Stiles is the best character

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands rest heavy on his knees, fingers perfectly still. His eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed entirely on the curtains. He’s sinking, trapped in a gray fog where past regrets and future dread blur together into absolute nothingness.

Outside the open bedroom door, small sneakers squeak against the hallway tile.

Your five year old daughter stops in her tracks. She carries a stuffed dog by its ear, her eyes peeking into the bedroom. She watches her dad for a long moment.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't even seem to breathe.

She’s seen this look before.

She turns on her heel and runs back to the kitchen, where you’re leaning against the counter. She tugs sharply on the hem of your shirt, her brow furrowed.

"Mama," she whispers urgently, pointing a finger back down the hall. "Dada is doing it again."

Your heart aches slightly, but you don't let it show. You know exactly what she means.

You set down your mug, offering her a reassuring smile. "Is he? Well, let's go, sweet girl."

You scoop her up into your arms, settling her against your hip. She wraps her arms around your neck, burying her face for a second before looking toward the bedroom.

When you enter the bedroom, Andrew hasn't moved an inch. He looks entirely detached from his own body, a ghost sitting in a room he built.

You position her on Andrew's right, and you sit down quietly on the other side. The bed shifts, but he doesn't react.

"Hey," you say softly. "Look who found you."

Andrew doesn't turn, but a microscopic twitch in his jaw tells you he’s trying to fight his way back through the fog.

"Okay, careful, on three, babygirl," you whisper, leaning close to Andrew's side. She mimics you perfectly, leaning her small frame against his right side, her face inches from his cheek.

"One... two... three."

Simultaneously, you press a kiss to his left cheek while your daughter plants a loud and sloppy kiss on his right.

The physical contact snaps through him.

Andrew blinks rapidly, the dull film clearing from his eyes as a sharp breath hitches in his chest. His gaze lands on his babygirl's hopeful smile, and then at you.

The tension in his shoulders visibly melts away.

"There you are," you murmur, reaching up to gently cup the back of his neck, your thumb smoothing over his hairline.

Andrew swallows hard, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm firmly against his skin as if to convince himself you're actually there. He reaches out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around his daughter's waist and pulling her tightly into his chest. He buries his face in her curls, breathing her in, baby shampoo and sunshine, before looking back at you, his eyes clear and entirely present.

"I'm here," he rasps, feeling grounded.

Andrew shifts the toddler so she’s sitting right on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around her.

She looks up at him. "You were gone, Dada."

"I was," Andrew murmurs, his voice softening. He gently tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "But you brought me back."

She beams, entirely proud of her mission. She reaches up, her small hands grabbing both sides of his face, squishing his cheeks together. "Mama said we have to kiss the monsters away."

A smile breaks across Andrew’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Did she?" he asks, glancing up at you with softness.

"Mmhmm!" She nods solemnly, releasing his face to pat his nose. "Are they gone?"

Andrew catches her tiny hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss right into her palm. "Every single one. Thank you, bug."

She giggles, the sound bright and musical, and immediately squirms until she can bury her face in his neck, hugging him tightly.

“I’m fine, I used to run marathons. I just scrambled upstairs. Are you ready to go? Wanna take a bath” you grin, standing up slightly and opening the car door as you slip your bag onto the floor, “I’m fine Brendon, really”

His shoulders don’t relax, his face still looks like he’s trying not to say something that he wants to say, “okay” you settle back in the car as he starts the engine, checking both ways before pulling out of the reserved parking spot, “did you have a good shift?” He asks, a hand gingerly touching over the bump of your stomach

You nod, “a mom told dad not to look as she was pushing and, he looked and he passed out. So we had to manage that” You shrug, “you promise you won’t look when I have baby?”

Brendon’s frown softens, “I promise, but I’ve seen this all before? I did my time in the pink scrubs” He comments, “but I’ll stay with you”

You smile, “oh- and if I poop on the table. I don’t wanna know. Don’t tell me. My coworkers are already going to see my vagina, I don’t need to know if they saw me poop”

Brendon laughs softly, “m’sorry. I won’t tell you. I promise. You think I’m gonna pass out during it?”

You turn to look at him, his face turned to the road as he merges onto the highway, “I hope not. I think you’re gonna cry though”

He’d roll his eyes if he thought it wouldn’t be true, but he cried when you told him you were pregnant, cried during the honeymoon, and the wedding, and the day he proposed, the day he bought that fat diamond that now sits on your left hand.

“How was your shift, good bone breaks?” You ask, sleepily closing your eyes as he goes on about his day, it’s just words to fill the time before he has you undressing and taking your jewelry off and stepping into the warm bath.

Warm, not hot water, which irritates you as you dip in. Brendon helps you forward, just so he can sit you between his thighs, his chest against your back. Hands rubbing softly against your bump, “how do you feel? Too warm?”

You shake your head, “not warm enough, I know it can’t be over 100 degrees but, bren I like to be boiling”

You know his response, the fact it’s unsafe. You can’t overheat, they the baby doesn’t overheat.

You lean back against him, sighing softly as you relax, “my boobs hurt”

Brendon hums, “I’m sorry baby, you want me to massage them?”

You shake your head, “no. I’m hungry, what are you making your baby mama for dinner?”

Brendon wraps his arms round you, “you’re my wife, not my baby mama”

You’re still smiling, “didn’t answer my question”

“I haven’t done the grocery shopping, I’ll bring you a pizza” he kisses your cheek as your timer pings.

“It’s not been fifteen minutes” you complain, “please Brendon”

He shakes his head, and helps you out of the tub, drying you off, letting you use his shoulders to balance on as you out your underwear back on, you make him feed you pizza in bed.

Settled underneath the plush cushions and covers of your bed, plate in your hands as the TV plays some silly comedy Brendon had picked out for you.

He lays next to you, his head against your thigh, only getting up to bring your plate back to the kitchen.

Brendon cuddles next to you, you curled into his side. Leg tossed over his side, his hand wrapped around your thigh, “I love you” you whisper in his ear, palm flat against his sternum.

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

“Motherfucker!”

You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black. 

Great. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast. 

You miss the night shift.

It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out. 

Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea. 

He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind. 

“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”

Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”

Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.

“You sound like Jack.”

You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments. 

“Have you talked to Jack recently?”

Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.

“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”

Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.

“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”

Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence. 

It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with. 

“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”

“Mhm.”

That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.

“A little help here?”

You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other. 

“What’s the story here?”

You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.

“Bar argument gone ugly.”

The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.

“Is that glass?”

Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face. 

“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”

You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs. 

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”

Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground. 

“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”

You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance. 

“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”

Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.

“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”

“Oh, shit.”

Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.

“We need some help in here! You good?”

Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.

“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.

“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”

Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.

“Woah, what can I do?”

Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.

“Give them a hand, will ya?”

Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon. 

“Absolutely not!”

You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision. 

Fuck, that hurt. 

You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back. 

“What the hell is going on in h—?”

Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.

“Knock it off before I knock you out.”

Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.

“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”

Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.

“How you doing, Slugger?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”

Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient. 

This day can’t get any worse. 

Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.

“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”

His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.

“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”

You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.

“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”

You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.

Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s  a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.

Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him. 

“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”

Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.

“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”

If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.

“Abbot.”

Of course he is.

“I can’t get a hold of him.”

Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning. 

“He’s gone fishing.”

Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.

“Abbot is fishing?”

“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”

Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.

Oh. 

The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders. 

“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”

Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.

“I think I can manage that.”

Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage. 

“Where is she?”

Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity. 

“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”

Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you. 

“Exam room 11.”

Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You are a horrible patient.”

“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”

Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.

“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”

Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.

“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”

Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.

“Langdon. Out. Now.”

Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries. 

“It looks worse than it is.”

It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch. 

“Do me a favor?”

You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.  

“How are you here?”

Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be fishing.”

His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.

“I got a call.”

“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”

“To everyone other than you.”

Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with. 

“But how… Perlah.”

Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell. 

“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”

Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again. 

“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”

Jack’s brow furrows at your words.

“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”

You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.

“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”

You almost smile at that.

“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”

You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.

“Two weeks is too long.”

“You’re not my boss, Jack.”

Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this. 

“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”

A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you. 

“Do what?”

Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.

“Get through the fucking night.”

A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.

“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”

Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart. 

“Why would you want that?”

“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”

Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.

“You don’t know where you stand with me?”

You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?

He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”

You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face. 

“You never said anything.”

Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.

“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”

You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.

“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”

You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.

“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”

Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows. 

“Him being here was unnecessary.”

You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.

“You were jealous.”

Jack rolls his eyes.

“I have no reason to be jealous.”

You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.

“What makes you so confident?”

The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”

Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”

He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”

Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”

“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”

Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”

Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”

“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.

“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”

The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”

Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”

The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”

Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.

“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.

Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”

There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”

Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.

The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.

“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”

“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”

“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”

“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”

The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.

“Oh, and Jack?”

Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”

“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”

A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.

The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.

The call ended with a definitive click.

Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”

“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”

The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.

“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”

Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”

He clicked his pen.

“So am I.”

********

Flashback

The first time Jack met you.

The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.

You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"

"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."

"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"

"A few days ago."

"Pain level?"

"Manageable."

He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."

You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."

Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"

"A little nausea. No vomiting."

He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."

It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.

"Yeah. Office work."

"Hours?"

"Flexible."

He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."

A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."

Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."

The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.

"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"

"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.

Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."

He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."

"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.

"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.

You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"

"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.

A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."

"Hope you're right."

You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.

"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.

"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."

After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another. 

The second time Jack met you

Same week. Different day.

Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”

You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”

“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.

“I did.”

Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”

You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.

“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.

“Last night.”

“Pain level.”

You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”

He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”

You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.

“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“A little.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.

“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”

You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”

“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”

“I just need stronger meds.”

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”

Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”

Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”

You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”

Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.

Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.

“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”

A beat of heavy silence followed.

“You need surgery.”

You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”

“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”

Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”

The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”

That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.

Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.

You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.

As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”

The third time Jack met you 

A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.

Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"

You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."

"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."

Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"

"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.

"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.

You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."

Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."

You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”

There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”

Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”

“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”

Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”

They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”

“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.

“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”

“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”

Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”

Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”

“Sleep?”

“Barely.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.

“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”

“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”

Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.

No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.

“Of course,” he said.

He reached out and pushed the door open.

*******

Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.

You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”

Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”

“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”

Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”

Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”

“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”

You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”

“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”

You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”

On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.

Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”

He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”

As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.

Then, Jack spoke again.

“He’s an idiot.”

You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”

“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”

“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter. 

For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.

“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.

Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”

You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.

He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”

You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.

“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.” 

That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.

Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”

Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”

Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”

The fourth time Jack met you

By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.

The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”

“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”

A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.

You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.

“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”

You went quiet.

Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”

Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”

“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.

“Good.”

A pause settled between you.

“And don’t lose,” he added.

Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”

“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”

That caught you off guard.

“A bet?”

“Are you going to win or not?”

You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”

He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.

“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”

He walked out like it was nothing.

The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.

You didn’t.

You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.

A bet.

You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”

Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”

A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”

You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.

Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"

You didn't look at him. "All of them."

A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."

"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"

"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."

Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.

"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."

Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."

You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.

"...Fine," you conceded.

Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."

You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."

"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.

As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.

For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.

Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.

“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”

“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”

Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.

Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.

“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”

Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”

Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”

Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”

“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.

“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.

“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”

Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.

“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.

Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”

Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”

Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”

Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”

Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.

“…So?” Jack asked quietly.

Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.

“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.

A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.

Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”

The fifth time Jack met you

A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.

Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.

The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.

You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.

Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”

You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”

Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.

“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”

You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”

She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”

You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”

“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”

“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”

“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.

“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”

Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.

“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.

“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”

The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.

The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.

Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”

You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”

“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.

You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”

Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”

The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.

He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.

“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.

“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.

Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.

It was just you and him.

Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.

“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.

You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”

Another beat passed.

“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”

You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”

“Yup.”

A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”

Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.

“After all… you were my patient.”

With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.

You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.

Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.

Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.

They nodded at the same time.

“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”

Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”

The sixth time Jack met you 

A few weeks later, the ER felt different.

It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness. 

Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.

“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.

Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”

Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”

Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.

“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.

Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”

No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.

Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.

Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”

Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”

Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”

That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”

Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”

Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”

Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”

Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.

Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.

He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.

He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”

You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”

A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.

You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”

Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”

“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”

Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.

“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.

You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”

“And sleeping?”

The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.

“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.

That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”

“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”

Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”

“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.

He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”

Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”

“That’s what works.”

You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”

There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.

He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”

He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”

You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”

That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”

Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”

His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”

It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.

“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”

Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.

What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.

People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.

You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.

Somewhere along the way, it became natural.