just not for you, or the three tonnes of hair gel you use each day.”

Frank grabs an iPad, glancing at the board. “We’ll take chest pain in four.”

If Frank was cherry-picking for himself, or for you, Trinity would be the first to call it out. But today, it benefits her, so she keeps her mouth shut, and nods.

“Look at this ECG. Tell me what you see.”

Trinity frowns, glancing across the different leads. No obvious STEMI anywhere, or hyperkalaemia. No obvious heart block that she can see, though it’s hard to tell with P waves at the best of times. It’s not a very good tracing, but on the surface there’s nothing wrong. “Looks alright to me. Maybe a little tachycardic?”

“Look closer.”

Letting out a huff, she examines it again, before sighing. “I don’t see anything-”

“Great. Now your patient is dead. It’s bundle branch block. Left or right?”

“Bundle branch block doesn’t kill people, dumbass. Not like that.” With a guide, Santos refocuses on the ECG, frowning as she spots the telltale M shape on the V1 lead. “Right.”

“Good. And just because it won’t kill them particularly acutely, doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous. Especially if you look at this guy’s past medical. But I want you to do the history, and discharge unless there’s anything particularly worrying.”

With that, he’s gone.

Probably to try and find you. God, he’s such an annoyance.

So much for the chest pain being a good case.

8AM

When you were eleven, you were diagnosed with leukaemia for the first time. It had made for a brutal eighteen months, spent almost entirely in hospitals. You knew what the whisperings were. Neither the doctors, nor your parents, expected you to survive.

But somehow, things had started to look up, and you were in remission for your thirteenth birthday.

Everybody had told you how strong you were, how you could get through anything if you got through this. And for a while, you believed them. Believed that this was as bad as you were ever going to go through in your life.

Until your first year of undergrad when the fevers came back, the cancer following in its wake.

You’d been certain you weren’t going to survive that one.

Except, against every single odd, you pulled through, and are still here almost a decade later. Not without consequences, though. Each day brings a new fear of relapse, at the idea that you’ll never fully be out of the woods. Sure, AML is normally more common in children. But you’d been well out of the risk zone for relapse when you’d fallen ill again, so you figure the universe is just out to get you.

Where your college experience was supposed to be your first taste of freedom, of dating and living life, you’d ended up living in a house across town from campus, with your parents as your caregivers.

You love your mom and dad. You do. Truly.

Moving to Pittsburgh is the only time you’ve ever had in your life to try and discover who you are. It’s not working out too well so far, granted. But you need this, either way. Even if all the guys you’ve dated are complete douchebags, and you’re not entirely sure that orgasms exist.

Someone says your name, and you snap out of your funk. Turning, you almost collide with Robby, as he repeats it. “Got a teaching case. Come on.”

He doesn’t slow down, just angles toward the workroom where the rest of the team is gathered. It’s you, Mel and Javadi. All the younger residents and students, minus Whitaker on triage, and Trinity, who should be with Frank.

God, what you’d give to swap places with her right now.

“Patient in South Four needs an LP,” Robby says, glancing around the room. “Good teaching opportunity. I need a volunteer.”

You open your mouth.

Javadi’s voice cuts in first. “I’ll do it.”

She’s already standing, chair scraping loudly against the floor, hand halfway raised. Robby hesitates, just a beat too long, then nods.

“Alright,” He nods. “Let’s go.”

You shut your mouth again. Swallow whatever it was you were about to say. Fall into step as everyone starts moving, telling yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t need to be the one who always steps forward.

The room is small, crowded with bodies and equipment and the low, nervous energy that always comes with procedures. Robby does the talking to the patient, asking you and Mel a couple of questions, while Victoria gets ready.

You can tell she’s nervous, talking through each step like she’s reassuring herself as much as anyone else. Robby stands opposite her, arms folded, supervising. You take the spot no one else claims, leaning back against the counter, hands tucked into your pockets.

You watch.

You watch her feel down the spinous processes, hesitate, adjust. Watch the way her shoulders tense when the patient flinches, the way she bites her lip in concentration. Nothing goes disastrously wrong. Nothing goes perfectly, either. It takes longer than it should, even though that’s to be expected on your first try. She asks Robby questions she should already know the answers to. He answers them, clipped, professional, and detached.

Like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Maybe Frank’s right. This is potentially the worst mood you’ve ever seen from him. Even over Pittfest. Maybe he is actually in love with Pulse, and this boyfriend news has thrown him for a loop.

You think about what you’d feel if Frank announced tomorrow that he had a girlfriend.

Probably pretty shitty.

The thought sends a shiver through you. At the image of you, and a heartbroken Michael Robinavitch, drowning your sorrows at the local dive bar, as the two most pathetic people in the Pitt.

When it’s over, Javadi exhales, smiling, flushed with relief. She thanks the patient, starts talking about how cool it was, how she’s glad she got the chance, thanking Robby profusely.

He just nods, already peeling off his gloves. “Nice work,” He says, neutral enough to be meaningless.

You’re halfway out the door when you feel his hand brush your sleeve.

“Hey,” He mumbles, as Mel and Javadi push past. “Hang back a second.”

You stop in the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. Robby rubs at the bridge of his nose, frustration finally breaking through.

“Javadi’s a fucking MS3,” He sighs. “She shouldn’t have been doing a lumbar puncture. It should’ve been you.”

“You asked for a volunteer!” You protest.

Robby’s expression tightens, whatever patience he’d been rationing finally running out.

“And you hesitated,” He says. Flat. “You always do lately.”

“That’s not fair,” you shoot back, heat rising fast. “So that was what… a test? You’re just trying to make me look bad now?”

He doesn’t soften. Doesn’t give you the out. “I watched you open your mouth and then stop. You let a medical student jump in front of you.”

“She volunteered,” You say. “Mel and I were both going to speak, but I don’t see you criticising her.”

“You should have fought for it,” he says, voice sharp now. “That’s the problem.”

You stare at him. “The LP went fine.”

“For her,” Robby says. “Because I was standing there ready to bail her out. Because the patient got lucky.” He exhales, irritated, and drops his voice. “You know better than that.”

Your jaw tightens. “So what do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop acting like you’re invisible,” He snaps. “You’re a resident. A good one. And you keep shrinking yourself like you don’t belong here.”

don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

“Maybe I just don’t feel like fighting for every procedure,” You say quietly. “I thought fighting every step of the way to get here would be enough.”

“That’s not how this works,” Robby says. “You don’t get to coast because you’re tired. Everyone’s tired. You want to do well? Then step up. Because right now, you’re making my job harder.”

The words sting, and the tears threaten to prick at your periphery. You look away, down the hallway, anywhere but at him.

“I didn’t realize I was underperforming,” You grit out.

“If you were,” He replies, voice softening just slightly, “this conversation would be different.”

You get the sense that’s supposed to be some kind of praise. The smallest bone, thrown to make you feel a little better. Stop you from throwing yourself off the roof.

You nod once. Short. Controlled. “Got it.”

Robby watches you for a beat, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Whatever he considers, he lets it go. “Just… be better about it,” he says. “I know you can be.”

You don’t trust your voice, so you don’t use it.

“I need to get back to triage,” You finally mumble, stepping away.

He doesn’t stop you.

You walk down the hall faster than necessary, pulling the list of your jobs from your pocket like it’s an excuse. Bloods to be drawn, X-rays to be checked, prescriptions to be written. Concrete things you can do right.

Patients don’t ask why you hesitate. They don’t care who speaks up first. They just want you to show up, do the work, move on.

That, at least, you can manage.

9AM

It takes half an hour for your path to cross with Frank’s again. As if sensing your discomfort at your current patient, a drunk man in his seventies, Frank starts to float across the Pitt.

Pretending he’s not paying the utmost attention to the way your back stiffens with each passing exchange.

“Need any help, Doctor?” He finally interjects, eyes darting between you both.

“We’re just fine, actually. She’s takin’ real good care of me,” The patient, Darren, grins, eyes darkening just a little at the intrusion.

You shoot Frank a look over his shoulder, one that you hope screams help me. Much to your immense relief, he catches on immediately.

Darren isn’t even sick. He’s in for some sutures after falling on his way home. Quite where he’s been all night to only be heading home at nine, you’re not sure, but you’re not in the mood to find out.

“Why don’t I get started on your left side? Get you out of here twice as fast.” Frank smiles down at him, but there’s a tick in his jaw that gives away his true feelings.

“No, it’s okay-”

“Don’t be silly!” Frank cuts Darren off, snapping the wristband of his gloves as he reaches for a suture kit.

A silence falls, tense and awkward as you both try and hurry through Darren’s stitches, doing your best to work quickly without compromising the quality of care too much. If he’s left with a little bit of a scar, you won’t be too worried.

“Any plans for after this?” Darren finally asks, eyes glued to yours, ignoring Frank’s presence entirely.

“Hm,” You murmur, pretending to give it serious thought. “Probably heading back out to triage to get the next patient in.”

“I meant after your shift,” He sighs, frustration seeping into his tone. “Like-”

“Page?” Frank interrupts. “You know, I’m sure I heard that Dana was looking for you.”

“Are you sure?” You arch an eyebrow, seeing right through his tactic.

“Positive,” Frank says easily, already stripping off his gloves. “Sounded urgent.”

Darren looks between the two of you, clearly clocking that something has shifted, then scoffs. “Guess I’ll see you around, Doc.” There’s an edge to it now, more wounded pride than anything.

“Take care,” You reply, already turning away. “Doctor Langdon is the best of the best.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frank appears again, right as you’re leaving an easy consultation. Sirens wail somewhere down the street. Hopefully nothing major. You’re not even four hours into your shift yet, and you’re already exhausted.

Frank leans against the railing, arms folded, looking almost… jealous? “Guy was… persistent,” he says at last, staring out across the Pitt instead of at you.

“That’s one word for it.” You glance sideways at him. “Thanks for stepping in.”

He shrugs. “Part of the job.”

Another pause. His foot taps against the ground, in a steady rhythm. “You get that a lot?”

You frown slightly. “Get what?”

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff. “Creeps hitting on you.”

“Oh.” Understanding settles in. “Sometimes.”

Frank nods, like that confirms something he already suspected. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“I had it handled,” you say gently.

“I know.” He finally looks at you then, expression unreadable. “I just-” He stops, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

You wait. He doesn’t continue.

Moment over.

After a beat, he straightens, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Dana probably does need you. Place is chaos.”

You smile faintly. “Thanks again, Frank.”

He gives you a crooked half-smile in return, slinging his stethoscope round his neck. “Anytime, Doctor.”

10AM

You hear the commotion before you see anything. On the way back from checking on Beth in the cafeteria, the noise from the waiting room bounces around the corridors, and you speed up your pace.

Inside, Whitaker is desperately trying to keep two men from attacking each other. Security is nowhere in sight. Neither is Dana.

Shit.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You ask, voice raised considerably higher than your usual volume.

“This bastard keeps talking shit about my wife-”

“Your wife is an uneducated moron!” The other guy yells, and the two make to try and get at each other again.

“Whitaker, get Ahmad,” You urge, before putting a hand out to try and keep them apart.

“Don’t you dare touch me-”

The first man escalates to yelling, and you don’t have time to react to him cocking his arm.

It takes you a second to realise what’s happened. A sharp sting, the sound of skin-on-skin ricocheting across the waiting room, and suddenly your entire world is spinning. The impact is hard enough to send you stumbling as your head smacks into one of the pillars behind you.

You reach out for something, anything to keep you upright, but there’s nothing, and you land awkwardly on your arm on the waiting room floor.

A warmth floods your face - a mix of embarrassment and the blood trickling from split skin on your cheekbone. You sit up, while all the patients take a few steps back, clearing out in a two metre radius.

There’s a single moment of shocked silence, before a voice breaks out across the ER. Dana Evans, your lord and saviour.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Her hands land on your shoulders, firm and steady as she helps you to your feet. “You okay, kid?”

Arguments break out across the waiting room, while Ahmad appears in the doorway, Frank right behind him, eyes wide. He calls your name, and the tears that you’d been fighting so hard against suddenly prick at your periphery.

You don’t want him to see you like this. Weak-willed, and unable to break up a single fight.

Much to your dismay, Dana’s immediately passing you over to him, a small push in his direction while she continues to yell at the man.

“Are you alright?” Frank murmurs, eyes searching as he checks you over. When he checks your temple, there’s a little bit of blood at the crown. “Shit, sweetheart - you hit your head.”

“Yeah, no shit,” You manage, letting out a low groan as you scrunch your eyes shut. The fluorescent lights make you want to curl in a ball and try to pretend the last hour didn’t happen. Maybe you’ll get some trauma-induced amnesia and be able to forget the whole shift.

“Making jokes. That’s a good sign.” His arm is wrapped round your waist, and he ushers you towards one of the trauma rooms. Once inside, he shuts the door, and dims the lights. “What happened out there?”

The lowered intensity already makes you feel a little better. “Patient demanding to be seen straight away. Didn’t appreciate being told no.”

“You should’ve got me,” He replies, voice low as he inspects the cut, earning a hiss from you. “Sorry.”

“You can’t fight my battles, Frank.”

“Sure, but I could’ve fought that one.” He’s razor-focused, hands gentle. “Putting antiseptic on now, then I’ll cover it, okay?”

You nod, and steel yourself for the cool sting. “I’m sure that would go down well with Robby. Punching patients on my behalf.”

“I’d do it,” He insists.

“I don’t doubt that,” You mumble, offering a small smile. “Are you done yet?”

“I was going to send you for a CT-”

“Frank. I do not need a CT.”

“You hit your head!”

You scoff a little. “Barely!”

“It’s a CT or a full neuro exam. Take your pick.”

Rolling your eyes, you allow him to guide you backwards towards the pillows, until you’re horizontal. “Neuro exam, I suppose. I have too much work for a CT.”

“I’ll cover you-”

“Yeah, okay. And then Robby will hate me even more than he already does.”

Nonetheless, you comply, and allow him to flash a light into your eyes to check your pupillary responses, before checking every single reflex you have. It’s a more thorough exam than you were doing in med school. “Frank, come on. This is ridiculous,” You finally call, when he begins his series of special tests - saved only for the most serious of cases.

“Gotta cover all bases, sweetheart. Can’t have my best resident injured.”

“I am not your best resident,” You scoff, feeling heat rising to your cheeks.

He shoots you a look, before sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You are hands down my best resident, are you kidding?”

“There’s a difference between liking me as a person, and thinking I’m your best resident.”

“Okay, fine,” He concedes. “You’re my best resident, and my favourite person here. Happy?”

“Flirt,” You mumble, earning a deep laugh from the man beside you.

“Only for you, honey-” He’s cut off by his pager beeping, letting out a heavy sigh as he glances down. “Duty calls. Sit in here for fifteen, and only go back to work if you’re feeling a hundred percent. Anything less, and I want you to call me. Alright?”

You roll your eyes, but Frank’s expression is deadly serious. “I could still order a CT-”

“Fine, fine! I’ll call you if I feel the slightest bit dizzy.”

“Good girl.”

You have to pretend that his words don’t make you feel light-headed as he leaves the room. Frank is absolutely off-limits. He’s one of your superiors, and getting involved with him could fuck up your entire working experience.

He’s also been married before, and you can’t imagine him going for an inexperienced resident who’s spent a sizeable chunk of her life in hospital.

You’ll just have to get over this little crush.

11AM

You forget all about Beth until she’s wheeled into North Seven, looking considerably worse than the last time you saw her. Frowning, you’re immediately checking the labs. Bloods are normal, other than a mildly elevated white cell count, and there’s no fever. It’s odd. Normally people with kidney stones are doubled over in pain.

Aside from the newly developed vomiting, she still insists she’s fine.

Finally, you call Frank in. He’s the only one you feel alright with admitting uncertainty to.

You don’t realize how tense you are until he shows up and quietly leans against the counter beside you, glancing down at the charts in your hands. Beth lies in the bed looking smaller than before, curled slightly on her side. There’s an sick bowl near her hand now. She keeps apologizing for it. You keep insisting it’s the least gross thing you’ve seen all day.

You turn back to the computer, jaw tight.

“Ultrasound’s clean,” You say, more to yourself than to Frank. “No hydronephrosis. No obvious stones.”

Frank gives a small nod. “Okay. What are you thinking?”

“That should make me feel better,” You continue, scrolling. “But it doesn’t.”

You flip through the vitals again. Still afebrile. Heart rate a little fast, but nothing dramatic. Labs next, mostly reassuring, except for the white cell count.

You glance back at Beth. She’s not restless. Not writhing. Just pale and tired, and probably sick of this hospital.

“She’s vomiting,” You say slowly. “And she wasn’t yesterday.”

Frank shifts, but lets you keep going.

“And she looks worse. Not better.” You pull up the urinalysis again, your eyes slowing this time, forcing yourself not to skim.

Blood.

White cells.

Nitrites.

Your chest tightens.

“It’s not showing up,” you murmur. “Maybe the stone is tiny, but it’s infected. Which is why I didn’t see it on the ultrasound.”

Frank turns his head toward you.

“An obstructed infection isn’t always obvious,” You continue, the words coming faster now as the picture sharpens. “No obvious findings if the blockage’s intermittent or higher up. Ultrasound can miss it. We need to send her for a CT, and get urology down here now. I think she has pyelonephritis.”

Orders spill out of you. IV fluids. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. Urology, urgent. Frank follows them all diligently, a look that you can’t quite place in his eyes.

When you step into Beth’s room again, she looks at your face and immediately knows something has changed.

“Is something wrong?” she asks quietly.

“We think you might be sicker than you look,” You murmur, gentler than you feel. “There’s an infection in your kidney, and we need to take care of it properly. So we’re going to send you for a CT right away, and then get surgery down to have a chat, okay?”

She nods, trusting, even as they start preparing her for transfer. “Thank you.”

You offer her as warm a smile as you can muster. “Don’t mention it.”

As the bed is wheeled away, Frank remains beside you, gaze trained on your form.

“You figured it out,” He says.

You stare at the doorway long after it closes. “I almost let the ultrasound talk me out of it.”

“But you listened to her,” He replies. “And to yourself. That’s what a good emergency physician does.”

You exhale, slow and shaky, then straighten your shoulders, heat blossoming through your chest.

“Anyway, I should get back to Santos, before she complains to Robby and I get yelled at. Again.”

*****

You're standing at Central doing paperwork when a hand lands on your waist, steering you towards the front door.

"What are you doing?" You frown, glancing up at Langdon. "You're supposed to have Santos today."

"Santos can take it up with Robby if she's got a problem. We've got a trauma coming in, and I need my best resident."

It's a battle to pretend that his words don't make your heart soar. Sure, he's a little bit older, and he's one of your direct superiors, but a harmless daydream never hurt anyone.

The patient is wheeled in, and Frank talks you through a cricothyroidotomy - brushing off Garcia's sneering comments.

"The kid's got it. She'll be fine."

Hands trembling a little, you focus desperately on the task at hand. Thankfully, everything goes to plan, and soon the patient is stabilised, and ready to head for surgery.

Frank is right at your back, almost enveloping you. "Good girl," He murmurs, directly into your ear, and just low enough that no one else can hear. "You'll be doing these in your sleep soon."

"I doubt it," You snort. "I could only do it because you talked me through everything."

"Guess I'll just have to make sure I'm around for them all then. Professional expertise, and all that." Finally moving away, he shoots you a wink over his shoulder.

You’re desperately trying to force yourself to focus on the task at hand. Documenting the procedure, and the treatment plan for the nurses to follow. Suddenly, your phone dings, the distinct sound of your Outlook app, and you freeze.

It can’t be today.

You were told you wouldn’t hear back for at least two weeks, and you’d only interviewed on Monday.

Ever since tensions have risen with Robby, you’ve been considering your place in medicine. More specifically, your place in the Pitt. Whether you’re really cut out for this life. Doctor Abbot had advised you against it, told you that you should stay the year and make up your mind later, but you’d still found yourself applying for a couple of residencies.

Nothing crazy.

One in Boston. One in Wilmington. One in San Diego, in case you felt like the West Coast.

You’ve only interviewed for Boston so far. The others are in the New Year.

Hands trembling, you check your emails, to be met with a resounding yes.

We’d be delighted to offer you a position on our family medicine programme, starting on the first of February next calendar year…

You’re not filled with excitement. You’d rather not move city again - finding yourself starting over, when you’ve barely managed to scratch the surface of Pittsburgh. But there is a deep rooted relief, at the idea that someone wants you, and can see value in the way you practice medicine.

“What’s that?” From nowhere, Samira appears at your back, glancing over at your phone.

“Oh! Nothing,” You say, immediately scrambling to shove your phone back in your pockets. “Just a scam email.”

“Hm.” She sounds entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t comment further. “Well, Langdon wants you in South 12. As usual.”

Her eyes gleam a little with the last sentence.

“Shut up,” You grumble.

“What? I didn’t say anything!”

“You implied, and that’s enough.”

12PM

Santos storms up to Robby near the charting computers, face flushed and eyes bright with anger. “Is this a joke?” she snaps.

Robby looks up. “What’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer, instead opting to point. Down the hall, Frank is hovering by your side. Again. His hand is inches from your waist, grin crooked as he talks you through something on the board in front of you both.

“That,” Santos says. “That’s what’s going on.”

Robby watches it happen, his mouth flattening. “He left you?”

It’s a question, but really he already knows the answer. Ever since you started working here, Frank has been afflicted with a severe case of tunnel vision. He can hardly function while you’re around. It would be endearing, if this didn’t happen every year. He fixated on a girl for a while, and then broke her heart.

Granted, the heart’s are normally broken by now, but still.

Since his divorce, Frank hasn’t been so great at holding down relationships.

“Mid-presentation,” Trinity says sharply. “Again. I was talking. He didn’t even pretend to listen, just told me to follow my gut, and ditched me for her.”

Robby exhales. “How many times today?”

“Does it matter?” Santos fires back.

She folds her arms tight. “I know Page’s a second-year. I know she’s more experienced. But I’m his intern today. I keep getting stuck with all the shitty cases, because of him.”

Robby nods slowly. “Did you say something to him?”

“What, so I can look like a needy first-year?” Santos scoffs. “No. Langdon’s never listened to a single word I’ve said. He certainly won’t start today.”

“Go grab coffee or something,” Robby says gently. “I’ll deal with it.”

Santos hesitates, then nods, jaw clenched as she walks away.

Langdon comes back a minute later, flipping through labs, clearly in a hurry, until he nearly runs into Robby.

“Oh - hey,” Frank mumbles, obviously preoccupied. “If this is about the admit in Three-”

“It’s about Santos,” Robby cuts in.

Langdon stiffens. “What about her?”

“You keep leaving her,” Robby says flatly. “You’re the senior. She’s your intern. Yet every time Page needs something, you disappear.”

“That’s not fair,” Langdon says quickly. “Page’s cases are more complicated.”

“She’s a second-year,” Robby replies. “She should be able to wait. Or handle it herself. Your intern can’t. You need to be teaching. Not favouring.”

Langdon frowns. “I’m not favouring anyone.”

Robby raises an eyebrow. “Then why does Santos feel like she doesn’t exist?”

Frank opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes flick instinctively down the hall toward you, as you help an old lady into a wheelchair.

Robby catches it. “There. That. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I’m just trying to help Page,” Langdon insists. “She doesn’t always speak up. You’re hard on her.”

“And Santos does?” Robby shoots back. “She’s brand new, and impulsive. She needs structure, not abandonment. Someone to work on her communication skills with her.”

“I didn’t abandon her.”

“Call it whatever you want, but she calls it favouritism.”

He bristles, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what this is.”

“Intent doesn’t matter,” Robby says, already turning toward Central. “Impact does. And right now, your intern thinks you don’t give a damn.”

Frank follows, irritation simmering. “This is being blown way out of proportion.”

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you-” Robby starts, and Frank’s brow furrows.

“Who? Page?”

“-but you cannot ignore your teaching duties for your girlfriend.”

“She is not my-”

“Alright, not girlfriend. Friend with benefits, or whatever the kids call it these days. Hook-up, I don’t care-”

“Please don’t ever say the word hook-up again,” Frank groans.

“You’ve run enough staff members out of this hospital,” Robby warns, continuing the walk to Central to inspect the admissions list.

Frank follows, trying to fight the outrage building in his chest. “That is not true-”

“Cailey in neuro?”

“She got a fellowship at Hopkins!”

“Hm, yeah. Right after you dumped her for Madeline in geriatrics. Who you then dumped for Calista in admin. Who got shafted for Valerie in respiratory. All of whom, coincidentally, no longer work at this hospital anymore.”

“That’s not my fault!” Frank protests. “And besides, Page and I are not sleeping together.”

“It’s not not your fault. And even if you’re not fucking… it’s crystal clear you want to.”

“That’s beside the point,” He huffs, eyes darting around the Pitt to make sure you’re nowhere near. He’d rather die than let you overhear this conversation.

“Do not hurt her,” Robby says firmly, drawing Frank’s attention back to him. “She’s had a rough transition. Complicating things won’t help.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you! She thinks you hate her-”

“I don’t hate her. I just want her to do well. She has potential, but she-”

“-needs to be more assertive,” Frank parodies, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know. She knows. It’s all you ever fucking say to her. She tried that today, and she got punched. So I’m not sure how good your advice is.”

1PM

The nurses think they’re subtle with the gossiping. They’re not, but by some miracle you don’t hear it. The comments passed between Perlah and Princess every time you and Frank interact. The knowing looks that Dana throws Robby on each staff night out, when Frank never fails to gravitate towards you as the night wears on.

They’re half-surprised that neither of you have found the betting board, shoved in one of the lounge cupboards.

Santos. $20. They’re already fucking, but it ends when he breaks her heart.

Samira. $10. They’ve been secretly dating since they met, and they’re screwing with us all.

Skipper. $30. Haven’t met Page, but she seems too good for him - they date for a while and then she leaves him for someone better looking and more successful :)

Abbot. $50. They get together before Robby gets another girlfriend

McKay. $15. He screws things up somehow

Pulse. $5. Leave them both alone!

Dana. $50. They’re pining for each other - will get together before this year is out.

*****

Your pager goes off. Paeds. Unresponsive.

You’re already moving by the time the words finish registering, feet carrying you through hallways you could navigate blind. Robby and Frank are there when you arrive, sleeves pushed up, expression solemn as Skipper reads off vitals.

They wheel her in fast, followed by an anxious father and a terrified father.

You wish you could bring them some comfort, but there’s nothing to be done. Not when their daughter’s life is on the line.

She’s small. Too small. Limbs thin to the point of fragility, chest barely moving. Someone says anorexia, says cardiac arrest, says ROSC, and your brain files it all away with brutal efficiency.

Your eyes catch on the teddy bear clutched in her hands.

As they move to transfer her, her fingers loosen. The bear slips free and hits the floor, landing on its side in the chaos. No one notices. No one can.

Something twists in your chest.

Not now.

You step in without being asked. Your voice stays even as you call out vitals, as you move where you’re needed, as your hands do exactly what they’ve been trained to do. Tubes, monitors, numbers that refuse to feel abstract when the patient looks like this. When she looks like a child who should be worrying about spelling tests, not dying.

Robby looks at you once, quick and sharp. “You with me?”

“Yes,” you say, and this time it’s true enough.

You don’t look at the bear again. You don’t think you can.

But despite everything - the compressions, the meds, the desperate coordination… she doesn’t make it.

The monitor flatlines.

Robby curses under his breath. The team goes still. An anguished cry escapes from her mother’s lips, while her father can do nothing but stare, eyes darting between the doctors, as if imploring them to do more.

There’s a sudden commotion. A bustle of people, as the parents rush out in a flurry of sobs, Robby and Kiara on their heels. Trying to find them a room for their grief, when it’s too much to be in the same room as their dead daughter.

When it’s over, when the room finally empties, when the chaos recedes, you bend and pick up the teddy bear from the floor. It’s lighter than it should be. That’s when your hands start to shake.

Just a little.

And then the tears come.

2PM

It’s like somebody’s crushing your chest, as you start to gasp for breath. The bear sits discarded in the corner, it’s eyes boring deep into your soul. You think you might die if Robby sees you like this. If anybody, other than Frank, sees it.

Short, sharp breaths aren’t enough to fill your lungs, and you can see Frank’s brow furrow as he crosses, the room. “Hey, you’re alright, I’ve got you.”

His voice is low, murmured just for you, and he pulls you in tightly. The embrace helps a little, but you can still feel tears start to trickle down your cheeks. A wave of shame washes over you.

This is what comes with the territory.

Death.

You don’t know what it is about this case that’s bothered you so much. It’s always hard… losing people, but the idea of continuing on with your shift right now makes you want to bawl.

Maybe it’s time you consider that offer from Mass General. If you switched now, you could be trained in family medicine before you hit thirty-five. A fresh start, away from a boss that hates you and a senior resident who you’re so painfully in love with that you can barely function.

Frank’s glancing outside, making sure the coast is clear, before he laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you out into the corridor, and into one of the supply closets. Face burning, you’re endlessly grateful nobody’s around to watch you fall apart like this.

“I-I-” You begin, but your voice cuts off in another sob.

“Sweetheart,” Frank mumbles, thumb catching your tears as he gives you a quick once-over. “Come on. Breathe with me. It’s okay.”

In vain, you try and follow his breathing patterns, but you’re still too worked up. “I don’t think I-I’m meant to be here,” You finally manage.

“What do you mean?”

“Here. The Pitt. Emergency medicine. I don’t know. All of the above. R-Robby was right, and I think maybe I need to think about Boston-”

“Woah,” Frank interjects. “What the hell does Boston have to do with any of this?”

Eventually, you pause, Frank’s hands settling on your forearms. His grip is tight, as if he’s scared you’re going to disappear from under him.

This had not been how you planned on breaking the news to him. Hell, you still aren’t even sure you’re going to take it. But it’s looking better and better as an option each day. “I applied for a family medicine residency at Massachusetts General - I got an offer through this morning.”

“Wha- but, why? I thought you liked the ER? Thought you were settling in?”

“Come on, Frankie. You know I’m not cut out for this-”

“Bullshit - is this about Robby this morning? Because he’s just in a shitty mood because of Pulse. Nothing else. He hasn’t been laid in a really long time, and-”

“It’s not Robby, it’s me - I mean, god, just today I’ve been hit, yelled at, and cried over a patient I’d known for fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, and that empathy is why you’re a hell of a doctor,” Frank argues. “This ER needs you so badly, honey, and I’m so sorry you’ve been made to feel otherwise.”

When you don’t reply, he storms on.

“Don’t go to Boston. Stay here. Please.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything for me here,” You whisper, eyes shining as you meet his gaze.

“I’m here.” He’s never sounded so firm, lip between his teeth as he watches for any changes in your expression.

A silence falls between you both, chests still heaving, before he makes a sudden movement. When he kisses you, the air is sucked from your lungs for a very different reason. Hands fisting in Frank’s scrub top, it’s all you can do just to stay upright.

Initially slow, it doesn’t take long to build to tongue and teeth, your breaths coming in sharp gasps as he presses you against the counter.

“Frank,” You whimper, barely pausing as you melt into his touch. His knee slots between your thigh, anchoring you to him. His hands drop to your waist, pulling you to him as tightly as possible. He’s everywhere, and it’s somehow not enough.

It feels like a lifetime before he finally pulls back, breathing heavily as he rests his forehead against yours. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that for.”

“I’d actually really like to know how long you’ve wanted to do it for,” You mumble, letting out a laugh when he starts to pepper kisses across your face.

“Since about thirty minutes after you arrived on your first day.”

“Well, I think I’ve got you beat then, because I’ve wanted to do that since the second I met you.”

He kisses you once more, soft and slow as he moulds against you. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” You scoff, but he’s immediately shaking his head.

“It’s true! I don’t lie.”

“You lie all the time. To Trinity, about not eating her bagel when you did, to Robby when you said you had plans and couldn’t cover, to Whitak-”

“Alright, alright, I lie a little. But not to you. Never to you.”

Someone walks past the closet, making you jump. Turns out, it’s very easy for the world to shrink down to just you and Frank. “We should uh… we should get back out there.”

“Yeah, of course,” He nods, finally taking a step back. “Should really get back to Santos.”

He makes a face, and you have to bite back a laugh. “She’s not that bad.”

“To you, maybe. She hates me.”

“And who’s fault is that?” You both make for Central, smiles dropping when you see everybody gathered around the phone.

Frank’s at your heel, a hand resting on your lower back. It appears that subtlety is not his strong suit. “What’s going on?”

Robby’s expression is grave. “A bomb just went off at the New Year’s celebration - we’re the closest, we’ll be getting most of the casualties.”

You think you might be sick.

3PM

You get fragments of details, ricocheting round the ER from various sources. At Pittsburgh’s biggest gathering for New Year’s, which usually lasts all day, there had been a bomb. Right in the middle of the city centre.

There’s no telling how many casualties you’ll have yet.

The police think it was a suicide bomber. Beyond that, there’s nothing.

Just confusion, where nobody knows exactly what’s going on.

The first wave hits like a wall.

Abbot, Shen and Ellis have all made their way in to help out. Robby’s taken triage, while Shen runs reds with you, Cassie and Samira, while Abbot floats. Frank’s on pinks with Whitaker, while the other residents spread out across the less severe cases.

You barely have time to breathe before a stretcher is pushed into your bay, Skipper’s partner rattling off details as you fall into step beside her. Early twenties. Found near the blast radius. Breathing fast, skin clammy, pupils blown wide with shock.

You take over automatically.

“Hi there,” you say, voice steady even as your heart hammers. “You’re at Pittsburgh General. I’m one of the doctors, and I need you to keep your eyes on me, okay? We’re going to treat you as best we can.”

Airway’s clear. Breathing shallow but present. Pulse fast, thready

You call for fluids. Oxygen. Get a pressure cuff on.

Eventually, she stabilises. It’s still not wonderful - she’s covered in burns that plastics are going to have a field day with, but you can send her to the surgeons to make that happen.

There’s no time to dwell on it.

The next patient is worse. Middle-aged, unresponsive, brought in with CPR already in progress. Skipper’s perched on top of his stretcher, working furiously. Jack is at her back, a hand hovering to keep her steady with each twist and turn of the gurney. Someone calls out the time down. Three minutes. Your heart constricts, but you’re already snapping gloves on, reaching for a defibrillator.

“Continue compressions,” You order, sharper than you mean to. “Let’s get pads on.”

Abbot takes over from Skipper, allowing her to get back out to the ambulance. You glance at him, in case he wants to take over, lead the case. All you get is a reassuring nod. “All yours, kid. I’m at your disposal.”

The room narrows to rhythm and timing. Pause for breaths, then compressions start again as you place each pad.

“Charging. Clear!”

You clear back, heart in your throat. The shock lands, the body jolting once before going still again.

For a split second, nothing happens.

Then… “Pulse.”

It’s faint, but it’s there.

The relief is dizzying, almost painful. You steady yourself against the bed as the room surges back into motion. Airway secured, lines placed, vitals shouted aloud. Jack claps you on the back, and you snap back to work.

This patient won’t need surgery, thankfully. Just a stay in critical care to check brain activity.

You catch Frank’s eye from across the bay; he gives you a sharp nod, pride flickering through the exhaustion while he works on an elderly man, missing a leg.

The third stretcher comes in a flurry of noise, as she crashes en route from the front door to Central.

CPR is started, with you on compressions this time.

But this feels different to the last. Something low in your gut tells you that this woman isn’t surviving.

You spend ten minutes on CPR. Longer than Robby would have liked, you’re aware. But he’s still outside directing patients, and you can’t quite bring yourself to stop.

Time of death is called, and the words sit heavy in the air. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay upright, to stay professional as the team disperses. There’s a name on the chart. Someone who came here to celebrate and didn’t get to leave.

Someone who doesn’t get to see the new year.

You step back, hands curling into fists at your sides.

Frank appears without a word. He doesn’t touch you, not here, but he doesn’t leave either. It’s fleeting. You both have endless patients to get to. But it’s grounding. “You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again. “There’s more coming,” You say, voice tight.

“I know,” he replies. “You’re doing great.”

You draw in a breath, square your shoulders, and turn back toward the noise.

Two saved. One lost.

4PM

The patient comes in already shouting.

Mid-thirties, male, reeking of alcohol and stinking of marijuana. He’s bleeding, a head wound and maybe a forearm, but it’s the way his eyes track the room that sets you on edge.

Fight-or-flight tipped violently toward fight.

Somehow he lands in your bay, Skipper throwing you a guilty look as she drops him off. "Sorry. I'd give him to Frank, but he's elbow deep in some guy's guts right now. Told him to get his ass over to you as soon as he was done though."

"Don't worry about it," You reply, smile tight, as you turn to the patient.

“Sir, I need you to stay on the stretcher,” You say, calm and even, hands raised just enough to be non-threatening. “We’re here to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” He snaps, trying to sit up. “I need you to get your hands off me.”

“I haven’t touched you,” You reply gently, already signaling for Ahmad with a glance. Except, the ER is so full of noise that nobody's paying any attention.

He doesn’t like that.

He swings his legs off the bed, movements sloppy but forceful.

Blood drips onto the floor, dark and slick under the harsh lights. The smell of iron hangs in the air, mixing with the weed. It's somehow worse than the burning flesh smell.

“Sir-” You start.

He shoves you.

It’s sudden enough that you don’t have time to brace. Your heel slides in the pool of blood, traction lost, and for a split second all you can see is the floor rushing up to meet you.

A hand clamps around your waist.

Strong. Steady.

Frank.

He yanks you back against him, arm locked tight around your middle as you regain your footing. Your back hits his chest, solid and real, and you gasp.

“That’s enough,” Frank says, voice low. “You do not touch her.” She is trying to help you."

Ahmad rushes in after that, hands on the patient as he makes another swing at you both. He keeps yelling, but he’s already being moved, already no longer your problem.

You'd put money on him being taken to Abbot.

There's nothing he likes more than taking down obnoxious men a few pegs.

Frank doesn’t let go right away.

“You okay?” He murmurs, pitched just for you, thumb flexing once at your side like he needs the reassurance that you’re still upright.

“Yeah,” You say, though your heart is racing hard enough to make your ears ring. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He releases you reluctantly, eyes scanning you head to toe with barely restrained panic before he steps back. Re-thinking his movement, he presses a quick kiss to your temple before moving towards the hallway. "Can't have two concussions in one day, sweetheart. You'd think we abuse you."

“Langdon,” Robby’s voice cuts in. “You’re needed out front - take triage for a little bit.”

Frank hesitates, looking at you.

“I’m good,” You repeat, more firmly this time, offering as much of a smile as you're able.

He nods once and goes, jaw clenched tight.

You look down.

There’s blood on your shoe. Not yours.

There’s no time to spiral.

The next patient crashes minutes later. Hypotensive. Internal bleeding suspected. Everything moves fast. Walsh is at your side, as you try and figure out how to proceed.

“We’re losing her,” someone says.

"She needs a chest tube," You breathe, leaping into action before Walsh can talk you out of it.

*****

Robby finds you by the desk a few minutes later, when the lull finally begins. There are still patients being brought in regularly, but it's not as fraught anymore.

With most of the patients stabilised, everyone's allowing themselves to breathe a little easier.

“You did good today - handled the pressure well,” He says.

You glance up, surprised. “I just did what needed doing.”

He studies you for a moment, then sighs. “I was hard on you earlier. With the lumbar puncture. With… everything.” He rubs a hand over his face. “That was unfair.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still coming down, still replaying everything in your head.

“You have real potential here. And it was just... so infuriating that you weren't making the most of that,” Robby continues. “You trusted your instincts today. That matters. And it shows that you're meant to be here.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

5PM

“Shit!” You curse, as the final patient of the night manages to spray blood directly across your face. Just your luck.

Frank’s at your side immediately, the way you can tell he’s been itching to be all night. With all the chaos of the last few hours, you’ve barely been able to keep track of each other. “You okay?”

“Bloody. But fine.”

Robby emerges from Central, eyes darting between you both. “I’ve got this one. Go get cleaned up. You both did good work today. Don’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary.

You flash Robby a grateful smile, hoping that this is the beginning of some kind of truce.

The exhaustion is beginning to seep into your bones, and you’re easily pliable under Frank’s arms as he guides you towards the staff lounge, currently deserted. He clicks the door shut behind you, and reaches up into the cupboards above the sink.

“Long day,” You sigh, resting against the counter, eyes fluttering closed. “And a shitty end to the New Year.”

“Saved a lot of people though,” Frank counters, positioning you so that he can clean you. His expression is focused, lip between his teeth as he dabs at your face with a cloth.

“Do I look like an extra from The Walking Dead?” You murmur, trying not to imagine how difficult it’s going to be to get the blood out of your hair. So much for a new start going into the new year.

“You’re too pretty to be on The Walking Dead,” He replies, and you roll your eyes.

“Liar.”

“It’s true!” He protests. “Close your eyes for a sec-” The cloth brushes across your eyelids, as Frank lets out a small hum. “There. That’s you.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.” His voice is quiet, almost contemplative, his hand still hovering near your cheek.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness rushes through you. You haven’t looked in a mirror since midday- god knows what you look like right now. “What?”

“Just thinking,” He shrugs, discarding the cloth before his other hand pushes a stray hair from your face.

“About…?” You trail off, arching an eyebrow.

“How I really don’t want you to go to Boston. How I think you’re perfect in Emergency Medicine. How much I’d like to kiss you again.”

A smile spreads across your face. It’s been the worst shift of your life, hands down, and yet you’re not sure you’ve ever been happier. “Are you just thinking about it or are you actually going to make a move?”

“Someone’s impatient,” Frank murmurs, before his hands drop to your waist and he pulls you in, kissing you deeply.

It’s softer than the first kiss - less desperate. Your hands fist his scrub top, and you sigh into his movements. There’s none of the usual early awkwardness - trying to work out the dynamic, the push and pull. It’s like you and Frank have been doing this for years.

Finally, he pulls back a little, resting his forehead against yours.

“Pity it’s not midnight,” You breathe, and he lets out a low laugh.

“We’ll just have to do it again, then.”

“Very smooth, Langdon.”

“And Boston?” There’s an air of nerves to his tone, like he’s not quite sure where he stands. Where you both stand. Together.

“You can decline the offer right now, if you want.”

The door to the office swings open, and you both leap apart as Dana sticks her head in. “Don’t mind me,” She starts. “Just need a pen.”

Once the door closes again, you worry that the moment is ruined. That today is just going to go down as an almost. Instead, Frank speaks. “Do you have plans tonight?”

You wish you could say you did. But in a new city, you haven’t quite managed the friends thing yet. Omaha to Pennsylvania is a long way, and your plans had involved a glass of wine, and a viewing of When Harry Met Sally. Lip between your teeth, you shake your head.

“Come out with me,” He urges.

“To do what?”

“Anything. I’ll pick you up at eight - we can go get drinks, catch a firework show, whatever you want.”

It’s the easiest decision of your life. “Okay, yeah,” You smile. “That sounds fun. I uh, I don’t have my car, though. Might take me a little bit to get home.”

His jaw drops a little. “You walked?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” You shrug.

“Okay, well. Change of plans. I’m going to drive you home, and then go get changed myself, and come back to pick you up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” You start, but Frank is immediately shaking his head.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. Sweeping you off your feet does not involve a two mile walk home in the dark. I’m driving.”

6PM

Dana’s been aware of you both all day. Aside from being Charge Nurse, and her duty to keep track of the staff, she’s been paying extra special attention to you and Frank Langdon.

Even if she hadn’t walked in on you both about to jump each other, she would’ve noticed the shift. Normally after traumas, you’re withdrawn and quiet. A little aloof with everybody, even Frank.

Tonight, your demeanour is relaxed, and the smile hasn’t left your face as you follow Frank out of the hospital.

Frank isn’t much better. His body has been angled towards you, ever since you both emerged from the supply closet, and his fingers keep twitching, as if he’s suppressing the urge to reach out for you.

She has a feeling she might be collecting some money from Perlah tomorrow - the two of them have had an ongoing bet about whether Robby or Frank will get their act together first. Perlah had been firmly Team Robby, on the grounds that he’s been pining for the night-shift charge nurse for literal years, and surely he couldn’t drag this out much longer.

Dana, on the other hand, always knew that Frank had it in him.

He’s afforded the luxury of being mildly less fucked up than Robby, and he’s in very close proximity to you on almost every shift.

Knowing there’s some money coming her way from the betting pool helps too.

The eyes never lie, and the two of you have been gone for each other since day one.

She does see the irony in a very occasion for you both sprouting from a hellish shift, but she figures someone deserves to be happy tonight.

Dana’s gaze follows your figures out to Frank’s car, and she has to bite back a smile when he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek, before opening the door for you.

Maybe they’ll all get a Pitt wedding before long.

And maybe that’s what you like about it.

Because you don’t live in a world of routines and rotas and rounds. You’re not in medicine. You don’t know what a central line is or how to read an EKG. You work at the city’s adult literacy nonprofit, helping people who slipped through cracks in the system big enough to bury them. You teach night classes in a fluorescent basement on the North Side, surrounded by broken chairs and stained carpet and students with parole bracelets and kids who need dinner by six.

It’s good work. Quiet work. Important.

But it doesn’t leave much room for wanting things just for yourself.

And Jack Abbot has never once asked you to be small.

You step carefully up the cracked incline of his driveway, heels clicking softly against the uneven concrete. Jack’s truck is parked just slightly crooked, like always—angled enough that the passenger side catches the streetlight, the front end turned a little too close to the retaining wall, like he pulled in fast and didn’t bother correcting.

You slow as you pass it.

The passenger-side mirror is fogged at the edges, streaked faintly from rain, but you lean in anyway, breathing warm against the glass to clear a patch. Your reflection stares back—lipstick still intact, not too bright, not too desperate. You smooth a hand down the front of your dress. It clings a little from the damp.

You don’t touch the mirror. You don’t need to.

Instead, you straighten your spine, cross the last few feet, and raise your hand to knock.

Once. Then again. Knuckles on wood, sharp and clean.

There’s a pause.

Then the soft clatter of a lock, then another.

Then silence.

When the door opens, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there.

Jack Abbot isn’t tall enough to tower, but he doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he carries himself—shoulders slightly hunched, stance uneven from the prosthetic—that makes people instinctively give him space. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Like they know he’s walked through something hard and quiet and didn’t come out clean on the other side.

He’s still in his black scrubs, the collar rumpled. Underneath, the cuff of a white undershirt is visible—stained faintly at the edge, like he’d wiped his hand on it without realizing. Could be blood. Could be iodine. Could be coffee. He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a cut healing at his jawline, a bruise blooming high on one forearm. And his eyes—that slow, searching stare that never stays still—carry the quiet of someone who’s watched too many people bleed out under fluorescent light and learned to keep his voice steady anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching you like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll flinch first.

He looks like he just got off shift.

He looks like he never left it.

“Hi,” you say.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His gaze drops. Tracks the fabric. The way it clings to your hips. The slit at your thigh. Then climbs again, slowly, until he’s looking at your mouth like he’s remembering something that never should’ve been said out loud.

“I’m not in the mood for small talk,” he says, voice rough and clipped, like it’s meant to keep you at a distance.

You arch a brow. “Relax. I wasn’t planning to ask how your day was. You texted me, remember?”

“That was an hour ago.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looks at you, unmoving. “I typed it an hour ago. Hit send ten minutes ago.”

You snort—just barely. “Jesus. You ghost me for a month, then get pissy I didn’t teleport here?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to count all the ways this is going to be a bad idea.

You step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the heat of him—his restraint like a wall you could kick in if you wanted to.

“I’m not here to coddle whatever brooding thing you’ve got going on tonight,” you say, casting a glance back over your shoulder. “If you wanted silence, you could’ve kept the draft in your messages.”

Jack shifts—just enough that you notice. Eyes steady, weight shifted, like he’s tracking something under your skin.

“You wearing anything under that?”

You smile with your teeth. “You planning to find out or just stand there being weird about it?”

He exhales through his nose—short, sharp. Glances down once, then back up.

Then steps aside and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

“You’re still late,” he says.

“And you’re still full of shit,” you reply, walking in without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You shrug your coat off and let it hang on the crooked hook by the entryway. His silence follows you like steam—slow, clinging, heavy in the chest. You’re halfway into the living room before you realize he hasn’t moved—Jack is staring at you like he’s trying not to say the thing he’ll regret. Like he already knows how this ends and is still pretending he has a choice.

You turn.

You arch a brow. “You gonna hover all night, or…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves—slowly—toward the coffee table. His movements are clipped, functional, like he’s still coming down from shift adrenaline.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I made a reservation.”

You snort. “At a place with silverware?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You—” you blink again, actually thrown for once, “—you made a reservation at a real-ass restaurant.”

“Look, I didn’t expect you to show.”

You tilt your head. “But you made the reservation anyway.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, not looking at you. “They had online booking. It wasn’t emotional.”

“So what? You were gonna eat coq au vin alone and pretend it was character development?”

He finally looks at you, deadpan. “I was gonna sit at the bar, drink overpriced scotch, and ignore the people having birthday dinners behind me. It’s practically therapy.”

You laugh. Actually laugh. And his eyes flick to your mouth like he forgot they do that.

“I thought we were walking,” you say.

“We are,” he says. “To my truck.”

“Oh, romantic.”

“You wanna walk through the Strip District in that dress?” he asks, not even looking at you. “I’m all for a dramatic entrance, but I’m not in the mood to commit a felony in public tonight.”

You smirk. “You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I think if anyone says the wrong thing to you,” Jack mutters, eyes flicking down the length of your dress again, “I’ll end up punching someone in the face—and I’m already covered in someone else’s blood.”

You go still for half a breath.

And he catches it. Like a pulse under your skin.

His jaw works once, then he exhales through his nose—tired, sharp.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”

He disappears down the hallway, one boot clunking against the baseboard, prosthetic hissing faintly as it shifts with his stride. You don’t sit. You pace, slow and quiet, absorbing his house like it’s telling you something he won’t.

The walls are neutral. Medical journals stacked beside a box of ammo he hasn’t unpacked. Framed medals, yes—but not displayed. Tucked in a dusty cabinet beside an unopened bottle of whiskey and a Ziploc full of blood donation cards. There’s a water bottle on the counter with his name on the cap in someone else’s handwriting. There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says Don’t forget Friday—Robby.

You lean against the kitchen doorway.

There’s still a black bag by the door. Trauma pack. Half-zipped. Red tape on the handles. He’s always got one ready—even when he’s off.

When he comes back, he’s not dressed for candlelight.

He’s dressed like himself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled halfway. Dark jeans. That same leather jacket you once saw him use to splint someone’s arm after a three-car pileup. His hair’s still wet, but pushed back now. He smells like cedar soap—something clean, sharp, bought on purpose—and something darker beneath it, like heat and metal and memory. Not cologne. Just him. The kind of scent that lingers even when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

But he does stop. And look.

“You good?” he asks.

You grab your coat from the hook. “Better than you.”

“Doubt that,” he says, already at the door. “I’ve had three cups of hospital coffee and a fentanyl OD cough in my face. That’s called building resilience.”

“I think that’s called exposure therapy.”

“No, that’s what this is,” he mutters, opening the front door for you.

Outside, the rain softens everything—headlights, corners, voices. The kind of night that makes even the city feel like it's whispering.

Jack walks ahead, boots hitting the concrete with that uneven cadence you’ve learned by feel, not sound. You trail behind, pulling your coat tighter, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders under the jacket. He doesn't glance back, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you're there.

He opens the passenger door to his truck. Holds it open without fanfare.

You hesitate, one foot still on the sidewalk.

“You really made a reservation?” you ask.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “So we actually have a table?”

He glances at you now, sharp and sure. “If I walk in with you in that dress, they’ll give us one.”

Then he shuts the door gently behind you, like he’s sealing something in.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and everyone talks like they’re trying not to wake a baby. A converted warehouse with exposed brick, matte silverware, and waitstaff in black aprons who glide, not walk.

You step in first, rain-slick and radiant under the vestibule light, and Jack follows just behind. His presence doesn’t just fill a room. It tilts it.

The hostess does a quick scan, eyes pausing on your dress, then on Jack’s face, then on the two of you together—like she knows better than to ask questions. She checks the list, but Jack cuts in, voice low.

“Abbot. Table for two.”

Her posture straightens. “Right this way.”

The table is small. Intimate. Tucked into a corner where the candlelight flickers just enough to make the shadows feel intentional. You slide into your seat across from him. The tablecloth brushes your thighs. Jack drops into the chair like he’s still trying to convince his body to sit still.

You watch him take in the room like a trauma bay—sizing up exits, memorizing sightlines, cataloguing who’s already drunk and who might start something. You’re not surprised. Jack doesn’t know how to be off-duty. Not really.

“I’ve never seen you eat anywhere with cloth napkins,” you murmur.

He lifts his eyes, deadpan. “I can evolve.”

You lean back. “Is that what this is? Personal growth?”

Jack unfolds his napkin like he’s done it a hundred times. “It’s carbs and a distraction.”

“And me?”

He looks at you for a long second. “A complication.”

You smirk. “Careful. I might put that on a dating profile.”

He doesn’t smile—but his eyes betray him. That flicker of something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or memory.

A waiter appears—tall, the kind of man who probably judges how you hold a fork. He hands you menus and starts his monologue, but you only half-hear it. Your eyes are on Jack. He hasn’t looked away from you once.

When the waiter leaves, Jack doesn’t reach for the menu.

You do.

“What?” you ask, without looking up. “You don’t read?”

“I already know what I want,” he says.

You freeze for half a second.

Then flip the page. “You always this forward in public?”

Jack shrugs. “Just forward enough.”

You glance up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says quietly.

Silence folds in between you—soft, ambient, but charged. You can hear the clink of cutlery, low jazz humming from the ceiling speakers, the faint hiss of water being poured into someone else’s glass. Jack shifts in his seat—not restless, just recalibrating. You recognize that posture. He’s about to say something he’ll pretend didn’t matter.

“You look good,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes. “You already said that.”

“I didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Thought you didn’t do compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

Jack leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now, more grounded.

“This is me trying not to go home with your dress still in the seat crease of my truck.”

You’re warm now. Not from the wine. From him. From the way his gaze doesn’t drop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t ask.

“I thought you wanted this to be civilized,” you say.

Jack exhales, slow and sharp. “I wanted it to be public. That’s not the same thing.”

You lean in, just enough that the candlelight touches your collarbone.

“So what happens after dessert?” you ask, sweetly.

Jack’s mouth curves—not into a smile. Something more dangerous.

“You think I’m gonna make it to dessert?”

Jack doesn’t touch his wine. Just traces the rim of the glass with the side of his thumb, like he’s giving his hands something to do besides reach for you.

You, on the other hand, sip yours slow. Watch him over the edge like you’re still deciding if you’re going to let this happen.

“You always this twitchy at dinner?” you ask, setting the glass down.

“I’m not twitchy,” he mutters.

You raise your brow.

“I’m alert.”

You grin. “You know what civilians call that?”

“Hypervigilance?”

“Therapy’s working.”

That gets him. Just a flicker—something behind the eyes, that half-breath pause he does when he’s almost about to smile. But he shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. Always brushing it off.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You blink—caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like it’s inevitable. Like it already happened.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes locked on you. “That’s the problem.”

A beat. The waiter brings bread. You ignore it.

Jack leans back a little. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but more settled. Like whatever this is, he’s decided to let it stretch a little longer.

“You like what you do?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “That a real question or small talk?”

“Real,” he says, without missing a beat. “You do this thing where your shoulders drop when you talk about work. Even when you say it’s exhausting. I noticed.”

You go still.

Then—cautious: “You remember what I do?”

Jack meets your eyes, unwavering. “Adult literacy program. GED prep. Half your students can’t keep consistent hours because they work night shifts or care for their kids. One of them asked you to help fill out a DMV form last week and didn’t know how to sign their own name.”

You stare at him.

“I listen,” Jack says, voice steady. “Doesn’t mean I know what to say back.”

You look down for a moment. His words hit somewhere too soft, too unguarded. You weren’t expecting softness—not from him. But here it is, tucked under the barbed wire.

“I thought you were half-listening that night,” you say. “The one where you were icing your shoulder and bleeding into your scrub top.”

“I was bleeding into someone else’s scrub top,” he corrects, dry. “Mine was already ruined.”

You smile. “Still. I thought I was talking to the wall.”

“You were,” he says. Then softer: “But the wall has ears.”

You both fall quiet again—but not from discomfort. From weight.

Jack shifts forward slightly, elbows on the table now, posture subtly open in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But you notice. Because you know how rare it is.

“You ever want to do something else?” he asks.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But I like that I get to be useful. And I like that it’s mine.”

He nods. Absorbs that.

“What about you?” you ask. “You ever think about walking away?”

His fingers tighten just slightly around the water glass.

“Every night,” he says. “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Jack looks up at you then, sharp and tired and honest.

“Because the minute I stop showing up,” he says, “someone else has to hold the pressure. And I don’t trust most people to not fuck that up.”

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you let your foot brush his under the table. Just barely. A whisper of contact.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?” you ask.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You offering?”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No,” Jack says, voice dropping a register. “You’re worse. You see through it.”

You look at him across the table.

Candlelight catches in the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at your mouth anymore. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time he gets to do it.

That scares you more than anything.

But you don’t look away.

“You want to get out of here?” you ask, voice low.

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not rushing.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He leans in. Just slightly. His voice soft now. Barely a murmur.

“Because if I take you home right now,” he says, “I’m not letting you leave before sunrise. And I’m trying to be good.”

Your heart trips.

“But you’re not good,” you whisper.

Jack stares at you like you’ve already undone him.

“No,” he says. “But I want to be. With you, I want to be.”

Dinner’s done.

The plates are cleared. The wine is low in the glass. Whatever tension was humming earlier has now settled into something denser—gravity, almost. Like the weight of what neither of you is saying has taken up its own seat at the table.

You reach for your purse when the check comes.

Jack watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

“No,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

He tilts his head—just enough to be a warning. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I invited you.”

“Since when do you play by date rules?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. The collar of his button-down is open just slightly now, sleeves pushed up. His forearms rest against the edge of the table—still, tense. You can see the cut healing along his knuckle, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing back a longer sentence.

Then he says, voice low and level:

“I had a kid code on me last night. No warning. Collapsed mid-handoff.”

You stop moving.

Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“You ever do chest compressions on someone who still has their baby teeth?”

The air around you goes sharp. Quiet.

His voice doesn’t waver. “It’s been a long fucking month. And you—” he lifts his chin slightly, like pointing at you without pointing, “—are the first good thing to happen to me that I didn’t have to stitch shut or call time on.”

You don’t speak.

Not right away.

Jack exhales slowly. Not dramatic. Just tired.

“So please,” he finishes, softer now. “Let me pay for your damn meal.”

You sit back, lips parting—but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t soften. He just looks at you like he needs you to let him have this.

So you nod. Once.

“Okay,” you murmur.

Jack signals the waiter with a tilt of his fingers and slides his card into the checkbook before the guy even finishes approaching.

When he turns back to you, his voice is lighter. Barely. “Thanks for not fighting me on it.”

“I figured you’d pull the dead kid card.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters. “I pulled the I care about you card. You just weren’t expecting it.”

You shake your head, smiling now. “I really wasn’t.”

Outside, the streets are still slick. Reflections of stoplights ripple in the puddles. You walk side by side in silence, coats tight, his hand resting near your lower back without ever quite touching. Not possessive. Just... present.

He unlocks the truck with a low beep. You slide in, silk sticking slightly to the seat.

Jack closes the door behind you, then rounds to his side. The interior smells like his jacket. Clean, worn-in, edged with cedar and something darker.

He starts the engine.

Doesn’t drive yet.

His hand rests on the steering wheel. The other on the gearshift.

You’re watching him. And you know he knows.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft now.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just taps once on the steering wheel. Then again.

Then: “I haven’t had you in my house since Feburary.”

You tilt your head. “You keeping track?”

“I remember things that mess me up.”

You stare at him. “That what I do?”

Jack finally turns to look at you.

And it’s there—all of it. The restraint, the need, the fear, the ache. The thing in his chest he’s been keeping taped down with dry humor and trauma protocol.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of my life I don’t hate,” he says. “That counts for something.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s when he shifts into gear.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Just dense. His hand rests near yours on the console. The city passes by in wet blurs of neon and old brick and memory. And when you reach his street—familiar now, in that strange way trauma and attraction make things sacred—you realize you’re holding your breath.

He parks in the same crooked way he always does.

Then cuts the engine.

But doesn’t move to open the door.

You glance over. “You gonna make me sit here all night?”

He looks at you—long, measured.

Then says, “You sure you’re ready to come back inside?”

You don’t answer.

You just open your door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels thick. Like the space inside his house is closing around you both, absorbing what little restraint you walked in with. You’re in the same hallway you stood in earlier—same floorboards, same shadows, same air—but your pulse is different now. Everything is.

Jack tosses his keys into the bowl by the door. The clatter echoes.

He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, head down slightly, like he’s bracing. Rain beads along his collar, catching in his jawline stubble. You can see the tension in the back of his neck, the way his hands flex once at his sides and then still.

You don’t wait for him to move.

You step up behind him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing your knees, heels soundless now on the rug.

“Jack,” you say quietly.

He turns.

And the way he looks at you—it’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s wrecked. Like you’ve been haunting him for weeks and now you’re finally standing here and he doesn’t know where to put the want.

“I think about you,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every fucking night.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t just want to hear your voice.”

That lands between you like weight.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other in the dark. And then, without warning, his hand finds your waist.

He pulls you toward him in one solid motion—not rough, just… inevitable. The kind of motion that’s been held back for too long.

Your bodies slot together like you remember each other. Like your hips already know where to rest against his. His hand stays at your waist, fingers firm but not possessive. The other lifts to your jaw, thumb skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just looks at you.

And it’s too much.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jack swallows hard. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”

“Then don’t.”

His fingers tense. You feel it at your hip. In your pulse. In the way your breath catches when he finally closes the last inch of space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first.

Not sweet.

Just devouted.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like this is the last time and he wants to make sure it’s enough to live on. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, anchoring you there like he doesn't trust himself to stop.

You moan softly into him, and his breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Sure I do,” you breathe. “That’s why I wore the dress.”

He laughs once—low, ragged—but it dies quickly in his throat. The sound is swallowed by your mouth, by the feel of you pressing closer.

You walk him backward without thinking. Past the narrow hallway, past the living room. His hand is on your waist again. Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt but don’t undo them yet.

The house is quiet except for breathing. His and yours. Tangled.

You hit the doorframe of his bedroom.

But he doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing hard now—like he’s keeping himself caged on purpose.

“I don’t want to rush it,” he says again. But this time it doesn’t sound like hesitation. It sounds like pain.

“You’re not.”

Jack pulls back half an inch to look at you. His eyes are blown wide. His mouth’s a little open. He looks—not undone—but stripped back.

“I can’t do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whisper. “That’s the whole point.”

He lets out a long, harsh breath.

And then—finally—he opens the door behind you and pulls you through it like he’s choosing to burn for it.

Jack’s bedroom is dark. Not in a neglectful way—just lived-in. A man’s space. Clean but uncurated. Worn boots under the chair. A folded sweatshirt on the dresser. An open book spine-down on the nightstand: Emergency Procedures & Field Triage. Pages marked in pencil. Of course.

He kicks the door shut behind you.

And for a moment, he just stands there. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re still some unsolvable thing he’s scared to touch wrong.

You move first.

Hands sliding up his chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, palms flattening over his heart.

“You sure?” you ask again—voice low, but steady.

Jack’s hands come to your waist, rough and warm. He leans in close, mouth hovering just above yours.

“I’ve been sure since the second you knocked on my door,” he says. Then lower—almost broken: “And I hate that I waited.”

The kiss this time is hungry.

Less control. More need. His tongue slides against yours like he’s chasing something deep, something he couldn’t name even if he tried. You press into him, gasp when his hand fists in the side of your dress, gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish mid-breath.

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your mouth. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, said like it’s been echoing in him for weeks.

You reach behind your back, unzip slowly—eyes locked to his the whole time.

Jack steps back half a foot. Watches.

The dress drops. Pools around your ankles.

You’re standing there in lace and nothing else.

He breathes in once, shallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wore that for me.”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

His eyes rake down your body—every curve, every detail. His hand lifts. Hovers near your hip. Doesn’t touch yet.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he says.

“You survived,” you whisper. “That’s enough.”

He lets out a harsh breath—something close to a sound of grief. And then his hand lands on your bare waist. Heavy. Certain.

He kisses down your neck—slow, biting when you moan, tongue smoothing after like apology. His hands find your back, unclasping your bra in one practiced motion, sliding the straps down your arms like they’re made of silk. You shiver. Not from cold. From him.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You always run cold,” you whisper back, breath shaking.

Jack sinks to his knees.

You inhale sharply.

“Jack—”

“I need to feel you first,” he mutters. “Need to taste you. You don’t get it—I’ve been thinking about this for months.”

You look down—he’s already kissing the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. Soft at first. Then harder. Like he’s mapping something. Marking you.

You gasp when his teeth graze the edge of your panties.

He groans.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, voice full of that broken admiration he doesn’t know how to hide. “That for me?”

“All for you,” you whisper.

He slides the lace down your legs, slow. Watches you step out of them.

Then his hands grip behind your thighs and he pulls you against his mouth.

His tongue is everywhere. Slow circles, deep flicks, his mouth moving like he’s memorizing you from the inside out. One hand holds your thigh wide, the other digs into your ass. When your hand finds his hair, he groans against you—louder now, messier. You can feel how much he needs this in the way he licks like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Jack—Jack,” you gasp, hips twitching, thighs trembling, “I—fuck—I’m close—”

“Good,” he growls. “You should be.”

When you come, you come with your fingers tight in his hair and your head thrown back, gasping his name like it’s a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. He keeps going. Slower. Gentler. Licking you through it with reverence, with dedication, with the kind of awe he’ll never say out loud.

When he stands again, his mouth is wet, jaw flushed, eyes glassy.

You’re breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asks. Quiet. Real.

“Need you to fuck me,” you say. “Now.”

Jack swears. Low and harsh.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“No,” you whisper, stepping into him again, naked and still shaking. “I’m gonna save you.”

Jack lifts you onto the bed like it’s instinct. His hands under your thighs, his body bracketed against yours—solid, tense, hot. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and you stretch out beneath him, bare and burning, chest rising and falling like your ribs don’t quite know how to contain the want.

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Take your pants off.”

He stares at you for a long beat. His chest rises.

Then—low, cracked: “Say it again.”

“Jack—” you whisper.

“No. Say it like you need it.”

Your breath stutters.

“I need to feel you,” you say, voice raw now. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

He swears under his breath. Voice frayed. “Fuck, okay.”

His jeans are gone fast—belt unclasped, zipper shoved down, cotton briefs pushed low. You watch the whole thing with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes dragging over the hard line of his stomach, the blunt, heavy length of him curved against his thigh. He’s thick. Flushed. And already leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You were hard the whole time?”

Jack climbs back over you, jaw clenched, one hand bracing beside your head. “Since you knocked on my door.”

You reach down between you, wrap your hand around him.

He groans—full-throated, wrecked—and drops his head to your shoulder like he’s just been shot through.

“Shit. Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. “I want you. Like this.”

He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Pupils blown wide.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” he says roughly. “Top left.”

You nod, stretch, grab it. Tear it open.

Your fingers brush his cock as you roll it on, slow and deliberate, and the hiss he lets out could bring a lesser man to his knees.

You look up at him, chest bare, thighs parted, breath gone.

“Jack. Now.”

He doesn’t tease.

He presses forward, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other gripping the back of your thigh to anchor you wide for him. You’re wet—already soaked—and the first push is hard enough to make your whole body arch.

“Fuck—” Jack grits. “You’re—shit, baby—you’re so tight.”

You grab his shoulder, nails digging into skin. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he growls.

He thrusts in fully, slow and deep, and your body takes him—inch by inch, stretch by stretch, until your hips are flush and his forehead is pressed to your collarbone.

Neither of you moves for a second. You just breathe.

And then he starts to fuck you.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Measured. Deep. Like he’s trying to get further inside than flesh will allow. Every snap of his hips pushes a breathless moan from your throat. His hand fists the sheet beside your head; his other arm cages you in. Your legs wrap high around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, like you don’t want a single inch of him wasted.

“You feel—” he grunts, “—so fucking good.”

You rake your nails down his back. “Harder.”

He obeys.

Each thrust now hits deeper, heavier, like he’s giving you every part of himself that the world hasn’t already taken. Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble. His hand finally slips between you, two fingers finding your clit with brutal precision.

“Jack—Jack—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He’s panting now. Losing rhythm. But he doesn't let up.

“Come on,” he grits. “Let me feel you. Give it to me. Give it.”

You break.

You come hard—legs shaking, hands gripping, eyes squeezed shut, crying out his name like it’s the only one you’ve ever learned how to say.

He follows.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he buries himself deep and stays there—body locked tight against yours, pulse stuttering hard enough to feel in his throat, jaw pressed to your shoulder like the release ripped something loose he didn’t know was still held shut. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even shift. Just keeps his arms cinched around your waist like he’s bracing for impact that never came.

You thread your fingers through his hair—slow, grounding. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Raw.

“I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Just don’t stop trying.”

Jack stays inside you, barely breathing, the tremor still in his chest. His weight settles over you—not heavy, not crushing. Just solid. Protective. One arm under your neck. The other spread wide across your ribs like he’s still counting them to make sure you didn’t break.

You let him stay there. Let him breathe. Let him feel it. Because you know Jack Abbot doesn’t get to feel often—he just responds. Just survives.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Barely.

You meet his eyes.

They’re a little bloodshot. A little dazed. And so fucking open it nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

You smile. “That’s articulate.”

“I’m not built for articulate,” Jack mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Especially not when I’m inside someone who just ruined me.”

You arch a brow. “Ruin’s a strong word.”

“You don’t see what I look like right now.”

“You look good.”

Jack huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I feel like I ran a marathon with a collapsed lung.”

You trace your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He lets you.

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“I will,” he says, but doesn’t. His hand flexes on your hip. “Eventually.”

He eases out of you a few minutes later, slowly, carefully—like he’s handling an injury he doesn’t want to aggravate. His fingers trail down your thigh, steady and warm, like he’s checking for damage. When your breath catches, he pauses.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. “No. Just… full.”

Jack exhales, something quiet and wrecked. He bends, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not performative. Not playful. Just soft. Reflexive. Like his body doesn’t know how else to say I needed this.

Then he’s up. Moving efficiently. Still naked but somehow still Jack—controlled, composed, capable, even after being completely undone.

He comes back with a towel, a glass of water, and one of his black undershirts. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the bed and gently wipes between your legs, slow and careful, like you’re something he’d bleed for again if it meant he could keep you whole.

You let him. Let him take care of you the way you knew he would if he ever let you close enough.

You sit back against the headboard once you’re clean, his shirt pulled over your head. Your legs are still shaky. Your breath still catching now and then in your chest.

Jack returns to the bed wordlessly.

He doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t lean. He sits beside you like something important’s about to come loose in him if he doesn’t say it now.

You look over at him.

“You do this for everyone?” you ask, teasing—but it’s soft, not sharp.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take the bait.

He looks at you.

And says, plainly: “I don’t have people over like this.”

That stills you.

He goes on, voice lower now, like it’s hard to say aloud. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You don’t reply right away.

Because you do know. You knew the first time he kissed you like he wasn’t supposed to. You knew the second time, when he didn’t say your name but held your hand under the table at a bar. You knew every time he pushed you away and still showed up when it mattered.

“I know,” you say. Quiet. Sure.

He looks at you again—really looks—and it’s all there. The weight of it. The risk. The want.

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Jack says finally. “And you’re not just here for the night. Not after that. I can’t—” He breaks off. Swallows. “I can’t pretend you’re just passing through. I don’t want to.”

You lean into him. Let your head rest on his shoulder. The shirt smells like him—soap, sweat, sex, something that lives deep in the cotton, like the way old homes hold heat.

His arm comes around you without hesitation. Holds you firm. Solid. One hand at the small of your back. Like if he doesn’t keep touching you, it won’t be real.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And he kisses your temple—slow, lingering.

Not like a man who needs sex.

Like a man who needed you.