sulltrix

She says, There are dreams we dream alone.

There are dreams we dream with others.

Then there’s the lilac’s secret

life of fire, of God

accomplished in the realm

of change and desire.

- Li-Young Lee

Jack Abbot has always considered himself an intelligent individual.

Quick-witted. Perspicacious. 

He held honours all throughout his extended education, can diagnose a patient in record time, and can rattle off a surprising amount of very accurate space facts, thank you very much.

Jack Abbot is a smart guy.

But god, he’s never felt so stupid.

The moment his lips connect with yours, he knows he’s done for. 

The way your lips curve against his—perfect and intoxicating—changes the shape of his very soul. Your hands slide from his back, gripping the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer, if it’s even possible. He goes willingly, snaking one of his own hands to cup the back of your neck, and stroking his thumb under the column of your ear. 

The tip of his tongue traces the outline of your lower lip, gentle and light, silently asking for yours to part. You let out an airy sigh when they do, and it sends a thrill through him he was not prepared for.

He wants—needs—to hear that again. It’s a primal urge that he hasn't felt in years, and it’s fucking with his ability to think. Or maybe it's the way your tongue slides against his that renders him utterly useless. 

Your back curves, and one of the hands that was fisted into his jacket slides up and around his shoulder, gripping him for balance. He steadies his hand on your lower back in response, instinctively guiding you backwards until you make contact with the wall, hand moving from your neck to cushion the back of your head. 

You let out a pleased hum, and Jack swears to god that his head spins.

He has no idea what he is doing, where this is coming from. It’s so many shades of wrong—he’s your motherfucking boss—and yet he can’t find it in himself to stop. 

But he has to. He has to stop. 

This is not what you need—he is not what you need. He’s almost twice your age, and a widower with baggage that couldn't fit on a triple seven. 

He’s got to stop, but the hand resting on your lower back just traces across your hips, over your ribs and to the side of your face, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

How is he supposed to end this when you taste like the first breath of air and simultaneously like the reason he will drown? The notion alone is laughable. Ridiculous.

But shit—

He pulls back, but only enough to let his forehead rest against yours, both hands still splayed across the sides of your face like a brand. His chest rises and falls rapidly, breath coming in uneven heaves. 

It’s hard to make out your face from this close, but he can catch your lips—puffy, a little red—and it sends a whole new bout of desire through him.

“Jack…” 

“Jesus,” he whispers, thumbs stroking the side of your face. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“It’s a bad idea,” you agree.

He swallows thickly. “Terrible.”

Your head nods, but the hand that’s grasping at his shoulder curls tighter. He’s careful not to crush you as he leans in, shifting one hand to splay flat on the wall beside your head, lips hovering a breath away from yours.

“We should stop,” he says, though he’s lying straight through his teeth. He needs you to say it, needs you to throw him out of this apartment before he goes too far—before he crosses the line he’s fucking trembling on. “Tell me to stop.”

The involuntary whimper that slips past your lips is a hammer to the very thin glass of his resolve. 

“I can’t,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I don't want you to.”

Your name slips past his lips in the form of a growl, your body arching into him in response. His lips find yours again, desperate and downright out of control. He would feel guilty if it weren't for the nails that bit into the top of his shoulder and the soft moans that vibrated against his jaw.

He grunts, disconnecting his lips from your mouth and reconnecting them under your ear, kissing and licking and sucking, into your head tilts back making contact with the wall. You whine and gasp as he continues his onslaught down the column of your neck, before trailing back up, letting his lips lightly graze along your skin as he goes.

The smell of you is intoxicating—clean like rain, soft and warm, until it floods his senses and all he can think about is you, you, you.

The world fades to a dull hum in the back of his mind when his lips find yours. There’s nothing else beyond this. PTMC could be burning to the ground and he’d let it, if it meant never having to leave the warmth of your touch. 

You are his gateway drug, and he is so fucking addicted.

“Fuck—” He groans, as your hand at the nape of his neck slides into his hair, tugging gently. “You need to stop.”

Please, don’t ever fucking stop. 

“I don’t know how.”

“We can’t cross this line. I'm your attending. If we do this—” 

“Maybe that's exactly what we need,” you cut him off, pulling back to look in his eyes. 

He examines your face in the way only a doctor would—dialted pupils, flushed cheeks, warm skin. He slips his thumb down to your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of it against the pad of his finger.  

It’s so fucking beautiful.

“We work so close together, in a high stress environment—this was bound to happen,” you continue, chest rising and falling in deep pants. “We just need to get this out of our system. Then we can go back to normal.”

Normal. Right.

Jack can never go back to the person he was before this kiss. He knows that, deep down. This has changed him; irrevocably fucked him over.

He wants you. 

He wants your hands pinned above your head, his thigh between your legs until your writhing, begging him for more. He wants to watch you fall apart beneath him, on top of him, beside him, in every possible way he could have you. He wants your messy makeup from teary eyes and to hold you and talk about life. He wants to take you on long road trips that results in him having to pull over because he can’t keep his hands off you. He wants to dance with you in the middle of an empty room. He wants you and only you.

And fuck if thats not the most terrifying, delicous thought he’s ever had.

“Unless...” you start, cutting him out of his thoughts, “unless you don't want this.”

Jack barks out a laugh, startling the both of you. He can feel your body begin to pull away, the hand fisted in the front of his shirt loosens its grip, and you lean as much as you can given the wall at your back.

Jack won’t have any of it. 

He follows you, crowding into your space until every part of your bodies are connected—until you can feel the way his cock strains against the confines of his jeans. You gasp, as he rocks into you, eyes fluttering shut.

Jack chuckles. “Does that feel like I don't want you?” 

Your gaze meets his through half-lidded eyes, and fuck, you’re already so far gone and he’s barely even touched you. It certainly serves to inflate his ego—considering he hasn't done this in, well, years.

He’ll have time to unpack that train of thought later.

“Believe me,” he murmurs, still pressing himself against you, “I want you. So fucking bad.”

“Then do something about it.” 

The challenging glint in your eye only serves to make him harder.

He’s never recognized it before, but it's the same feeling he got when he saw the small, inconsequential patch of skin under your scrubs in the break room; the same feeling every time something sharp flies off your tongue, every time you’ve brushed past him, or just looked in his damn direction.

He’s wanted this for so long. He can let himself have it, right? Even if it’s only this once.

“Out of our system, huh?” he asks, letting his thumb brush over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

You nod, almost frantically and—

Fuck it. 

~~~~~~

This is potentially the most dangerous, electrifying thing you’ve ever done in your life. 

You think this moment could rival skydiving, or summiting Everest.

Need courses through you, hot and demanding, leaving your mind blank except for the desire for one thing.

Jack Aboot.

His lips crash into yours, all your self-control and reserve flies out the window. It’s messy—a wild clash of teeth and tongue that has you both staggering out breathless laughs between pleasured grunts and moans.

You hastily push at the fabric of his jacket, pulling down on the collar until he drops his hands from you, and shrugs out of the coat.

When his hands return, they fall to the valley of your hips, pinning them firmly to the wall as you try to grind up against him. 

He must take pity on you when a short whine slips past your lips, because he nudges your legs apart with a foot, before sliding his knee between them. You gasp, before wrapping your arms fully around his shoulders, letting him take the weight of your body against his thigh. 

You start to move tentatively along his leg, and Jack lets you go for a while, allowing your movements to stay light and slow—but not for too long. The hands gripping at your hips tighten, pushing and pulling you down and across his thigh. It’s a little faster, a little rougher, and he breaks the kiss so he can watch your face carefully.

Your brows knit together, eyes trained down on where you grind against his thigh. The gasps and hums that escape your mouth are entirely sinful, but you can’t help it. Something about the way he keeps you under his watchful eye, the way he guides your movements with his hands—it’s so unbelievably hot.

You can’t remember the last time anyone made you feel this way. It’s been at least a year—if not longer—since someone has touched you like this, so you tell yourself that’s why you're so sensitive; not because the subtle flirting, and seemingly innocent touches has had you so keyed up that you're practically a powder keg ready to blow.

Jack mumbles your name like a prayer, muffled from where his lips connect with your neck. Your skin is alight, a living breathing flame.

“Fuck—Jack…” you moan, when Jack tenses the muscles of his leg. The friction of his jeans against your clothed cunt shouldn’t be as good as it is—but fuck is it ever good.

Jack smirks, before doing it again. “Yeah? This what you need?” He tenses the muscles again in quick pulses, sending sparks of pure bliss down to your core.

Despite the pleasure, you find yourself shaking your head, needing something—–anything—more.

“No?” Jack asks, the look in his eye entirely knowing. “Tell me what you need.”

“I—” A choked off moan cuts you off as he sucks harshly on the skin under your ear, at the same time he lifts his thigh higher, resulting in you having to stand on the balls of your feet.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I didn't quite catch that.”

“I said you’re an asshole,” you retort, but it comes out weaker than you intend.

“I know,” he chuckles, but before you can get your hand up to smack him, he tugs at the hem of your sweater. “Can I?”

You swallow tightly, before nodding.

“No words for me now?” Jack hums. “You were making so much noise a few—”

You don’t let him finish. Shoving his hands off the bottom of your sweater, you pull it up over your head, revealing your completely bare chest.

Jack’s words die on his tongue and a sort of smugness fills you at his reaction. 

You smirk, tilting your head. “What? No words for me now?” Artificial sweetness envelops your tone, as his eyes trace slowly over your chest.

He doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long minute.

Then—

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he says, all strangled and low, before claiming your mouth again. He pulls his thigh from between yours, putting you back on your feet, so unexpected that you tip slightly. 

Jack’s hands pull you upright, and huffs a laugh into your mouth.

You think with anyone else—the laughing, the imperfect moments—it would feel awkward. But with Jack, it feels…intimate, almost heightening the sensations you're flooded with.

The way he kisses you is so all-encompassing, that you don't feel his hands slowly trailing from your hips to your chest until they make contact with your nipples. You hum against his lips as he rolls them between his fingers, pinching them just enough to shoot sparks to your core. 

Jack’s mouth lingers above yours, just long enough to make you chase it before he pulls back. He hovers there for a beat, barely an inch from your skin, then drifts lower. It’s deliberately unhurried—slow and methodical, until he reaches the curve of your breasts. 

You feel him before he even touches you—the warmth of his breath skimming over your skin, light, teasing, enough to pull a rough sound from your throat.

The restraint of it, the control, makes your pulse stutter and your knees weak. It’s equal parts maddening and overwhelming.

His eyes hold yours when he finally seals his mouth around your nipple, licking and sucking until it pebbles into a stiff peak. Once satisfied, he lets his teeth lightly scrape over the sensitive bud before moving to the other, continuing his ministrations with his tongue.

Your head thumps back against the wall again, a string of curses flying from your lips on a particularly harsh suck. The scrape of his teeth return and you swear you choke on nothing but air.

This is better than anything you could have fantasized about. The attention he frames you with is so intense, as if he’s watching you put in a chest tube, or thread a pig-tail catheter. 

But he’s not. He’s sucking on your tits like it’s his personal mission to fuck you up—and he is fucking you up. Especially when he lets go of your nipple with a pop and a pathetic whine sounds deep in your throat.

He ignores it, pulling you forward as his mouth slots back over yours, stealing whatever breath you had left before moving further into the apartment. 

You’re not sure how he manages the space with his eyes closed, but eventually the backs of your thighs find the couch. The contact knocks a soft breath from you, which he takes advantage of immediately, easing you down without breaking the kiss, like this is what he’s been aiming for all along.

Your breath stutters as he maneuvers to his knees, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your front as he goes. His lips seal around the side of your breast, sucking what will surely be a sizable mark into the flesh.

The mere idea of it has you stumbling out his name.

Jack smiles against your skin as he trails over your stomach—feather light, until he reaches the waist band of your shorts.

He lifts his eyes to meet yours, as his hands run along the band of the shorts. “Is this okay?”

“Yes—please,” you breathe, nodding your head.

He kisses the waist band, and your heart skips a beat. It’s entirely reverent, the way he slides the shorts from your hips—pressing his lips to the exposed skin of your inner thigh as he goes.

You shift restlessly, suddenly feeling a little exposed. You’re practically naked—save for your panties—but Jack is fully clothed. It feels a little unfair.

He shifts to lean in, but you place the ball of your foot against his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes shoot up to yours, immediately assessing your face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

You know jack would never hurt you, but it is still relieving to know you’re the one with the real control.

“You okay?” He asks, brows drawn together shoulders tense.

“Take off your shirt,” is your only response.

The tightness leeches from him almost immediately, and he tilts his head. “You’re so bossy.” He remarks, before pulling the long sleeve over his head, revealing the sharp muscle tones of his chest, the definition of his arms.

Your eyes dart all over his exposed skin, lips parted, trying—and failing—to find anything to say.

“Better?” He chucks the shirt to the floor.

“No,” you manage, “That’s entirely unfair.”

And it is. No man should get to look the way Jack does; be as kind and intelligent and this motherfucking talented without having some sort of major flaw to balance it out.

“Oh, honey,” he says, bringing both hands to your knees and brushing them up and down your thighs. “I don’t think you have the right to talk about what’s unfair here.” He pushes your knees to the side, baring your clothed center to him, as he presses his mouth to your inner thigh.

You sigh as he continues to run his hands along your legs, occasionally slipping his thumbs under the fabric of your panties as he rotates his kisses from one leg to the other.

When he makes it to your panties, you expect him to just pull them down—but he doesn’t. He lets his tongue stick out, running it just barely over your center through the fabric, driving you insane.

“Jack—” You choke out a moan, when presses the flat of his tongue roughly over you, dragging the fabric over your clit. Your hips buck against him, searching for more, but he just pins them down to the couch.

“Stay still.” He commands gently, before reaching for the band of your panties and pulling them down.

It is agonizing, and it feels like an eternity before he finally pulls them free.

“Fuck—” He swears, eye locked intently on your cunt. 

If you didn't feel exposed before, you certainly do now. Your mind starts to wander with uncertainty the longer he doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe.

Then—

“You’re fucking perfect,” he practically moans, spreading your legs further around his broad shoulder. He moves his hands to your cunt, spreading you apart. “This all for me?”

He runs a thumb softly over your entrance, collecting some of your wetness before sliding it back up—and skipping over your clit.

You let out a frustrated moan, shifting to be closer to where you want him. “Jack, please—”

“Answer the question.” 

His eyes hold your intently, but your lips remain firmly shut.

“Oh, don’t play coy,” he says, bringing his mouth just a hair's width away from your cunt, before blowing a light breath of cool air over it. 

You whimper—honest to god whimper—at the feeling of your most sensitive nerves being played with. It’s hotter than any sex you’ve ever had, and he’s barely even touched you.

“I can do this all night,” he says huskily, basically speaking the words into you. “Just tell me it's for me, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You pant shakily, letting out a strangled moan as the tip of his tongue darts over your outer labia, and it’s almost pathetic how quickly you break.

“Okay, okay,” you plead, “It’s for you, Jack. It’s all for you. Just please touch me.”

Jack grins. “See? That wasn’t so hard now was it?”

You go to retort—to kick him or demand he fucking do something—but when your mouth opens, he runs the flat of his tongue over your entrance, before dragging it up to wrap his lips around your clit, sucking hard. 

He groans at the taste of you, sending vibrations to the sensitive bud as you sit up, pleasure clouding all of your senses. 

Of-fucking-course he’s good at this.

Jack moves his hand from your hip to your abdomen, pushing you back down against the couch, never stopping the movement of his tongue.

He moves slowly, archiving every hitch of your breath, every sound that slips past your lips. You know he is, because he has the same look in his eye when he is cataloging patient symptoms, sorting through them in his head to figure out how to make them stop.

Except with you, he’s trying to amplify them. He’s learning what makes you moan the loudest, what makes you twitch, what brings you the most pleasure. 

He runs his tongue over the left side of your clit, eliciting and a soft moan—then over the right, causing your hips to buck against his grip, before honing in on that spot, licking and sucking until you’re all but sobbing.

“Jesus Christ—” you cry out, as he moves from your clit to your entrance, spearing you on his tongue. When his thumb takes up residence over your clit, circling it with the perfect amount of pressure and speed, you grind into his face. A hand flies down to grip at his curls, tugging a little harsher than you mean.

He grunts, then moans hungrily, doubling down on his efforts. His thumb slides away from your clit and down to your entrance, before slowly sliding a finger inside you. 

Jack lifts his face from between your thighs, watching you carefully as he parts you with his index finger. The feeling is exquisite, thoroughly ruining you when he curls his finger, pressing up against the walls of your cunt. Pleasure burns low and deep in your abdomen, stealing every logical thought from your head, leaving nothing but a chorus of Jack, and yes, and more. 

Your knuckles turn white from the death-grip they have on the couch cushions as Jack shifts the angle of his finger inside you. 

You whine, and Jack presses a kiss to your clit in response.

“Hold on," he coos, continuing the come-hither motion of his finger, “I’m looking for—”

A high, keening sound flies from your mouth when he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you, white hot pleasure lighting up your body like a match. 

“There it is,” Jack says, the words pressed into your cunt. “Doing so good for me.”

His words have more of an effect then you’d care to admit, head tipping back against the sofa as he hits that spot relentlessly. 

“Oh fuck,” you bite out, pulling at his hair as he returns his mouth your clit, sucking harshly. The combination of his tongue and finger has you soaring, and you can feel the crest of your impending orgasm building and building.

Jack must notice, because he pulls his finger out to the tip, before sliding a second alongside it, stretching you around the thickness of them. 

It’s more full than you’ve felt in a long time, the stretch leaving you breathless and aching for more.

“God, you’re so fucking incredible,” he growls, curving his fingers against that spot again at an almost brutal pace. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you clenching around me.”

The obscene, wet sounds of Jack’s fingers moving inside you cut through the silence, accompanied only by the cries being ripped from your mouth. He eats you out like a gourmet meal meant to be savored and enjoyed. It’s an enthusiasm you’ve never experienced before.

You’ve had previous lovers go down on you, but it was always a means to an end, never purely for your pleasure. You have a feeling that if you asked Jack to stay down there all night, he wouldn't bat an eye.

The wave of pleasure building in your core begins to rise rapidly, your legs trembling against his shoulder as he keeps his ministrations steady.  

“Jack, I’m—I think—please…” The ability to form a single sentence has been ripped from you. You don't even know what you’re asking for, all you know is that you feel like you could combust into a fire that would turn the city to ash—and at this point, you’re willing to let it.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, lifting his head for a brief second, locking eyes with you. “I’ve got you. Just let it happen. Come for me.” 

Your walls flutter around his fingers, your whole body locking up as that cresting wave of pleasure crashes over your head, drowning out every sound, every sensation except for the flood of ecstasy that flows in your veins.

“That’s it—fuck,” Jack curses agaisnt you, never slowing the pace of his fingers or tongue. “Keep comin’. Just like that.”

You nearly sob at the onslaught of pleasure that he swamps you with. It’s too good, and so much, and not enough all at the same time and holy motherfucking shit you're still coming.

The hand that’s digging into his curls pulls aggressively, and you’d feel guilty if you had the ability to. Your mind is nothing but a blank slate with the words more, don’t stop, keep going, carved into it.

You think you must say it out loud, because Jack redoubles his efforts, tongue and fingers working in a frenzied tandem to build that tension back up again; babbling praise that you can’t process into your twitching cunt. Your body tenses, mouth hanging open in a silent scream that’s occasionally broken by a choked out breath. You’re flushed and feverish, sweat gleams over your whole body.

You’re not sure what to do with it—this unrelenting onslaught of bliss—how to handle everything he’s giving you. It feels like he’s tearing you apart only to put you back together again; rearranging all your preconceived notions about what’s possible for your body to feel and throwing them back in your face. 

“Christ, you’re so fucking sexy,” he says, sounding like a depraved animal. He snakes a hand around your front pressing down on your lower abdomen. “Give me one more.” 

You sob and shake your head, tipping into the realm of overstimulation. But the hand on his hair continues to hold him close, like you can’t decide whether to push him away or suffocate him between your thighs. You’ve never been able to come twice in such quick succession, you’re not sure you're even able to.

“Jack, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he hums. “Come on, don't be a quitter.” 

You huff out something that's between a laugh and a choked off moan when he presses his fingers in deep. It pulls that knot of tension tighter and before you can even process it, that coil snaps, and you’re coming for the second time tonight. 

You’re whole body locks as Jack fucks you unabatedly with his fingers, his tongue working wonders over you’re clit, prolonging your orgasm. If you weren't certain it was medically impossible, you’d think your brain would be melting out of your ears. 

At some point, you collapse back into the couch, legs shaking where they’re pushed wide by Jack’s shoulders.

He’s murmuring something into the skin of your hip that you can’t hear, his fingers slipping from you gently to cup your twitching cunt; the light pressure is so divine your eyes flutter shut.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, just breathing and processing the sensations your body has endured. Jack leans forward, pressing kisses to the tops of your thighs, up the span of your stomach and chest, before claiming your lips.

The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you shiver, and Jack smiles against your mouth.

“You alright?” he teases, giving you a final chaste kiss, “Do you need a doctor?” His brows waggle, so you weakly shove at his shoulder. 

He barely moves.

“You’re such an ass,” you complain half-heartedly, giggling when he claims your mouth once more.

“You need to come up with some better insults. That’s becoming unoriginal."

“Well, I’m sorry,” you retort, squirming as he slides hand from your pussy up to the side of your neck. “I’ll make sure I have something better for you when I manage to piece my brain back together.” 

Jack laughs, keeping his mouth hovering over yours. “Happy to be of service.”

You roll your eyes. “Shit, they’re going to have to widen the doorways at work, seeing as your head is not going to fit through ‘em.”

“Oh, it definitely won’t.” 

He leans in, consuming whatever you were about to say with a kiss. It’s slow. Sweet. Dangerous in a way that sneaks up on you—like there’s no urgency, no rush, just the quiet certainty of him settling in, like he belongs here.

Like you belong here.

Your chest tightens. Because this—this is bad.

It would’ve been easier if it stayed reckless. Temporary. Something you could blame on heat and bad decisions and walk away from in the morning.

But this?

This is soft.

His mouth moves against yours like he has all the time in the world, like he isn’t afraid of what this could become. It’s as if he doesn’t feel the way your pulse stutters, uneven and too fast, like something inside you is trying to outrun itself.

Your fingers wrap around his biceps without thinking.

You don’t want to pull him closer, but you do anyway. And that’s the problem. Because whatever this is—it isn’t leaving your system. It’s settling in.

The kiss slowly turns heated again, and before you know it, you find yourself staddled over his thighs, grinding into the bulge straining against his jeans. Jack runs his hands up and down your body, occasionally grabbing your ass or tweaking your nipples. 

It’s so unbelievably perfect that you don’t notice the sudden buzz against the back of the couch. 

You slide your hands into Jack's hair, sighing when he squeezes your breast in his large hand. A particular harsh grind of your hips against his cock has him groaning—

Something buzzes again, and Jack swears.

“Ignore it,” he says, moving his hands to your hips and guiding them to drag on his cock like he had done earlier against his thigh. 

You tip your head back and—

The telltale sound of a phone ringing breaks through your heated daze, and you stop your movements. “Is that yours?” 

“Yes,” he responds, but just moves to suck marks in the side of your breasts. “It’s fine, it will stop.”

“Jack—fuck—what if it’s important?” you gasp out, the friction of his jeans against your bare cunt combined with the pressure of his lips against your breast making you dizzy.

“Not as important as this.” He swirls his tongue around your nipple before scraping his teeth along it.

You let out a desperate, filthy noise and tug on his curls. The sound of his ringtone fades out leaving just the his grunts and your moans and the drag of your hips against his jeans—

Until the sound cuts through all that again.

“Jesusfuckingchrist—” Jack growls, dropping his hands from you to dig into the back pocket of his jeans. 

You move to slide off of him, but one of his hands flies back to your hips, pinning you down. “Stay right there.” The demand is so primal and hungry that you can’t help but listen, plopping yourself back down on his lap.

Jack frowns when he gets his phone in his hand. “It’s Lena,” he says, brows drawing together.

“What?” You lean forward, looking over the top of the screen and—

Yeah… it’s Lena. 

Your face pulls into the same look Jack wears. She’s supposed to be at work, and besides, she’d never call at this hour unless there was a— 

Your gazes collide for a beat, before Jack quickly answers the phone.

“Hello? Lena?” 

You can’t hear what she says to him, but Jack’s eyes widen slightly, and you know something is very wrong.

“Ok, we’re coming in.”

With that, he drops the phone from his ear, a string of curses flying as he does.

“What's wrong? What’s—”

“A gas line exploded under a hotel,” he explains, dropping his phone to the couch, “There was a massive fire; lots of injuries.” 

“Holy shit,” you breathe. You’re off him before the words fully land, the warmth of his body disappearing as adrenaline floods to replace it. Your feet hit the floor, everything suddenly too bright and too fast.

You don’t look at him as you head for the bedroom.

Throwing open your dresser, you pull out your last pair of clean scrubs and dress faster than you’ve ever have in your life. You don’t think as you move—bag, badge, phone—just checking and going, ignoring the still present ache between your thighs, 

When you return to the living room, Jack is already dressed and shrugging his coat around his shoulders, before reaching for yours. 

“Did she say how bad it was?” you ask, forcing your voice into something steady, as you fumble for your keys. 

“No,” he responds. “But it’s obviously bad enough to call us in.”

Your fingers brush when you take the coat from his hands.

Your phone buzzes—Lena. 

You answer immediately. 

“Hey, hun,” she says, sounding utterly exhausted, “I’m sure you’ve heard—”

“I have,” you interrupt, watching as Jack moves to open the door. “I’m on my way in.”

“Okay, thanks. See you in a few.”

The call ends, and silence settles in its place.

You and Jack walk side by side toward the elevator, close enough that your arms almost brush—but they don’t.

You can feel him there. The heat, the presence, the gravity. 

The tingling of your lips, the quickness in your pulse, doesn't let you forget what you two have just done. 

It’s different now.

Or maybe it’s not.

Fuck—you don’t know.

The warped reflection that stares back at you in the metal doors—flushed, hair all mused, eyes dilated—is a mess. You quickly reach into your bag and pull out a hair tie, doing your best to tame the wildness that is on your head.

You swallow, take a deep breath, and start the process of compartmentalizing the emotions of this situation.

You were the one who had said “we just need to get this out of our system” and you’ve done that. This is not the time to regret an action you made of your own volition. 

Medicine doesn’t wait for your feelings.

Injured people won’t wait. Jack isn’t going to wait—

You suck in a sharp breath.

Jack turns to look at you. “You okay?”

Not a lot, just forever

Intertwined, sewn together

As the rock bears the weather

Not a lot, just forever

—Adrianne Lenker

Jack Abbot stands, rooted to the stone roof beneath his feet as night bleeds into day. The wind is pleasantly warm where it hits his cheek, but all he feels is cold. It’s pressing and deep—starting from within and leeching out onto his bare skin.

His eyes are glued to the door, utterly taken by your absence. The aftermath of your fight has left him off kilter—like gravity shifted just enough to be noticeable.

He’s been on the receiving end of your irritation before—in fact, he thinks ends up there at least once a shift. But your genuine, unadulterated anger is something he is not overly familiar with. Not something he has ever had to navigate.

He said too much. Or not enough, coming out in all the wrong ways. It just got away from him, slipping through his hands like water before it spilled over the ground. He’s left with the conflicting feelings of irritation and regret pooling at his feet, soaking his shoes and threatening to pull him under.

The irritation burns, scorching a chorus of ‘Why can you understand?’ loud and suffocating in his ears.

The regret stings, reminding him he should have gone after you—shouldn't have let you leave it like this.

He’s your attending, he’s yours—

Jack sucks in a breath around the thought.

Do you not trust me?

You are my business.

It would save us a lot of time if you just stopped lying to me… To yourself.

Jack scrubs a rough hand through his hair, sinking into the dull, grounding tug of his fingers as they catch his curls.

Fuck. 

~~~~~~

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour, rousing you from sleep.

It takes you a moment to orient yourself, your hand moving blindly on the surface of the table until it comes in contact with your phone. The harsh, blue light has you wincing, your eyes still adjusting from the total darkness that has shrouded your room.

There’s a malicious pounding behind your eyes—the kind of pain that has you passing a second thought over pain killers or curling up under your thick duvet to never be seen again—but you hold focus on the screen.

Various notifications fill it—instagram, email, pinterest—but your eyes snag on the two message notifications: one from Ellis, and one from—

Jack Abbot: Hey, I’m sorry about this morning. Can we talk?

You freeze, feeling suddenly more awake than you were moments ago. 

The fight on the roof this morning was…brutal, to say the least. You’d like to blame it on your exhaustion, but you know better. Anger still simmers under your skin, but it’s tangled now—knotted in something that feels like regret.

You wish you could take the whole morning back, go into the past and do it differently. Say less. Say more. Just something that doesn't have it end the way it did.

Jack meant well—he always does—but with Luke Myers breathing down your neck the last thing you needed was for Jack to try and fix it, to tell you how to handle it. 

The whole thing just felt so…suffocating.

You hadn't needed him to fix it. Just to stay.

And still, you were the one that left. Storming off the roof and out of the hospital, leaving a trail of dust in your wake. You needed space—to get out of the confining hospital walls, out from everyone's sight, out from under it all.

You’re angry with him, so categorically angry with him. But you’re equally as angry with yourself.

It’s why you scroll past his message and click on Ellis's instead.

Ellis: What did you do to Abbot? He’s in a mood.

You scowl at her text and begin to type.

You: Are you working?

A few minutes pass, and you start to debate going back to sleep when—

Ellis: Yes, covering for Santos. Don’t ignore the question.

You: What makes you think I did anything?

Ellis: Because you practically flew out of here this morning after coming down from the roof, then Abbot followed you down looking like a kicked puppy. 

You: I didn't even see you come in.

Ellis: How about you try answering the question?

You groan, warring over the consequences of blocking her number, but she’ll find out eventually, she always seems to. 

You: We may have had a small fight.

Ellis: Small my ass, Abbot’s been running this place like a boot camp. 

You: I don’t know what you expect me to do here?

Ellis: Kiss and make up. If not for your sake then for everyone that has to deal with him.

You: I’ll do one of those things. 

Ellis: I’m sure you will ;)

Jesus fucking—

You: I’m going back to sleep now.

Ellis just sends a close up photo of herself making a smooching face at the camera in return. Despite yourself, you smile—small but bright. You toss it over for a few seconds, before swiping over to Jack’s contact. Your thumbs stall over the keyboard for the lack of anything to say.

You do need to talk—to apologize, to forgive. But your head is still pounding, and embers still burn in your gut, so you toss the phone onto your other pillow, and try to get back to sleep.

It doesn't come easy.

It’s fitful, fractured. You drift in and out, sheet tangling around your legs, the same thought circling back no matter how many times you try to outrun them. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back on the roof—his voice, the look on his face when you called him a dick. 

Guilt settles in your chest, persistent and impossible to shake.

By the time you finally give up, morning has bled into the afternoon. Your head still aches, but the restlessness is worse, crawling under your skin.

You can’t stay here.

You throw on whatever you can find, leave without thinking too hard about it, and let the city swallow you whole. You don't have anywhere specific to be—the supermarket, the pharmacy, the corner store—no general direction to guide you, you just walk from one place to the next, anything to keep you moving.

Anything to fill the space.

Eventually, you find yourself standing in front of a bookshop

It sits tucked between two louder storefronts, its windows lined with books that block any real view inside. Warm light spills faintly onto the sidewalk, soft but contained—like it can’t quite reach far enough. 

The sign on the door is slightly crooked, the windows slightly fogged. The whole place seems to shrink into the back alley: like it’s trying to hide from the rest of the street. 

You catch your reflection in the glass before you push the door open, warped slightly from the stacks behind it. You pause, hand hovering over the door handle as you take in your appearance. 

To say you look tired would be an understatement, your eyes are puffy and dark, hair flat and a little mussed from the wind. Your face is a little pale, like life has been slowly leeched out.

It’s probably the three back-to-back night shifts. Or maybe this Myers stuff is getting to you more than you’ve let yourself realize. 

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in, and step back from the shop, continuing down the street. 

On the way back to your apartment, you decide to cut through the park as the first signs of the setting sun peak through the trees. You wrap your coat tighter around yourself as a gust of cool wind brushes up against your skin.  

It’s quiet for a Wednesday afternoon—a few dog-walkers, Moms pushing their kids in strollers, teenagers walking home from school. 

You feel a little less confined here. People pass you by, completely off in their own worlds, and the space they leave has you feeling small—but freer, in a way that makes it easier for you to breathe.

In the near distance, you spot an older lady behind a pastel yellow cart adorned with flowers. The colours burst bright and vibrant against the park's muted greens, and you can’t help but walk towards them.

When you approach, the woman looks up, offering a warm, easy smile.

“You looking for anything in particular, hun?” 

You huff a quiet breath, eyes drifting over the bouquets. “I’m not really sure.”

She hums like that doesn't much matter.

“A little colour never hurts,” she says, moving around the cart to stand in front of you. “Even when you don't think you need it.”

The words land before you can stop them from meaning something.

You swallow, nodding once, though your throat feels tight.

Your fingers brush over an assortment of petals, delicate and unassuming. The bouquet is a cluster of wild flowers: white daisies, pink dahlias, yellow peonies, and a few others you can’t name. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “I guess.”

You end up purchasing that bouquet of wild flowers, cradling them carefully in your tote bag the entire walk back to your apartment. The heaviness in your chest eases when you fill a vase with fresh water, trimming the stems of the flowers so they fit inside. The sunlight catches the petals, softening the room from where they sit on the kitchen table.

After that, you keep going. But this time, you’re not in a rush—not trying to out run anything. Just…moving.

You haul a pile of clothes to the washing machine, wipe down the counter, sort through a stack of mail by the door. Small things. Manageable things. 

Things you can control.

After you’ve straightened the living room, you find yourself in the shower, letting the warm water soak into your muscles and bones. The water eventually runs cold, so you make quick work of soaping yourself and your hair before jumping out, wrapping your cold frame in a thick robe.

Later, you settle on to the couch with a plate of leftover pasta in your lap, legs tucked beneath you. The sweater you pulled on hangs loose at the wrists, the sleeves slipping over your hands when you reach for your fork. 

A blanket is draped over the back of the couch, and you tug it absently down across your legs. The fabric pools around you, trapping the last bit of warmth from the shower.

The TV hums in the background, something you’ve seen before playing without really grabbing your attention.

You take a few bites of pasta, not really tasting it—just going through the motions.

For a while, it's easy. It’s enough.

The room stays still, the kind of still that doesn't press in.  

Then—

The sharp buzz of the intercom cuts through it.

You pause, fork hanging half way to your mouth, the sound echoing through the apartment.

Your gaze flickers towards the wall, to where the small intercom sits by the door.

No one ever comes by unannounced.

Your stomach drops, a million thoughts racing through your head. 

What if he found you here?

He found your car, could he have followed you home?

Shit, what if he saw you out today—

Slowly, you set your plate down on the coffee table, wiping your hands absently against the hem of your sweater as you stand. The blanket slips from your lap, leaving your bare legs exposed to the cool air of your living room.

You cross the apartment, hesitating only a few seconds before pressing the button.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat—just long enough to make your chest tighten—

“Hey.”

Your breath catches.

You’d know that voice anywhere.

“...Jack?”

“Yeah.” A pause. You can hear it in the way he exhales, like he’s been standing there longer than he wants to admit. “Sorry. I know this is probably crossing so many lines but you weren’t answering your phone.”

Something in your chest loosens.

Just like that. All at once.

The heat, the subtle anger you’ve been harbouring all day—it slips, quiet and sudden, like it was never even a solid to begin with.

“I can go, if this is—” He cuts himself off, voice rough as gravel, like he’s been thinking about this all day. “I’ll go.”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Come up.”

The words leave before you can think them through.

There’s a pause on the other end—surprise maybe. Then, softer, “Okay.”

You buzz him in. 

The single minute it takes him to ride the elevator and cross the short hallway to your door is agonizing. It simultaneously feels like seconds and hours have passed by the time his knuckles rap softly on the door.

Your hand rests on the handle of the door for a moment longer than it needs to.

You don't know what you are going to say. Not really. You haven't even figured out where to start, or how to untangle any of it into something that makes sense.

Somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being easy. Stopped being just another person you worked alongside, joked with, leaned on when it was convenient. He became something steadier than that. Something constant.

Not in a way that takes from you—but in a way that lets you breathe. 

Your jaw tightens faintly, because you know what it is like when it is the opposite. When a presence lingers too long, presses too close. Turns every decision into something that isn't yours anymore.

Jack never takes anything from you. If anything, he gives it back. 

You hadn’t noticed how much space he held open for you until it closed. Until this morning. Until the silence stretched too far and everything felt like it was harder to carry on your own.

It had only been a day.

Your grip tightens on the handle.

Long enough.

Long enough to realize that maybe you weren't the one that felt it.

He showed up.

He’s here, on the other side of this door, for better or for worse.

He’s here.

You pull open the door, and find Jack a step away from the threshold. A plain black long sleeve clings to his wrists, pushed up just enough to reveal the watch you’ve seen a hundred times. His jacket hangs open, worn brown, the fabric creased like he hadn't bothered to fix it since shrugging it on. Dark, blue jeans. Boots still dusted from the outside.

A coffee cup rests loosely in his hand, like he forgot it was there.

There’s the faintest glint at his collar when he shifts, something silver catching the light before disappearing again. 

But it’s his face that stops you.

He’s tired. Not just from the shift—you’ve seen that look before. This is different. Heavier. Like it’s been sitting behind his eyes all day. He’s drawn in a way that you just know mirrors your own exhaustion. 

For a second, neither of you say anything.

You just stand there, looking at each other. 

Then—

“Hey.” Your voice comes out softer, quieter than you mean it to. Like your body knows how fragile this moment is.

“Hey,” he returns. His mouth twitches—not a smile, but something in him seems to relax.

You stand there for another moment, just watching him, when you realize he’s still waiting in the hall. 

“Sorry,” you say, stepping to the side and pulling the door with you. “Come in.”

He steps just inside the door, as you close it behind him. 

Neither of you say anything for a moment. 

The lingering tension from earlier is palpable. It’s not as sharp as it was on the roof—but it's still there, not quite settled. 

Your gaze drops briefly to the coffee cup in his hand.

He seems to notice a second later.

“Oh,” he huffs out a quiet breath, almost sheepish, as hold the cup out to you. “I got this for you. It’s tea. From that place you like.”

It’s light, careful. You recognize it for the olive branch it is and a small smile creeps up on your face.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, reaching out to take the offered cup from his hands. Your fingers brush as you do, sending sparks up your arm.

“Well, I have a bet to uphold, don't I?” 

You are fully aware that’s not why he did it, but you let him deflect anyway. 

You watch as his eyes scan you, and you're suddenly all too conscious of yourself. The shorts that barely cover the tops of your thighs, the thick butter-yellow sweater hanging loose at your hips, your still damp hair clinging to your neck.

“Sorry, I, uh—” You look down at yourself, shifting your weight a little. “I just got out of the shower.”

He smiles, a little more genuine this time. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. I’m the one that came over unannounced.”

“Did you come from work?” you ask, eyeing his attire and noting the lack of scrubs. 

“No, I went home. Showered,” he says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “I decided to go for a walk and—I don't know. Found myself here.”

You nod, eyes glued to the warm cup in your hand. The faint aroma of mint rises with the steam. 

Mint tea. Your favourite.

“I’m really sorry,” you blurt, looking up at him. “About this morning. I was—” You hesitate, shaking your head a little. “I don’t really have an excuse. I was angry, and I took it out on you. You were just trying to help.”

Jack exhales slowly. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells you. “I was being a dick. I made the whole thing about me—about what I thought you needed. I didn't ask you what you needed. And I’m sorry.”

You swallow, something loosening in your chest.

“Thanks,” you nod, rocking back on your heels slightly. “I appreciate that.”

He dips his head in return, then, suddenly—like he’s just remembered it’s there—gestures to the bag at his shoulders. “I brought tools,” he says, “For your cabinet. The one without the door.”

Your eyebrows rise on your forehead, and you smirk. “And you just ‘ended up here’, right?” 

“Do you want me to fix it or not?” he retorts, shaking his head.

You chuckle, before stepping back and giving him space to come in properly.

He exhales, almost imperceptibly, before moving past you. He strips off his coat, tossing it over the back of the kitchen table chair, and slipping his bag from his shoulders to the ground, like he’s done it a hundred times before. 

Your eyes follow him without thinking.

The fabric of his shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders as he moves, the hem riding up just enough to reveal a small patch of freckled skin at his lower back.

You stare at the exposed skin longer than you need to.

He turns around, catching you off guard. You look away too quickly to be subtle and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Bastard.

“These are nice,” he says—mercifully not pointing out your staring—gesturing to the vase of flowers in the center of the table. 

You blink. “Oh, yeah. There was a lady selling them in the park today.” You close the distance between you two, bracing one hand on the back of the chair next to him. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You were in the park?” He asks, like it's the strangest thing in the world.

“Yeah,” you say slowly, eyebrows bunched in confusion. “I was running errands, and decided to cut through the park on my way home.”

He frowns. “Have you slept at all today?” 

“A few hours this morning.” You shrug.

He raises his eyebrows at you, pinning you with a look. 

“What?” You ask incredulously. “I’m off ‘til Saturday. I’ll catch up.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, sounding entirely unconvinced. 

“Don’t ‘Uh-huh’ me,” you huff, crossing your arms. “You’re not exactly setting a great example, chief.” 

“Wow,” he says in mock offense, “I trek all the way here after my long, gruelling shift—

“It’s a five-minute walk,” you deadpan.

“—I bring you tea, and all I get in return is attitude.” 

“You're going to get more than attitude in a minute if you keep going," you warn, narrowing your eyes.

“Is that a promise?” he murmurs, leaning ever so slightly into your space. 

You lean in too, the space between you shrinking by the minute. “In your dreams, Jack,” 

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, before turning away, heading towards the row of shelves that you had tucked the cupboard door behind. Jack mutters something you can't quite make out as you bend down, pulling the door free. 

When you rise, he’s there behind you, accepting the offered cabinet door, examining it.

“Where are the hinges?” he frowns, flipping it over in his hands.

“Gone.”

“Gone?” he asks, brows furrowing. “You want to elaborate?”

“What’s there to elaborate on?” You shrug. “They’re gone.”

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. “You're lucky I came prepared.”

Jack turns from you, picking up his discarded bag from the ground and moves towards the kitchen. 

You follow, slowly this time, resting your hip on the counter as unzips his bag.

He works with easy familiarity, pulling tools from his bag, setting them out with a kind of absent precision that tells you he’s done this before—maybe not here, not for you—but enough that his hands know what to do without thinking.

And shit, his hands.

The way his fingers move. Steady. Sure. The slight flex in his forearms as he adjusts the hinge, testing the alignment before reaching for a screwdriver.

It should be nothing.

You’ve watched his hands countless times as he guides you through a tough procedure, or demonstrates a different way to save a patient. But in those moments, your focus is always somewhere else. On the patient. On the outcome. On doing your job right.

Here—

There is nothing else to look at.

It’s such a simple thing. And somehow, it isn't. 

You shift slightly, your grip tightening around the edge of the counter. 

“You know,” you start, voice coming out quieter than you intend, “I could've lived without that door.”

He huffs softly, not looking up. “Well, I’d hope so.”

Your gaze drops again—back to his hands as he pulls out a drill.

“You don't have to do this.”

That gets him to pause.

He glances up at you, for just a second.

“You don't do well with help, do you?”

You huff quietly, pushing yourself up to sit on the counter. “I do just fine,” you say, a little more defensive than you need to be.

You’ve always been an independent person—moved far away young, paid your own way through school, solved your own problems—never needing to rely on anyone. It was easy, comfortable. 

But whatever this is between you and Jack has settled into something…different. 

You find yourself reaching for him—and, somehow, he’s always there when you do. 

The woman’s words from earlier come flooding back.

A little colour never hurts, even when you don't think you need it.

A little colour…

He lifts a single brow.

“What?” you say, nudging his hip with your leg. “I’ve lived this long.”

He chuckles, before turning back to the broken door. “And ain’t that a miracle.”

You nudge him again, your foot connecting with his hip as you try to push him back. Instead, his hand comes up, quick and sure, wrapping around your ankle, giving it a firm tug. 

You slide forward with a startled yelp, hands flying out to brace the counter on either side of you. 

“Jack—”

You try to tug your foot free, but his grip tightens slightly—just enough to keep you there without hurting you, his thumb shifting lightly against your skin. 

“Jack, let go!” you demand, though it’s void of any real bite.

Your eyes are glued to where his hand circles your ankle, his hold warm against your bare skin. The contact sends a flutter low in your stomach, sharp and unexpected.

“Keep your feet to yourself,” he says, voice low, a hint of amusement sitting just beneath.

You huff, shifting your weight, before pulling sharply against his grip. It just causes you to slide closer to the edge.

“Fine!” you yield, loosening the tension in your leg, letting him support the weight of it. “Feet to myself, I swear.”

His eyes remain fixed on you—hand staying exactly where it is. The look is charged, full of heat that reflects the one in your stomach. 

Your hands grip the counter a little tighter than necessary.

The air shifts into something heavier. You can feel it—him holding you there just a second longer than he needs to.

Like he knows exactly what he is doing.

Then—

His fingers loosen, letting your ankle slip carefully out of his grasp.

You draw your leg back slower this time, tucking it in closer to yourself as you sit up straighter on the counter.

Jack turns back to the cabinet like nothing happened.

“Hold that,” he says, handing you a small screw. 

You take it from between his fingers, rolling it absently in your own.

You pass him what he needs when he asks—screws, the drill, the hinge—your fingers brushing his every so often, neither of you acknowledging it. He works with quiet focus, tightening, adjusting, testing the alignment until the door sits flush. The silence is broken by the low hum of the drill and the occasional offhand comment. 

When he’s done, he gives it a final push, satisfied, as you slide off the counter, crossing to the fridge. You pull out two beers from the case you purchased earlier today and hand him one.

“For your efforts,” you say, as he takes the offered bottle from your hands. 

“No problem,” he responds, lifting the bottle to his lips.

You lean back against the counter, raising a hand to gently swing the cabinet open, then closed. 

“Not bad,” you admit. “Might have to keep you around.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “Careful. I’ll start charging you.”

You smile into your drink. “My company is your payment. And my beer.”

“I guess that will have to do,” he says, a smile also playing on his lips.

After a moment you push off the counter, gesturing vaguely to the living room. “C’mon,” you say. “I’ve got a movie on.”

Jack murmurs something behind you that you can’t quite make out, before following you to the sofa. He situates himself down next to you, closer than the last time you found yourselves in this situation. This time, he doesn't hesitate when he reaches for his prosthesis, removing the limb entirely before slipping off his boots.

You reach for the TV remote on the coffee table, and rewind the previously forgotten movie back to the beginning. 

“What are we watching?” Jack asks after he’s gotten himself comfortable. 

“The Devil Wears Prada.” You lean back, pulling a blanket over your legs.

“Oh god,” he says, though it’s soft, threaded with something fond, “my wife used to—”

He cuts himself off.

Too late.

The words land with a heavy silence.

Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. 

“Your what?” you breathe.

Your mind scrambles to catch up, tripping over itself.

Wife?

The word echoes, sharp and disorienting, like you’ve missed something—like there’s been a whole part of his life sitting just out of reach and somehow you never saw it.

For a split second, something ugly twists in your chest.

You don't know him. Not really. Not if you’ve been standing here—doing this—with someone who belongs to someone else.

The thought hits hard. Fast. Unfair.

Jack’s shoulder tense beside you.

“My—” he starts, then exhales, running a hand through his hair, before sliding it to his neck, tugging up on the silver chain that rests there. 

What he pulls free is not something you expect.

They’re his dog tags—a chain of two resting in his hands. But it’s not the tags themselves that grabs your attention, it's the two rings that are looped through the metal.

One gold. One black.

They catch the light when he shifts, glinting faintly between his fingers.

You can't look away.

Your stomach drops, the earlier thought—sharp, accusatory—twisting into something else entirely. Something colder.

Oh.

Jack doesn't look at you at first.

His thumb runs absently over the rings, a quiet, practiced motion. Like he does it a thousand times a day.

“She used to make me watch it with her,” he says, voice quiet. “I could probably recite every line.”

There’s a faint hint of something in his voice—a wistful edge.

He finally glances up at you.

“She died,” he adds, more plainly this time. “Years ago.”

The words settle into the space between you, heavy and unmoving.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t even know what you’re feeling—shock, guilt, something else curling underneath. 

Your gaze drops back to the rings.

“When I told you about my brother,” you start, practically whispering, “I knew that you understood.”

You swallow.

“But I didn't realize that you…understood.”

He looks down at the chain, letting it slip past his hand to rest on his chest.

“Jack, I’m—” You suck in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.”

He smiles, a small thing. “It was hard. But, I’m learning to…grow.”

His eyes lift to yours.

“To let things be good when they are.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you blink them back.

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding tightly. “Yeah.”

He reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder, his thumb tracing lightly where it meets your neck.

The touch is grounding. 

You cover his hand with your own, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Nothing needs to be said.

He gives your shoulder a final, gentle press before letting his hand fall away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs after a beat, nudging his chin towards the screen. “You’re missing the best part.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, and lean back into the couch. “I’m pretty sure we’re still in the opening credits.”

“Yeah,” he says, settling beside you, his voice taking on a lighter edge. “Best part.”

You shake your head, picking up your beer and taking a long swig.

The movie plays on, scenes blurring together as time slips by.

At some point, the distance between you disappears entirely—your shoulder brushing his, then settling, like it was always meant to be there.

The rhythm of it becomes easy. Comfortable.

He gestures towards the screen now and then, not really explaining, just enough that you understand—small fragments of stories slipping through. A memory here. A detail there. Nothing heavy. Just pieces, offered and let go.

You wonder how often he talks about her. If this is maybe the first time he’s allowed himself to.

You find yourself doing the same.

Not everything. But enough that the space between you fills, soft and warm.

Laughter comes easier than it has all day—quiet at first, then less restrained. It spills out of you without warning, catching you off guard in the best way.

At one point, you nudge him with your foot again, aiming for his side—

He catches you again, utterly effortless.

Your foot barely makes contact before his hand closes around your ankles, guiding it to his lap without even looking.

You huff, but don't pull back. 

He lets your legs drape across his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. There’s no hesitation. No comments. He just lets them stay there, one hand resting absentmindedly against your calf, thumb brushing slow, idle patterns against your skin.

The motion is subtle. Unthinking. 

But it’s all you can focus on.

You both sit there for a while, even as the final credits come and go, and the TV goes dark. If it weren’t for his thumb’s constant motion against your leg, you’d think he’d fallen asleep.

You’re the first to move, reaching for your phone on the coffee table to check the time.

Shit, it's late. And Jack’s just been on a twelve hour shift. 

You wiggle your legs against his hands. “Jack, it's 11:30,” you say, keeping your voice low, as if the bubble you have found yourself in is fragile enough to shatter. “You must be exhausted.”

He blinks, then nods, lifting his hands from your legs so you can tuck them under yourself.

“Yeah, I should get going.” He leans forward, and busies himself with securing his prosthetic. 

You stand from the couch, grabbing the discarded beer bottles in one hand, moving to dump them in the kitchen. 

When you return, Jack is securing his coat around his shoulder, adjusting the tools in his bag before zipping it up.

“Can I drive you home?” you offer, as you both make your way to the front door.

“It’s all good,” he says, turning to face you. “It’s a nice night. I’d like to walk.”

“Okay,” you nod, still lingering.

There’s a pause. Not awkward—just…full.

“Well,” you say, a little quieter now. “Goodnight, Jack.”

You step forward before you can think too much about it, arms coming up around him.

For half a second, you're not sure—

And then he’s there.

His arms wrap around you easily, settling across your back, pulling you tightly against him.

You exhale against him, the tension you didn't realize you were still holding slipping out all at once. 

He smells like soap— fresh, citrusy, and something deeper underneath, warm and grounding. Cedar, maybe.

His body curves against yours, molding against you like a perfect fit.

You didn’t know a hug could feel so…right.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, bracing for him to pull away.

But he doesn't.

If anything, his hold tightens, drawing you closer when he feels your grip at his back.

You stay like that, unmoving, until your breaths begin to fall in the same rhythm.

In.

Out.

You don’t feel pulled in, or held down. Just…held. And somehow, that feels different. Your cheek presses a little closer against him, your eyes drifting shut.

Slowly—almost reluctantly—he pulls back.

Not far.

Just enough.

Your hands stay fisted in his shirt, unwilling to let him go completely, and he doesn't move to create anymore distance. 

His face hovers inches from yours.

Closer.

Close enough that your breath catches as it mixes with his, warm and uneven.

His flick between yours, then down to your mouth—searching for…something.

Your noses brush.

Once.

Twice.

It sends a quiet jolt through you, your grip tightening instinctively.

The space between your mouths disappears, despite the stillness that has overcome both you—until your lips are barely there, just grazing. A whisper of contact that isn't quite a kiss.

Your heart skips a beat, stutters and flips all in the same breath. But you can’t pull away. 

You don't want to.

“Jack—” you breathe, the word barely forming before it brushes against his lips.

And that’s all it takes.

Whatever restraint he’s holding onto snaps—

And there's a field somewhere within me

An open field where things used to grow

Pain I can't take never quite kills me

It leaves a space for what I don't know 

— annabelle dinda

You had paced back and forth in your apartment for nearly an hour, wearing what you were sure was a hole in the living room rug.

You hadn't been able to catch your breath—not fully. Your lungs had filled and drained like they always did, but you had still felt light headed, flushed, like you’d just run a marathon. 

He had waited by your car. He had grabbed you.

Grabbed you.

You could still feel the imprint of his hand lingering on your forearm, but it wasn’t warm and tingly—not like when Jack brushed your shoulder or placed his hand on the small of your back to pass by.

No. 

This had been different.

It had felt like a presence, something alive in the worst way—searingly cold and violently invasive. You had tried to scrub it off—to rid your skin of his touch, but it remained, no matter how many times you tried. No matter how hard you rubbed at your skin.

Exhaustion weighed down your bones, but you had been paralyzed by it. Your mind hadn’t shut off, leaving you tossing and turning for hours. You weren't sure how many times you picked up your phone. How many times you almost called him.

He had said to call when things were out of your control. 

Was this out of your control now?

Maybe this feeling in your chest keeps building because you’re letting it. Your mother always said you had an affinity for dramatics. Maybe—maybe you just need to let it go. Surely Myers has gotten the hint by now.

But the more you'd tried to convince yourself, the tighter your chest had felt. 

At some point in the afternoon, between restless sleep and wakefulness,  your neighbour had dropped her dog off—Pinto—who curled up with you on the couch, slowing your still rapid heart. You had been dozing off, halfway through an episode of How I met your Mother, when your phone rang.

You were stunned into silence when Jack’s contact lit up the screen. It’s unusual for him to call— he was much more of a quick text kind of guy—so it had taken about four rings before your brain had caught up and answered.

He had sounded drained, out of breath, much like you had been.

 Maybe, that's why you had  invited him over. 

Or maybe it was because the sound of his voice calmed your racing heart faster than you ever could on your own.

So he had come over, and you figured at some point you’d find the courage to tell him what had happened in that parking lot. But he then found the one photo of your brother that you kept on display, and suddenly a different sort of weight settled over you.

Not many people you worked with knew you were a twin. In fact, Ellis and John might have been the only ones that knew anything about your family. It’s not like you’re a private person—it was just…uncomfortable to explain. Losing your brother was the hardest thing you ever had to go through—most people couldn’t understand that. 

But Jack had. 

You had seen it written across his face. He had understood that kind of loss. It hadn’t been anything he said that gave it away, but the stillness that had settled around him. The quiet.

He hadn’t shared, so you hadn’t pried. But you had known that he knew. And that had been enough.

So you had settled in on the couch, drinking and laughing and arguing your way through three Twilight movies. 

 At some point, you must’ve fallen asleep.

 A quiet, delicate rap of knuckles on wood, pulls you from it.

You almost ignore it, feeling it’s likely part of some distant, unimportant dream. And you’re so warm and comfortable that the efforts of waking to check would be impossible. So, you’re more than content to let yourself hover just beneath consciousness. 

But then it comes again, a little more insistent this time, dragging you upward again, inch by traitorous inch, until sleep loosens its grip. 

Light flickers behind your eyes as they flutter open, various colours flashing like an amusement park ride. The next thing you notice is the sound of your TV, quieter than you’d ever leave it.

You grow more aware by the second.

Something shifts down by your legs. A moment later Pinto’s nails click against your floor just as another knock sounds.

You frown faintly, still heavy with sleep.

There’s pressure at your temple, solid and warm.

In fact, you’re warmer on one side than the other—heat curls along your left arm, your shoulder, your cheek. There’s a subtle rise and fall beneath your cheek, almost imperceptible.

Not a pillow. 

Shitshitshitshitshitshit.

Awareness comes crashing in all at once, like your brain is finally catching up to what you are seeing.

The side of your face is smushed into Jack's shoulder, your legs curled up but angled to be resting across his lap. Really, your whole body is curled into him, like it was purely instinctual in your sleep. His head rests gently against yours and it’s entirely unclear, but there may be some drool on his t-shirt.

Your phone starts to ring, but you can't sit up to reach it. If you do, you'd wake the very obviously sleeping Jack. You’d then have to explain, absolutely mortified, why you’re curled into him like a cat and drooling on him like a rabid dog. 

Mercifully, your phone stops ringing, and you're about to thank the gods at the exact moment Pinto decides to let out a gruff bark.

Jack stirs next to you, slowly waking at the commotion. So, you take the opportunity that presents itself, shifting as quickly and quietly as you can from beneath him, and make for the door before he’s too awake to realize what happened.

You shuffle Pinto out of the way, pulling it open to discover your neighbour, Mrs. Liu. She stands with arms crossed over her chest, her comically large purse hanging off her arm. Mrs. Liu doesn’t stand taller than your chest, but her size doesn't make her any less of a terrifying woman.

“Mrs. Liu—” 

“I have been knocking for twenty minutes,” she interrupts, her voice clipped. “It’s very rude to keep an old lady waiting.”

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Liu.” You open the door a little wider when Pinto wedges his head between your legs and the frame. “Come in, I’ll grab his collar.” She nods tersely, passing through the threshold and scratching under Pinto’s chin when he greets her.

Scanning the hooks by the entry way, you don’t see where his collar would usually hang, so you turn towards the living room—

And smack directly into a wall of solid muscle.

Jack’s hands come up instantly, catching your shoulders before you stumble back. You look up to apologize, but the words die on your tongue. 

You're suddenly acutely aware of every point of contact—where your bodies brush, where his hands rest, steady and warm against your shoulders. His hazel eyes lock onto yours, pulling you in like gravity, making it impossible to look away. This close, you can see the faint scatter of freckles across his face.

Everything else falls away. The room, the noise, the world beyond this moment—it all dissolves into a dull, distant hum. All that's left is the air between you two and the sharp disorienting awareness of him.

His grip tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. Like he doesn't want you to pull away.

Your heart stutters, then pounds hard enough you’re sure he can feel it.

Mrs. Liu clears her throat.

The sound snaps everything back into place. 

Jack’s hands drop immediately, stepping back like he’s been burned.

The space between you opens again—too fast and too wide.

It feels like oceans. Like eons.

The warmth of his body fades, and in its absence, something in your chest aches. For a fleeting, irrational moment you would do anything to get it back. 

“Where are your manners, girl?” Mrs. Liu says from behind you. You turn back to her, the movement so sharp you need to take a step to steady yourself.  

“Mrs. Liu, this is my—” You stop, not really sure what to introduce him as. Friend? Coworker? Boss? 

You’re friends with Jack, at least you think. He wouldn’t be coming over here otherwise. But friend are so casual, and boss is way too formal of a term.

 “Coworker,” you settle on, “Jack Abbot.”

Jack steps forward reaching out a hand to shake Mrs. Liu’s. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Liu,” he says, giving her the most obnoxiously charming smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Likewise,” she returns, shaking his hand delicately. You swear you see her bat her eyelashes at him.

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile tugs at your lips as you turn away, searching for Pinto’s collar. You find it lying on the hardwood floor of your bedroom, half tucked under your bedside table—how it got there is beyond you.

When you return, Jack is leaning casually against the wall, his frame blocking your view of Mrs. Liu. He is undoubtedly flirting his way into Mrs. Liu’s good graces— and succeeding, if her delighted giggles are anything to go by.

It’s entirely harmless. If Jack thinks he can lift someone's spirits with a wink and an easy smile, he’ll do it. And he does. Often. You think it’s got something to do with his healer instincts. 

Or maybe he’s just a shameless flirt.

Who knows.

You step around them and fasten Pinto’s collar around his neck as he sits dutifully by Mrs. Liu’s side. You’ve caught only half the conversation, but you straighten just in time to see her laugh again, her hand coming up to rest on Jack’s bicep, giving it a playful squeeze.

Something twists in your stomach.

On one hand, you're glad she’s enjoying his company. She’s been more withdrawn since her husband moved into a nursing home—getting her to laugh as of late has been a feat you’ve only managed a few times. 

And, admittedly, it’s kind of endearing.

On the other hand—

It's Jack who’s leaning into her space.

Jack who lets her touch his arm. 

Jack speaking in that beautiful, knee-weakening, voice you know all too well.

Your Jack—

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shut that thought down before it can take root.

You decide to lead into the former feeling, the safer one. Jack’s intentions are innocent and there is no universe in which you find yourself jealous of an eighty-year-old woman. 

And he’s not yours. 

So it doesn’t matter anyway.

“Ah, you found his collar,’ Mrs. Liu exclaims, taking the offered leash from your hands. “Thank you, my dear.” You lean down so she can kiss you on the cheek.

“No worries,” you say, returning the peck before straightening. “Sorry again for keeping you so late.”

Mrs. Liu turns for the door, and Jack steps around her to open it. “The company made up for it.” She winks at Jack as she passes by. “Don’t be a stranger, Doctor Abbot.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he says, scratching Pinto behind the ears one last time before they disappear down the hall. 

The door clicks shut and Jack turns, leaning back against it with a sigh. “You know, Mrs. Liu owning a dog that's three-quarters of her size checks out.”

“Really?” You tease, raising your brows. “And you know that based on the two minute conversation you had with her?”

“She’s very…upfront.”

“Uh huh.” You cross your arms. “Don't flirt with my neighbours. Especially the elderly ones, they don't know better.”

“Oh yeah?” He intones, voice dropping into that rich timbre that makes your stomach flutter. “Then who should I be flirting with?”

His gaze is unrelenting against you, steady and deliberate. Goosebumps form along your arms, like his attention alone is enough to leave a mark.

You could look away. Should look away.

But you don’t.

“Just keep it out of my building,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “I already see you way too much.” 

His mouth curves, pushing off the door to follow you when you turn back for the living room. “Oh, but you like my company.”

“I don’t know who told you that, but they lied.”

You reach your phone on the coffee table, seeing you had missed three calls from Mrs. Liu. 

Shit, you must have been asleep for a while.

Jack moves around to the other side of the coffee table, gathering your abandoned dishes in his hands.

“Oh, Jack, I can grab those.”

“I know,” he says easily, precariously balancing two wine glasses on a set of plates. 

Your eyes track his movements towards the kitchen and out of sight, listening as the sound of running water fills the space. You make your way to the entry of the kitchen, leaning on the doorless frame.

He moves around your kitchen like it isn't the first time he’s been in it. He doesn’t ask you where anything is, content to search on his own. He finds the dish soap you keep under the sink, the wash cloths you tuck into the top right drawer. It’s quite domestic, watching him move around your space. 

“Enjoying the view?” 

His words snap you out of your weird trance as he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder with a grin.

“Of you about to do my dishes?” You deadpan, brows arching. “Yeah, I’m real excited for that. Better put on a good show.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

You shake your head, looking down at the floor. “What is up with you today? It’s like you’ve dialed your personality up to eleven.”

He laughs a little, reaching for the pan you left on top of the stove. “It’s the wine.”

“Sure,” you respond, pushing off the wall and moving towards the sink, pulling a tea-towel off the oven handle as you pass. 

Your kitchen is relatively small, so your shoulders bump as you work side by side—Jack scrubbing down your dishes with practiced ease, you towelling them off and placing them in the drying rack.

A memory from earlier rushes in unexpectedly. You bent over the sink, scolding hot water pouring over your arm as you rub relentlessly at it with a sponge, tears stinging your eyes. Your arm was beet-red afterward, but it hadn’t erased the feeling of his hand on you.

Words swell up in your throat, the need to tell Jack everything suddenly overwhelming. But they get clogged under your tongue, unable to fall past your lips—like a nightmare where you try to scream, but nothing comes out.

“What happened to your cabinet?” Jack asks suddenly, breaking through your spiraling. 

You look up, spotting the exposed cabinet, no door to contain the contents inside. 

“Oh, it’s been like that for months.” You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat. “The door came off and I just never got around to fixing it.”

Jack nods, assessing the cabinet before passing you a wine glass. “I can fix it for you, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” You ask, scanning his face for any hint of a joke.

“Yeah,” he replies, like it’s no burden at all. “It looks like it just came off its hinges. Would take me five minutes to fix, easy.”

“That would be great,” you smile, before carefully placing the wine glass in the drying rack. “Thank you.”

Jack reaches into the soapy water, pulling the plug from the drain. “Of course, when are you in next?”

“I’m working the next three nights,” you say, resting your hip on the counter as you turn to face him, offering up your towel so he can dry his hands. “But I’m off Wednesday.”

“Cool.” He takes the offered towel, quickly wiping his hands before folding it back onto the counter. “I’m in on Wednesday morning but I can come by Thursday.”

“Opposite shifts for almost a week?” You exclaim, a grin tugging at your mouth. “How will you ever get by?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “No one'll be there to call me old, insult me or make me buy them eight dollar lattes—”

“They are not eight dollars.”

“—it’ll be a real tough week.” 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes. “I’m a delight and your shifts will be incredibly boring without me.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“You know what—”

“What?” He leans down into your space ever so slightly, voice dropping low and affectionately condescending. It effectively short circuits your brain.

Christ almighty.

Who even are you right now? You’re a highly educated, confident woman, not some inexperienced, blushing highschool girl. But whatever Jack is doing—whatever this ridiculous back and forth flirting match is—is turning you into one. 

And he knows it. Which just annoys you even more.

Maybe the wine really is getting to him, because this is the most forward you’ve ever seen him. If the conversation gets too suggestive he always pulls back, never allowing it to get out of his control. But this is like he’s just… given in. 

What the fuck is happening?

“You are so annoying,” you tell him.

It’s a terrible come back, but it’s all you can come up with when his eyes are jumping all across your face.

“That’s part of my job.” He shrugs.

“Find another one.”

“Nope.”

You both go still for a moment, caught in the quiet hum between heartbeats. His hazel eyes hold yours—steady and unflinching—the air thick and charged with some unspoken thing.

Every breath and subtle movement is amplified, and you only now realize how close you have found yourselves. Again. 

Finally, he lets a small, easy sigh escape, breaking eye contact to glance at the oven. “I should go,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s leaving because it's the natural thing to do.

“Yeah,” you breathe, looking away, “it’s late.”

Despite the agreement, neither of you move, content to hover in this moment for just a little longer. You expect your heart to be pounding against your ribs like it was before—but this time it’s slow, your whole nervous system decompressing from the events of the day.

And you know the wine is not the cause.

Ultimately, it’s Jack who moves first, pushing off the counter and striding towards the entry way. You follow behind him, twisting your fingers in your hands as he quietly puts on his coat and laces his shoes.

“Do you want a ride?” You ask, as he straightens.

“No, it’s all good. Just gonna walk.” He shoves his hands into his pockets like he needs something to do with them.

“Are you sure?” You tilt your head. “It’s pretty cold.”

“I’ll be alright,” he assures. He stands there for another beat before turning for the door. He reaches out a hand and pulls the door open, before suddenly turning around.

“Coworkers?” He asks, his body halfway between your apartment and the hall.

Your brows furrow at his question. “What?”

“Earlier, with Mrs. Liu,” he explains, “You called me your ‘coworker’.”

Oh.

“Should I have said ‘Boss’?” You intone, crossing your arms.

“You should’ve said ‘Friend’.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the weight of his words. There’s something unguarded about the way he says it, like the playfulness of earlier has peeled away, revealing a layer of himself he usually tucks away.

You don’t reply immediately, you just watch, his mouth tilting just so, as if he’s half-smiling at an inner thought.

The air between you shifts. The teasing feels smaller somehow, almost trivial, and what replaces it is heavier, warmer, closer. He’s not joking anymore. He’s…here. Present. And for the first time, you feel it—the unmistakable pull that has been threading through every glance and touch, now full and undeniable.

“I’ll make sure to label you accordingly next time.”

“Good,” he says, smiling a little fuller now, “because coworkers wouldn't be privy to the fact that you talk in your sleep.” 

Your eyes go wide at the implication of his words. “What?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he says, chuckling at your mortification, “you talk it up. I think you even said my name a few times—”

“Jack Abbot, walk out of this apartment right now!” 

He laughs, big and boisterous. “I’m kidding,” he says, letting out a sigh. “You should see your face.”

You walk towards the door, prepared to shoo him out like a dog. “Your new label is ‘massive dickhead’. Enjoy that.” He backs up into the hall, as you take the weight of the door from his hands. 

You expect him to fire back with something, but he just stands there—hands in his pockets, smiling fondly at you in the middle of the hall. 

All the anger and embarrassment from moments ago dissolves like sugar in water, leaving you with nothing but a sweet, warm feeling in your chest.

“Good night,” he breathes, quiet like a whisper.

“Good night, Jack,” you return, equally as soft.

He looks over you one last time, before turning down the hall and towards the elevators. 

Slowly, you close the door, the latch clicking softly into place.

And just like that, the quiet rushes back in.

You turn your back to the door, leaning against it, your hand still resting on the handle. Your head tips back, thudding gently against the wood and you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in.  

“What the hell…” you murmur to yourself. 

You press your palms flat against the wood, like you can still feel the echo of him there.

A disbelieving laugh escapes your throat as you squeeze your eyes shut.

What the hell was that?

~~~~~~

The next few days are brutal.

Three night shifts in a row at The Pitt is not something you would wish on your worst enemy. And yet you find yourself there, every night.

John Shen is the attending on staff, which makes you feel slightly better, knowing you're not suffering alone—but you still wonder what you did in your past life to deserve this.

The first shift is fine. Whitaker works a double upon finding out your shift is short staffed; you're endlessly grateful and little sorry for him, but it’s nice to actually see him in action. He takes everything in stride—not letting the stress of the shift or the exhaustion you know he is feeling affect his work. 

You guide him through his first direct intubation—which he excels at—earning him a pat on the back from John and earning yourself a well taught in turn. 

The night flows as it usually does—the witching hour hits and you're suddenly slammed with more traumas than you have rooms, but you make it work, adapting and delegating where necessary.

By the time it's over, and you’ve returned home, you barely make it out of your scrubs before you’re asleep on top of your duvet.

The next shift is worse. So much worse.

It starts before you even clock in.

You walk through the ambulance bay doors to the sound of shouting, a gurney already being wheeled in at full speed, paramedics talking over each other. There’s blood—so much blood—soaking through gauze that isn't doing nearly enough. 

“GSW to the abdomen!” someone calls.

“Trauma 2,” Dana calls back.

You don't even make it to the board, letting your bag slide off your shoulder and to the ground by The Hub as you rush to help.

John is beside you in an instant. “Page surgery.”

The hours that follow blur together, indistinct and relentless.

A rollover MVC with three passengers.

A kid with a head injury that was definitely not by accident.

An elderly man coding in the hallway because there are not enough beds.

You move from one patient to the next, hands working faster than you can keep up with. There is no time to think—only to act.

“Push epi.”

“Give me a line—no, a better one.”

“Where is respiratory?”

You don't know how long it’s been since you’ve sat down. Or had water. Or breathed.

At some point, your hands start to shake.

You ignore it.

Another trauma rolls in before you’ve even finished charting the last one. You feel it then—the creeping edge of being overwhelmed, the pressure building behind your ribs, threatening to crack something open. 

“Hey.”

John’s voice cuts through quiet and firm.

You look up.

“Focus,” he says easily. “One patient at a time.” You nod, swallowing hard, forcing everything else down where it belongs.

One patient at a time. 

So you do.

You intubate.

You compress. You call time of death.

And then you move on to the next one.

Because there is always a next one.

By the time the rush finally breaks, it’s not a clean ending. There’s no moment where everything just…stops. It trickles off slowly, leaving behind a wreckage of half-finished charts, empty trauma bays, and a kind of silence that feels almost wrong after all that noise.

You lean back against the counter, peeling off your gloves with unsteady hands.

Your whole body aches.

You must look as awful as you feel, because John practically bullies you into his car when the shifts change.

This time, you don't make it out of your scrubs, you don't even make it to your bed. You just fall onto the couch, pull a blanket over you, and stay there until four. 

Only to have to get back up and do it all over again.

You down a can of Alani on your way into your final of three shifts, trying to make yourself feel less like the living dead, though you’re not sure it’s working.

“Jesus,” Santos says as you pass by the hub, “what happened to you.”

You glare at her. “Three nights straight in this place, that's what.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender, muttering something under her breath as you clock in.

Quiet, is not a word you would ever use to describe any shift in The Pitt, but if you had to pick a shift, it would be this one. It’s slow enough to make you antsy, like the shoe hasn’t yet dropped and you’re just waiting around to be slammed.

But it never does.

A few traumas roll in, but nothing major. A STEMI comes in by car, but they make it to the Cath Lab in a whopping twenty-one minutes. You pick up patients like normal from the waiting room, no one sits in the halls; you’re so close to being in the clear to head home and sleep for a week when a familiar voice sounds behind you.

“Top of the morning,” Myers says, bright and playful.

Your skin crawls.

You’re sitting in an empty patient room towards the back of the ED, just looking for a quiet place to chart, though you guess that’s just gone out the window.

You don’t turn around, don’t open your mouth. You just keep charting, refusing to give this man the time of day.

“What?” He asks, coming to lean against the wall beside you. “Not even a ‘Hello’.”

You say nothing, but your heart pounds in your chest with the sudden desire to get the hell out of this room.

“Oh, come on, now.”

His words send you right back to that parking lot. Right back to the pain of his grip on your arm.

You scan your badge against the computer, sign out, then turn to face him.

“What part of ‘Stay the hell away from me.’ did you not understand?” You snarl, shouldering past him as you exit the room.

Your feet pass quickly over the vinyl flooring as you make a beeline for the stairs, but you can hear him coming up behind you, your shoulder tensing instinctively when you think he’s going to grab you.

But it never comes.

“Dr. Myers!”

You know that voice. 

You look over your shoulder just in time to see Jack step into Myers’s path, cutting him off cleanly.

“Did you come to see that patient in South 18?” Jack says, easy, casual—like this is just normal conversation.

Myers hesitates, before finally turning his attention to Jack. “I did.”

You don’t stick around. 

You take the out and go, all but sprint for the stairwell doors. 

By the time you reach the roof, you’re breathless, flushed—and it has nothing to do with the stairs. The morning air is a little warmer than it should be, the kind that clings to your skin like summer is not quite ready to let go. You walk over to the railing and brace your hands against it, head dropping forward.

You pull your ponytail free from the elastic, wincing as you scratch at your scalp.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, letting the wind ruffle through your hair, trying to shake the feeling out of your chest.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn.

“Are you okay?”

Jack’s voice is quiet, careful, like he’s approaching a wild animal.

He just might be.

You huff out a breath that could almost be a laugh. “Fucking peachy.”

He doesn’t respond, but you can feel his eyes on you, assessing your condition.

“What was that?” he asks finally.

You straighten, turning just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ because you don’t want to talk about it,” he challenges, “or ‘nothing’ because it is nothing?”

“Because it is nothing.” Your voice comes out more clipped than you intend.

He approaches slowly, leaning down against the rails next to you.

“Hey,” he coaxes softly, his head tilted down trying to meet your eyes. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

There’s a beat. Dense and loaded. 

And then—

“Will you look at me?” 

His words are soft, but his voice is pleading, begging. It gives you no choice but to meet his eyes. His brows relax when you do, his lips curving into a small smile. 

“I think there is something to talk about,” he tries, almost whispering. “I want to help you.”

“I don’t need help.” You turn away from him again, looking back out over the city, at the sunrise.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “Do you not trust me?”

“Jesus, Jack,” you respond, shaking your head. “It’s not about you.”

“No, it’s about you.” He straightens, voice rising in challenge. “It’s about the fact that you're running away from residents in the ED. It’s about the fact that this is clearly out of your control now and you won’t admit it—”

“You don’t know shit about what’s in my control,” you snap, pushing off the railing to face him. “I told you I’d tell you when I needed help, and I will. You are the one that doesn't trust me to do that.”

“No,” he says firmly, “you don’t get to spin this on me to avoid the real issue here. You need to report this.”

Your chest tightens. “No.”

“That’s it? No?”

“I’m not reporting it.” You cross your arms like it might hold you together. “I have it handled.”

“So you keep saying. But ‘handled’ is not enough when you’re sprinting across the ED to get away from him and I have to step in—”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to, that's the whole point!” 

The words land harder than you expected. 

“You don’t get to decide what that was,” you bite out. “You don't know what he—”

You cut yourself off, though not before Jack catches on.

“What?” he demands. “What—what did he do?”

You want to tell him. The words bubble up like they did before, but you choke on them, unable to get them out.

Your head hangs, and Jack must see the internal war you wage, because the tense lines of his shoulders loosen, leaning down to catch your eyes again.

“It doesn’t have to be me,” he voice softens from the hard edge it took, trying to shake off the frustration. “Make a confidential report to HR, talk to Shen or Ellis, just—please. I need to know you’re safe.” 

“I am safe.”

He lets out a humourless laugh, running a rough hand through his hair. “Fucking hell, we just keep going in circles here.”

“Then stop trying to fix this!” you explode, unable to contain your anger. “And stay out of it.”

“I am not trying to fix this, but I have the right to say something.”

“And I have the right to tell you to mind your own fucking business.”

His eyes flash. “You are my business.”

The words hang there. Heavy and unavoidable. 

“No,” you say, before you can stop it. “I’m not.”

That lands, and he takes a step back like you’ve actually shoved him.

He goes still, the only thing moving are his eyes as he looks you up and down.

“You’re shaking,” he grounds out.

That makes you pause. 

“You don’t even notice it,” he continues, “but I do. I am standing here watching you practically vibrate because that man scares you so much.” 

For a second—just a second—you feel it. The tremor in your hands, the stiffness in your chest, the way your breath won't quite settle. 

And you hate him for seeing it.

You open your mouth to retort—

“It would save us a lot of time if you just stopped lying to me,” Jack cuts in, voice hard again. “To yourself.”

You scoff. “You’re such a dick.”

You bump into him as you pass by, causing him to stumble back a little. 

But you don’t care.

Fire burns in your chest and you're not even sure who it’s directed at anymore.

Myers for putting you here. 

Jack for prying. 

Yourself—for not being able to let go.

You make it to the stairwell doors and hesitate.

A part of you wants him to follow, wants him to demand you accept his help.

The other, more prominent part just wants to go home.

So, you push open the double doors and descend the stairs.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay.

— Robert Frost.

The desert sun is a living flame against the nape of Jack Abbot’s neck.

He can feel the beginnings of a sunburn take shape against the exposed skin, but it’s secondary to everything else.

The beat of helicopter blades pounds in his ears, and the weight of his pack is heavy and unrelenting against his shoulders. Strong gusts of wind threaten to bowl him over where he crouches behind an overturned humvee.

His hands move in a blur of motion as he ties a tourniquet against a man's leg.

A soldier. Like him.

Maybe a brother. Or a father.

He doesn't know. Pretends not to care.

The only thing in front of him is a leg oozing blood faster than he can keep up with. 

Beyond that—beyond the humvee that blocks his view—he can hear the pops of gunfire and the promise of more wounded.

The soldier in front of him goes limp, so Jack extends his hand to the neck.

There is no steady pulse of a heart against the calloused pads of his fingers.

There is no pulse at all.

So Jack moves on, untying the tourniquet from the man’s—the dead man’s—leg, and crawls for the next one.

Because there’s always a next one.

Always someone else to save.

He can never get ahead.

He never will.

But still, he crawls. 

The next one is missing a sleeve, and an arm that would usually fill it.

He dies before Jack can put a hand on him.

So, he crawls.

He ducks behind the cover of a large stone when the sound of bullets comes too close for comfort.

But, he can see the next one.

Her dark, wavy hair is loose from her helmet, her body limp where she lies in the dirt.

He should move on to someone he can save.

But he can’t take his eyes off her form.

So, he crawls.

He lies low, scraping his forearms across sand and broken glass to reach her. It stings as he pulls himself across the ground, utterly exposed to the will of some higher being.

It would have been a mercy to end his life right there. 

If only to save him from the horrors of the future.

The further he crawls, the further the woman seems to be.

He can’t reach her.

Can’t save her.

He never can.

A flicker of light flashes across his eyes, golden and fleeting.

It catches again, and he follows it to where a golden band rests on the woman’s finger.

He knows that ring.

He picked it.

The woman's head lolls to the side.

Jack recoils.

She’s a beautiful woman. A kind woman. 

Her skin is dark like the morning coffee they’d share on the fire escape. Her eyes were warm like the nights they’d spend tucked into each other's embrace. Her lips were smooth like the skin he’d worship until his final breath.

Or hers.

The world around him slants, spinning his head and turning his stomach, until it's no longer the hot desert that bears down on his back, but the crushing weight of hospital walls, bright lights, and ringing monitors that threaten to flatten him. 

His hand clasps tightly with a limp one against the thin mattress of a hospital bed. 

The woman’s long, dark hair is gone, traded for a colourful scarf that wraps around her head. 

Her skin is lifeless and dull. Her eyes are void of the warmth that they used to hold. 

She is beautiful.

But she is gone.

A long piercing tone cuts through his skull like a blade. 

His knuckles turn white, unable to let go of the hand of the only woman he’s ever loved.

The agony of grief claws at his voice, tearing it to shreds when he cries.

When he screams.

A large hand falls to his shoulders, tugging him away.

But he can’t take his eyes off her form.

So, he falls. 

His knees buckle and hit the ground with a force that shakes the room. Those large hands continue to clutch at his shoulders and he doesn’t know who it is. Their whispering things he can’t hear, tugging him into a hard chest where he falls and falls and falls.

The steady tone of death doesn't leave him. It will never leave him. He hears it everywhere, it's all around him—

Until it is him.

The room tilts again, tossing him aside until he lands somewhere he’s become too familiar with.

Wait—

He squints against the harsh lights of Trauma 2, the room is completely empty except for the gurney he stands in front of.

When he looks down, his hands are deep within a bloodied chest. The blood is hot and thick. It runs down his hands, along his forearms and drips onto his shoes.

Harsh breaths beat against the mask across his face.

His head shoots up, looking for someone—anyone—to help him when—

No.

You stand across from him, arms loose by your sides so casually that it's utterly terrifying. You look like every time he's ever laid eyes on you. But something is off.

“What are you doing Jack?” you ask, but your voice is echoey and wrong.

No.

His lips part to explain—but he has no voice.

He chokes on nothing. On everything.

You need to run. You can’t be here. You can’t see him like this.

“Jack, why aren't you saving her?” You take a single step towards him.

Looking down again, he finds more blood oozing from the chest, seeping down and pooling onto the gurney and floor.

He doesn’t know what is wrong. He doesn't know how to fix it.

He reaches for gauze, sutures—something to stop this bleeding, but there's nothing here.

Except for you.

The tone of death grows louder in his ears.

His fingers move blindly in the chest, searching for the source of the bleeding. If he could just get his finger—

“You can’t save her.”

Jack’s head whips towards you. 

“You never save her.” You tilt your head. “So, why even try?”

His breathing comes in shallow and uneven. It’s hot and puffs out against the mask covering his face. Sweat beads down his forehead, his hands shake.

This isn’t—

“Look at her.”

It’s like his head moves on its own accord. He tries to speak—to scream—but his lips move with no voice and he’s looking down at your lifeless body—

What?

It’s you on the table. 

It’s his hands in your chest and his hands on your heart and your blood on his feet and it’s you on the table—

You're beside him, now, looking down at yourself. Your lips twist in the way they do when you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Maybe next time.” You shrug and turn away from him before walking out the doors.

He tries to follow, but his feet are glued to the floor by your blood, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get free.

He’ll never get free.

The ringing is back, the signaling of death. 

It’s a suffering he knows well—a pain as familiar as a mother’s embrace. 

And he can’t escape.

So, he embraces.

Jack wakes with a start, a hand flying out to the side.

It meets the mattress. Cool and empty.

His chest strains against the weight of the dream, each new breath is more uneven than the last. He clenches his fists in the sheets and forces air into his lungs, slow and controlled like he’s been taught. 

It doesn't work.

Because it’s still there.

Not all of it. Not the blood or the chaos that tears at him behind his eyes.

Just pieces.

Dark hair. A band of gold. A sharp, unending tone.

Jack runs a hand down his face like he could escape the sound out of his skull.

And then, there was you.

He’s never dreamed about you before. Or maybe he has, and the fragments of it slipped from his grasp. 

Either way, it jars him.

He can still see your pale, bloodless skin. Can still feel his hands in your chest.

The dread of not being able to save you comes roaring back.

He takes a breath and pushes himself up into a sitting position. The flat sheet slips down around his waist, his duvet bunched down at the end of the bed.

His hand shakes when he drags it through his hair. 

Turning for the bedside table, he flicks on the lamp, its yellow light casting the room in a warm glow. He unplugs his phone, and checks the time.

4:18 PM

He lets out a shaky breath.

“You can’t save her.”

Your voice echoes in his head. 

He can’t think over it. Can’t breathe over it.

Gold flashes behind his eyes.

A hand. A ring.

Then your chest leaking blood. 

Still. Cold. Gone

“Fuck—”

He unlocks his phone, thumb swiping carelessly over the screen—

He doesn’t remember deciding to, but your contact fills the screen.

His shaky thumb hovers for half a second—

Then presses call.

Jack watches the screen as it rings. And rings.

When it rings for the fourth time, his thumb flies to the end call button—

“Hello?”

He freezes.

Your voice comes through, soft and right.

For a second, he just stares at the screen, like he’s imagined it.

“Jack?”

He puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey—sorry. I’m here.”

“No worries. What’s up?”

“I was just—” He stops.

Nothing comes.

Because what is he supposed to say? 

I just dreamt that you died and it was my fault and now it feels like my heart is going to come out of my chest.

“Jack, I think you’re cutting out.”

“Yeah—sorry.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I was just—”

Still, no words form on his tongue.

So something else does.

“Do you want to come over?” 

It comes out before he can stop it.

The silence left in between your phones is deafening.

“I didn’t have any plans tonight,” he adds quickly, “Thought I’d load up more Survivor. Figured you’d like to join.”

A beat.

“What gave you the impression that I liked it?” 

He can hear the smile in your voice.

His chest loosens.

“I don’t know,” he muses, a hint of one tugging at his own mouth, “maybe because you tried to use my carpet as a balancing beam?”

“I was under the influence.”

“Under the influence of gravity, maybe,” he says. “And from where I was sitting, it had you beat."

“Watching closely, were you?” 

“You?” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Always—” 

He cuts himself off. The words land heavier than he meant.

But you just laugh, easy and bright, and the tension slips loose again.

“I’d really love to come over,” you say, shifting on the other end “but I’m dog-sitting. I can’t leave my place.”

Something sinks in his chest.

“Oh. No worries then,” he replies, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “We can always watch another ti—”

“Do you want to come over here?”

He stills.

“My couch isn't as nice as yours,” you add, “but I’ve got popcorn. I’m sure I can find somewhere to stream Survivor.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says, his voice a lot smoother than he feels. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Cool, come whenever!”

“Will do,” he responds. “See you soon.”

“See you.”

The line clicks dead and Jack lets the phone fall to his lap, staring at nothing.

He knows this is a bad idea. 

You’re his resident. 

His smart, talented, witty—pain in the ass resident that worries him half to death yet somehow manages to make him feel more alive than he’d care to admit.

He likes you. 

And it’s not professional.

Robby hasn’t shut up about it since the start.

It started in Robby’s living room with a couple of beers. You had just switched onto his night shift, and Jack had gone on longer than necessary about how well you handled yourself —quick on your feet, sharp, good with patients. An asset to the department.  

Robby had just tilted his head, an eyebrow raised like he’d just been handed the easiest read of his life.

Jack brushed it off. 

Right up until his next shift.

You were in the ambulance bay, going on about trivia night with Ellis and Shen. He was listening, not that his brain gave him any other choice. He was pulled into your orbit, laughing in the right places, asking questions he didn't need answers to.

Robby walked past, not saying a word. He just looked between the two of you and lifted his brows behind your back.

Jack accidentally stepped on Robby’s foot later.

It’s been like that for months.

Hell—it’s still like that.

“This is getting sad,” Robby had said, coming up behind him.

Jack had been standing by the lockers, eyes fixed on the doors where you’d disappeared out into the parking lot.

There was a lightness in his chest from laughing with you over Gloria’s demanding invitations. He knew you had no interest in attending—honestly, neither did he—but there was a small, traitorous  part of him that wanted to see you in something other than scrubs. 

There had been a larger part of him that wanted to stand there and laugh with you for a little longer.

He didn't laugh like that. Not with anyone. Only you.

He’d glanced at Robby, face carefully neutral. “What is?”

Robby had gestured vaguely towards the doors. “This. I don’t understand why you keep doing this.”

“And what exactly do you think I’m doing?” Jack's brows had furrowed, turning to face Robby fully.

“I think you’re torturing yourself,” Robby told him, his voice dropping. “You obviously like her. And unless I’m blind, she likes you too. Just ask her out.”

Jack had taken a deep breath and his gaze drifted back to the exit. 

“I can’t.” 

It comes out a little quieter than he intended.

Robby softened, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “She’d want you to be happy.”  

His words hit harder than they should’ve.

There was a time—brief and distant—where something like that felt possible. Easy, even. But it hadn’t lasted, and whatever part of him had believed in that kind of life, hadn't survived it. 

After that, no one had come close.

Not until—

The intercom system crackled to life overhead, signalling an incoming trauma.

Robby swore under his breath, and the heaviness that had settled between them lifted.

“You want to help me out with this one?” Robby asked.

“Why not?” Jack responded, shifting his weight. “It’s not like I’ll sleep anyway.”

Robby laughed, before patting him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit." 

This morning felt like ages ago. 

Jack exhales, running a hand through his hair.

Robby’s voice lingers.

Just ask her.

Great advice.

His gaze drops back to his phone, your contact glowing faintly on the screen.

He’s already agreed, already crossed that line. There's no going back now.

Jack swings his legs over the side of the bed before securing his prosthesis and rising.

He moves on autopilot—showering, changing, checking his phone for the hundredth time like you maybe changed your mind.

You don't.

So, Jack doesn't think too hard about it when the door clicks shut behind.

It’s a relatively gloomy day. The sky is a thick sheet of gray, the wind snatches at his curls and bites at his skin under his jacket. For early October, the cold, autumn weather has taken up residency in Pittsburgh earlier than expected. 

Part of him wishes he decided to drive.

He shoves his hands into his pocket as he makes his way down the quiet street, nothing but food vendors and the odd biker passing by. 

It doesn't take long to reach your place. He pushes through the heavy glass doors, the warmth of the lobby seeping into his frozen bones.

He stops at the call box, staring at the list a little longer than necessary before selecting your unit. He leans back on his heels, waiting for the buzz. A few seconds pass before the noise sounds, and he pulls the door open, making for the elevator.

Your hallway is dim, quiet. He finds your door easily. 

For a second, he just stands there. 

It's not like he wants to turn around. He wants to see you, to be here. Maybe it's that truth that keeps him from knocking. 

She’d want you to be happy.

And she would. Jack knows that better than anybody.

So, he shakes off his reservations, leaves them pooling at his feet like a doormat, and raises his fist to the door.

His fist barely grazes the door when the lock clicks, the door swinging open to reveal you. 

Your hair is unbound, brushing past your shoulders in a way he’s not accustomed to. He takes in your clothes: loose, striped, linen pants and a thick, navy blue sweater, but his gaze is quickly taken by the large, round glasses perched on your nose.

It’s casual and soft and entirely mesmerizing.

“Hey,” you greet, one hand resting on the edge of the door, “come in!”

You move to the side allowing him to step through the door.

The first thing he notices is the warmth.

Not just the temperature—though it's there too—but the kind of warmth that settles into the walls, into the furniture, into the way everything feels…used. Lived in.

The apartment is small. Smaller than he expected, but it doesn't feel cramped. 

Soft light spills from a lamp in the corner, casting everything in golden glow that catches on the mismatched pillows on the couch—pinks and greens and something patterned that shouldn't work but does. 

A candle flickers lazily on the coffee table, surrounded by books and magazines stacked in no real order, like you just set them down wherever you happened to be sitting. Shelves line the walls, fit with more books, picture frames, little trinkets—things that no doubt have meaning he is unaware of.

There are plants too. Everywhere. Some thriving, some…less so.

His eyes wander further in, past the small kitchen where mugs hang on uneven rows and something floral sits in a vase on the table like it was picked on a whim.

Nothing matches, and yet it all fits like a perfect puzzle.

It’s warm. Bright. A little chaotic. Comfortable.

Jack shifts, suddenly aware of how stark his own place feels in contrast—clean lines, carefully selected patterns, nothing left out without purpose.

Your place has purpose, it just…isn’t practical.

It’s you, in every corner.

And for a second, he just stands there, taking it in, like the longer he looks the more he understands you.

He opens his mouth to speak—

A loud thud echoes through the apartment, followed by the frantic skitter of claws across the hardwood.

Jack barely has time to turn before the largest Great Dane he’s ever seen comes careening around the corner, all limbs and momentum, squeezing himself into Jack’s space like it has no concept of its own size.

Jack laughs as the dog brushes up against him, nearly knocking him over. “You know, when you said you were dog sitting, I was picturing a Chihuahua, or a Spaniel. Not a horse.”

“Yeah, I should’ve warned you,” you chuckle, squeezing past when Jack bends down to pet the chocolate brown dog. “His name is Pinto.”

Jack just stares at you.

“Like…Pinto Bean,” you say, as if that is all the explanation he needs.

“...of course it is.” He gives Pinto one last scratch under the chin before rising. 

He wants to point out how only you could end up a dog-sitting the most massive dog in the world in your tiny, cluttered apartment, but he refrains, and just follows you towards the living room.

“Do you want anything to drink?” you ask, heading for the kitchen. “I’m out of beer but I’ve got wine.”

“Wine’s good,” he calls, wandering around your space, surveying it more closely. The books on your coffee table are mostly medical, though he spots a worn copy of Little Women tucked under The New England Medical Journal.  

It makes the corner of his mouth tug upwards.

He walks over to a shelf, eyeing more books and the various knick knacks that rest on the painted wood: rubber ducks, lego people, a pair of dice. It sends a spike of curiosity through him. He wants to know these stories, know these parts of your life.

He turns to ask, when his eyes catch on a picture frame. 

Two figures stand at the base of a mountain, snow stretching out behind it—bright and blinding under a clear sky. Skis are planted in the powder, the two people bundled in gear, arms thrown over shoulders.

One of them is you.

Even under layers and a helmet, he can tell—something about the way you stand, the tilt of your head, the shape of your grin.

The person beside you—

He pauses.

There's something familiar there. He’s about a head taller than you, but the line of his jaw, the shape of his smile, the hair that peaks out under his helmet. 

It’s too similar to be nothing.

But not you.

Jack leans in slightly, studying the photo for a minute longer, when you approach. He straightens, feeling slightly caught when you hand him a glass, the liquid a deep shade of red.

“You snooping?” You take a sip of your own wine, eyeing him over the rim of the glass.

“I was hoping for embarrassing baby photos,” he says, easily. “Something I could use as blackmail.” He flicks his eyes back to the photo. “I didn’t peg you for a skier.”

You go quiet for a moment, gaze lingering on the picture he was examining moments before. “I’m not. Not anymore, anyway.”

There’s something weighted in the way you say it that should be enough to shut him up. And it almost is. But there’s something else, too. Softer, warmer. 

Jack glances at you again, and curiosity gets the better of him.

“Who’s that with you?” 

You look over the photo again. “My brother. My twin.”

He nods automatically—then pauses.

“I didn’t know you have a brother,” he says, a little shocked, “never mind that you’re a twin.”

Jack looks back at the picture—really looking this time. The resemblance is pretty uncanny.

Though, he thinks he would’ve noticed something like this before. He would’ve at least heard a name, or a story. How does one hide a twin?

“Was a twin,” you correct.

The words settle heavily in the space between you two. 

And suddenly, it makes a twisted kind of sense. Why he’s never heard anything. Why you never really talk about family. 

Jack’s chest tightens, something familiar and unwelcome pressing in.

He startles when you begin to speak again, words slicing through the silence.

“He died—shit, probably close to ten years ago now,” you explain, almost clinically. “He got in a pretty nasty car wreck… never woke up.”

Words fail him.

He should say something, do something. He knows this feeling, knows exactly the kind of ache that a memory like this inflicts.

It’s almost impossible to stand here when he knows you’re hurting, his instincts to heal, to make this right threaten to override him.

But nothing he could say would make this better.

So he offers what he can.

“I’m so sorry.” He means it. Every part of him means it. 

Your eyes meet his. “Thank you.” 

Silence hangs between you again, but it's less heavy, and more of an understanding. 

Jack shifts slightly, a hesitant smile tugging up at his lips. “I… I wish I could’ve met him.”

You let out a short, rueful laugh. “I think you two would’ve been a dangerous pairing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grin. “He was crazy competitive. A total adrenaline junkie. You guys would’ve ended up climbing Everest just to see who could do it faster.” 

Jack chuckles. “Sounds like my type of guy.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, watching him. He feels a little exposed by it, like you might be able to read his thoughts.

The sound of Pinto’s paws across the floor breaks through the silence as he approaches, sandwiching himself between the two of you.

You clear your throat. “Well, somebody wants attention.” You crouch down, scratching behind his ears and under his chin. It's almost comical how Pinto towers over you.

“How did you end up dog-sitting anyway?” Jack asks.

“There’s this older lady from down the hall,” you say, looking up at him, “she won't leave Pinto alone in her place, so, she drops him off here.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Pretty much whenever I’m off.” You rise with a small grunt. “Pinto practically lives here.”

Jack nods, eyebrows raised in amusement as he takes a sip of his wine.

“So, are we watching Survivor, or what?”

“Hell yeah.”

Your couch is smaller than his, but it’s no less comfortable. He places his glass on the low coffee table and maneuvers a few pillows as he sits. You curl up on the other end, your own glass perched precariously on the sofa’s arm, while you flick through various channels on the TV.

Jack shifts his weight. Then again.

The prosthetic is fine—he’s used to it—but the cushion puts enough pressure on the socket that it’s slightly uncomfortable.

Normally, he’d just take it off. But he hesitates.

Would that be weird?

Do I—

No. Still weird.

He shifts again instead and you notice. Because of course you do.

You glance over. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, already readjusting himself again. “It’s just—uh…”

Your eyes narrow slightly, then drop to his leg before sliding back up.

“Oh my god,” you snort. “Dude, just take it off.”

“I—”

“You know I have seen it, right?” You raise your brows at him.

He pauses.

Something shifts in his expression. The hesitation doesn't disappear, but instead it changes shape. 

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now, a hint of a grin pulling at his mouth. “I remember.”

You blink, slightly thrown.

He adjusts again, but this time he doesn't look away. “Didn’t realize that meant I was supposed to get comfortable this fast, though.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “Oh my god—”

“What?” He asks, far too innocent. “You’re the one telling me to take things off.”

“I did not say it like that,” you shoot back, but Jack can see the subtle colour fanning over your cheeks.

He huffs a quiet laugh, settling back more easily. “Hey, I’m just trying to follow instructions.”

You shake your head, grabbing your glass like you need something to do with your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining before,” he murmurs, leaning down to detach the prosthetic from his limb. He barely gets it off before you snatch a blanket off the back of the couch and hurl it at him. 

“Jack!”

He lets it hit him, shifting to get comfortable before folding the blanket over his lap. “Thank you so much.” He smiles sweetly.

You flip him off, turning your attention back to the TV. “Just for that, we’re not watching Survivor.”

“What?” The screen flashes red as you open up Netflix. 

“Yep. We’re doing a Twilight movie marathon.”

“The vampire movie?” he asks incredulously.

“Uh-huh.”

“No,” Jack says, sitting up, “Absolutely not—I came over here with the promise of Survivor.”

“And I’ve changed my mind.” You shrug. “Fuck around and find out.”

He stares at you for a beat, then leans back, exhaling. “This feels like a trap.”

You smile wickedly. “It is.”

Jack groans, as Pinto takes the opportunity to climb up on the middle cushion, using his size to effectively cram Jack into the arm of the couch. He side-eyes the dog, before placing a hand on his hip, scratching absently at the fur.

For all the complaining he does as the movie starts and all of the negative commentary he offers as it goes on, he actually doesn’t mind it. He watches you more than the screen anyway. The way you recite the words under your breath and argue with him about whether the boy-wolf or ancient vampire should end up with the teenage girl. 

It's ridiculous.

You’re ridiculous.

But he finds himself smiling anyway.

By the time the second movie ends, the bottle of wine is empty and Jack can feel your energy has shifted into something loose and bright. Pinto startles awake when you suddenly slide off the couch and disappear into the kitchen. You cheer triumphantly, then shout across the apartment that you've found frozen pizza.

He laughs at the sound of clattering pans and bordering violent words that fly out of your mouth.

You come back with a hastily cooked pizza, the edges still too hot, and plop down right next to him on the couch. He bumps your shoulder when he burns his mouth on a particularly hot slice, you jab him in the ribs when he declares he’s team Jacob—only to piss you off. 

He should flinch at the closeness, part of wants to. He feels the bubble of guilt crawl up into his throat—

She’d want you to be happy. 

Robby’s words echo in his head.

So he swallows the feeling, allowing himself to enjoy the warmth of you next to him. 

Somewhere between the third movie starting and the last slice disappearing, the energy fades.

Your movements slow. The space between your reactions stretches longer and longer.

Eventually, you stop responding at all.

Jack doesn't notice it at first—not until your head tips sideways, coming to rest against his shoulder. 

He stills with you.

Pinto lifts his head briefly, before settling it back on your lap.

You don't stir.

The TV flickers softly across the room, light shifting over your face, but his attention is on the steady rhythm of your breathing, the weight of you leaning into him. He studies the lines of your face—soft, relaxed; entirely at peace.

Carefully, he lets his head rest lightly against yours. 

I'm on fire. - Bruce Springsteen

Golden light peeking through the darkness is what initially pulls you from sleep.

It’s slow and gentle like a cool breeze through your hair. 

Your eyes flutter, not quite opening, and a scent so familiar that invades your ability to think has you rolling.

The world comes back to you in pieces as you finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The roof above your head is not your own, the ceilings too high and too smooth. A band of light streaks across your arms and a thick duvet is bunched around your waist. 

You feel warm. Refreshed too, in a way you almost forgot possible..

For a minute, you just lay there, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling while your brain scrambles to catch up with your body.

The memory slots into place a moment later.

The shift.

The gas leak.

Abbot’s apartment. 

You shuffle on to your elbows and take in the apartment. Jack’s heavy blackout curtains are keeping most of the afternoon light at bay, but some of it slips through the gaps in between the curtains, casting the hardwood floor in bold streaks of light.

Your eyes drift down the hallway, expecting to see Abbot leaning against the wall or hear him shuffling around in his room, but the place is quiet.

Another memory hits you.

Abbot trying to convince you to sleep in his bed so he won’t wake you up when he leaves for SWAT. You may even recall seeing him in uniform, but you can’t seem to make that memory come into focus.

You’re not sure how long he’s been a SWAT physician. As far as you’re concerned, he’s always been one.

You’ll never forget the first time you saw him walk in through the doors of the ambulance bay—green tactical gear, sidearm strapped to his hip, sweat dripping along his brow. 

He pushed a stretcher that carried a SWAT officer, blood spilling at her shoulder, staining her own green uniform. 

It was a miracle she had survived. An inch to the right and the bullet would’ve torn straight through her heart. 

You had only been working under Abbot for a few months then, and to say you were shocked was an understatement. 

You couldn’t figure out what kind of person runs into active fire just to keep someone alive long enough to make it to the hospital. 

It didn't take long to determine that Jack Abbot is exactly that type of person.

It terrified you, just the thought of doing that. Of him doing that.

You don’t know what you would do if he was ever the one that came in on the stretcher.

You sit up a little more, tucking your feet under yourself, and reach for your phone on the coffee table.

Your phone lights up with a photo of you and your best friend on a dock in Portland, Maine. It makes you smile. The memory of the week you spent last summer back in your hometown is one of the fondest you have.

You love Pittsburgh, but there will always be a part of you that aches for Portland.

You’re shocked when you see the time. 

4:52.

Shit, you’ve been asleep for almost 8 hours.

You scroll through your phone, checking your texts and emails for missed updates about your apartment, but have received none.

You let out a frustrated sigh, and shoot a text to your landlord requesting a timeline for the fix, but knowing your landlord, he’ll take forever to get back to you.

Light catches on your arm, and you turn toward where it silters in through a crack between the curtains.

Placing your phone beside you on the couch, you pull back the duvet and stand before walking over to the window. 

You grasp the end of the curtain in your hand and walk it back to the other end of the wall. 

The apartment is suddenly cast in the most amazing hues of yellow and gold. It’s soft and warm where it meets your skin as you move to stand in the center of the room.

The sky is painted with a mix of pinks and oranges and purples, not a cloud in sight. At this time of day, the sun is still a ways above the horizon, but it creeps down and down, the bottom end beginning to tuck behind some tall, faraway building. 

You were right about the sunset here being breathtaking.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, just watching, before moving to the couch and continuing to do the same. 

Facing the back of the couch with your knees tucked to your chest, duvet around your shoulders, you watch. Watch as the sun dips lower, sometimes ducking behind buildings before reappearing as it moves across the sky. The colours in the apartment move from its dominant gold to cool purple as night begins to take shape.

Taking out your phone, you’re unable to help yourself as you take a few photos.

You’ve always had an affinity for sunsets. Some of the best you’ve seen were on the pier back home in Portland, though the winter you went skiing in Banff had a few that were at the top of your list.

That memory makes your chest ache.

A weekend in the mountains with more time spent in the lodge then the hill. You and your friends and a boy you’d know anywhere, with your eyes and your smile.

Moving the photos into your designated ‘sunset’ album, you turn your phone off again.

You sit there for a while longer, barely registering when the sound of keys slide into the lock and the door creaking open.

Dragging your eyes from the window, you spot Abbot slipping in through the door, looking for all the world like he’s breaking into his own home. 

He quietly toes off his boots, swearing under his breath when his duffle bag hits the floor a little louder than he intended. He fumbles with his keys, before dropping them too, sending another string of foul words out of his mouth.

It makes you smile.

When he steps from the small foyer and into the living room, he freezes, finally registering your eyes on him. 

Sweat stains the under arms of his camo sweater, his usual curls are plastered to his forehead, and something dark stains the cuffs of his top. 

He just stands there, like he’s been caught stealing.

“Hey,” you say, humour coating the tone of your voice, “Do you usually sneak into your apartment like that?” 

“Uh, no,” he replies, a little stilted. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“Your key juggling routine really sold that.” 

He huffs a little, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, but it's not really a smile.

Your mouth opens to ask if he’s okay, but he beats you to it.

“How long have you been up?” He enters the living room more fully, dropping his bag on the floor by the end of the couch.

“Not long,” you say, rotating your body to face him fully. “I was just watching the sunset.”

He nods, then turns to pull off his sweater. His black undershirt gets caught as he tugs it over his head and you catch a glimpse of his back muscles rippling as it goes.

Your face heats and you have to look away.

You won't deny that Abbot is attractive. 

It’s something you hear often enough at work—from staff and patients alike—that it would be hard to ever contest.

Not that you would. 

The way his arms strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt, the broadness of his chest, his salt-and-pepper hair, the faint stubble along his jaw. His eyes. His laugh. His hands and—

You hear Abbot say your name, like he’s said it a few times already, trying to grab your attention.

“What?” You say a little dumbly.

“I asked if you slept okay,” he responds, brows pinched, “though I think I’ve got my answer.”

You fumble for words, wondering what the actual fuck is wrong with you before managing: “Actually, I slept pretty good. Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“Of course,” he shrugs, tossing his sweater on top of his duffle bag, before falling to the couch with a grunt. He reaches down and begins unfastening his prosthetic from his leg. 

“How did it go today?” You ask, watching as he sets aside the metal limb and begins to massage the end of his leg.

“Fine.” His brows furrow when he presses into a particular spot with his thumb. “Just a standard drug bust.” 

“Nothing about the words ‘drug bust’ sounds standard,” you reply. Your eyes track his frame despite yourself. His shoulders are tense, lips pressed into a thin line, and every so often a quiet breath slips through his teeth when his fingers find the wrong spot.

Your brain moves automatically. Years of medical training kick in. Nerve damage. Pressure points. Maybe the liner rubbed the wrong way during the op. Then, a dozen or so solutions form a line in your head before you can rein them in.

But the last thing you want to do is treat him like a patient. 

You know him well enough to know he’d hate that.

So, instead you ask, voice steady and soft: “Can I get anything for you?”

His hands still before hazel eyes meet yours, pinning you to the couch.

For a second, you think he’s going to wave you off.

But then he nods down the hall, towards his room.

“I have some cream in my bathroom,” he says, eyes casting down again, resuming his ministrations on his leg. “Small white tube, top drawer.” 

You are about to nod and stand when he adds: “If you don't mind.”

His words send a jolt through you. It’s rare to hear him hesitate like this. Like he hasn't had someone do this for him in a long time.

“I don’t mind,” you respond, standing. 

You pad off down the hall and towards his bedroom. 

When you push open the door, you’re greeted with dark hardwood floors stretching beneath a large—no doubt king sized—bed. The sheets are still rumpled from where he must have slept, the duvet kicked halfway down the mattress. The curtains are still drawn, blocking out any of the light that tries to spill in. 

The room is neat in a way that suggests he doesn't spend much time here. There's a stray jacket thrown over a chair in the corner, a watch rests carefully next to a stack of books on his bedside table.

There’s another bedside table on the far side of the bed, closer to the windows, but nothing other than a small lamp sits there.

Your eyes drift over the space slowly before you realize why you actually came in here.

You step into the attached bathroom and pull open the top drawer. 

Sure enough a small, half-empty, white tube sits exactly where he said it would be.

As you turn to leave, your eyes catch on two different bottles of hand soap by the sink. 

One labeled lemon-cedar. The other is the same bottle from the bathroom you used.

Lavender.

You let out a contemplative hum before walking back to the living room, the small tube of cream clutched in your palm.

When you reach him, he’s still hunched over, fingers pressing and pulling muscle and skin in an attempt to ease his discomfort. 

“Is this it?” You hold out the tube to him, letting him examine it.

“Yeah.” He reaches for it.

Your fingers brush when he takes it. The contact is brief, but you feel it.

He flips the cap open and squeezes a small amount of clear gel onto his fingers. You catch the icy scent of menthol as he rubs it into his skin.  

The sun hangs low on the horizon now, light fading fast as night creeps in. 

The remaining golden glow of the day settles over Jack illuminating the freckles across his skin and catching in the dark hues of his hair. 

You cast your eyes to the city skyline, watching the remnants of the sun fade.

Abbot’s voice startles you out of your stupor. “The sunsets are pretty amazing here.”

You look back to where he’s sat on the couch. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, briefly flicking your eyes back to the window. “I think I spent something like 2 hours just watching it.”

“It’s hard to look away sometimes.”

When you turn back from the window, his eyes are on you. 

You watch each other for a few moments, his hazel eyes almost glowing where the light catches them. 

He scans your face, like he might find some hidden truth laying there that would explain the inner workings of who you are.

He must not find anything, because he clears his throat and hands the small tube back to you a moment later.

“Thanks,” he says, voice gruff and raw. 

“Of course.” You turn and head back towards the bathroom to return the tube.

When you reenter the living room again, he’s reattached his prosthesis and adjusts his weight on it as he stands. 

You frown, knowing he should be giving his leg a break, but you refrain from saying anything.

He knows his limits. You think.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” he says, picking up his discarded duffel bag and hauling it over his shoulder. 

You linger on the movement longer than you should.

“Okay,” you reply, moving out of the way of the hall and towards the couch.

He trades places with you, before turning. “What’s the status of your apartment?”

Shit, right, your apartment.

You’ve been taking up Abbot’s space for so long, it’s a wonder he hasn't asked you to leave sooner. He obviously doesn't want his resident hanging around the one place that he doesn't have to think about work.

You snatch your phone up from the coffee table a little quicker than necessary and scroll through your notifications. 

Surprisingly, a message from your landlord sits at the top, informing you that you can return to your apartment at eight o’clock, which means you only have about forty-five minutes to wait.

“Looks like it’ll be ready for eight,” you tell Abbot, who leans patiently against the wall. “But I can head out now and be out of your hair. I’ll probably grab something to eat along the way so by the time eight rolls around I’ll be good to go back in.”

You’re rambling and you know it, reaching for the duvet cover to fold it back up.

Your hands barely grasp the ends of the sheet when Abbot stops you again.

“Hey, I’m not kicking you out,” he says, straightening from the wall. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You drop the duvet from your hands, turning to face him. 

“And I really appreciate that, Abbot. But I don’t want to impose anymore than I have.”

He lets his bag drop back to the floor before taking a few steps towards you. “Well, I've got a pretty packed schedule of ordering takeout and watching Survivor until the sun comes up… but I think I could make room. If you want?”

You hesitate. 

It would be so easy to say no. To retreat when the option is still there. To pack your things, grab dinner in a diner and hangout there until your apartment is ready. No blurred lines. No overthinking. No… whatever this is.

But your eyes meet his.

He doesn’t look put out. Tired? Yes. But there's something else. Like you fading with the light of the day just means another night he spends alone in an apartment that's too big for himself.

He’s careful when he watches you. Like he knows he could push, but chooses not too.

And, if you’re being honest, the thought of going back to your apartment alone—eating a frozen pizza and scrolling on your phone until you're tired enough to sleep—doesn't sound like the most appealing idea to you either. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, then again, a little more firm, “Okay, I’ll stay.”

He nods, then reaches out his phone and tosses it at you. You barely manage to catch it when he speaks.

“Order some takeout. But not from that Italian place from down the street. That stuff gave me food poisoning last time.” 

He turns and walks down the hall, snatching up his bag as he goes, leaving you to huff out a laugh.

After discovering Abbot has got every single food delivery app known to man downloaded to his phone, you settle on DoorDash—ordering Chinese from a place a few blocks over that has yet to fail you.

You shift on the couch, pulling the duvet around you again and reach for the remote.

It takes a few minutes to find Survivor—along with every food delivery app, Abbot’s also got every single streaming service loaded on his TV.

By the time he reappears, you’ve got your feet tucked underneath you with Survivor quietly playing in the background.

He’s got on a worn t-shirt and sweats, hair damp and curling at the edges. 

He pauses when he sees you already have the episode playing.

“Starting without me?” he asks, approaching the couch.

“I’ve never actually seen Survivor,” you comment, mouth curving, “figured I’d get a head start.”

When he reaches the sectional, he carefully lowers himself down on the other end. 

There’s a beat when neither of you know what to do with the space.

But then he leans forward, reaching for the remote and rewinds the episode to the beginning. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Survivor.” He shakes his head.

“Whats more unbelievable than the fact that I haven't seen it is that you have,” you say, a teasing note slipping into your voice. 

“What?” he inclines, brows furrowing, “I can’t like reality TV?”

“I didn't say that, just figured you’d be more into…”

You trail off, not actually having any idea of what kind of media he would consume.

He gives you an expectant look.

“Ok, so, I don't know,” you admit. “I just didn’t realize you liked that sort of thing.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended by that.” 

Silence settles over you two again, but it's comfortable this time. 

You watch the show play out: contestants balancing on narrow wooden beams, swinging on ropes, arguing over nothing around crackling camp fires. 

Abbot chimes in here and there, explaining challenges and immunities like you haven't spent the last ten minutes trying to figure it out yourself.

It occurs to you that this is exactly his type of show.

It’s all strategy and endurance. Physical challenges and split second decisions. You can see the way his mind works through it—how he’d approach a challenge, what he’d do to shave seconds off a course. 

You don’t doubt for a second that he thinks he could win.

It annoys you—that he’s so confident.

Mostly because you kind of enjoy it.

A knock at the door pulls you both out of the chaos of an elimination round.

Abbot moves to stand, reaching for where he discarded his prosthesis, but you rise and wave him off, heading for the door.

You take the packaged food from a kind-eyed man, before moving to the kitchen to distribute the food onto plates.

You make your way back over to where Abbot’s got the show on pause—two plates full of kung pao chicken, chow mein, and spring rolls in hand—before passing him the dish.

“I hope you like Chinese,” you say, plopping down on the couch next to him. You swirl your fork around the noodles and take a bite.

He examines his own plate, before stabbing some chicken through his fork. “This is great, thanks.”

“You’re the one who paid for it,” you mumble around a mouth full of food. “I’ll give you some cash before I leave.” 

He shakes his head, before swallowing. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Abbot, you gotta let me—”

“No, I don't.” 

His words come out clean and firm.

Then he looks at you—really looks.

“And if you call me ‘Abbot’ one more time,” he adds, voice quieter now, “we are going to have a problem.”

The weight of his gaze pins you to the couch, your stomach flipping hard. You’ve never seen him look at you like this before. Never seen him look so…close.

Your grip tightens slightly on your fork.

“I think you’ve used that line already,” you say, a little too casual as you resume twirling your fork around some noodles, “Jack.” 

He pauses, briefly.

His mouth twitches—almost something, almost nothing.

Then he reaches for the remote again and presses play.

The rest of the night passes easily. 

You spend it consuming ungodly amounts of Chinese food and even more ungodly amounts of Survivor. At some point beer has fallen into the mix and you find yourself deciding you’re going to out drink Jack, though you only get to three before you know you’ll never be able to do it and give up. 

He laughs, then almost spits a mouth full of beer on you when you attempt to demonstrate how easily you’d win one of the challenges—arms out, balancing on the edge of the rug like a beam—before doubling over and laughing some more. 

You don’t even realize how late it is. And you don’t really care, content to drink and laugh with Jack until your head spins and ribs ache.

Eventually, though, the season comes to an end, credits rolling quietly across the screen.

You let out a long breath, sinking further into the couch. “Okay,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse, “I think I get why you watch this.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh beside you and the apartment falls into a soft lull.

You tilt your head back against the cushions, letting your eyes flutter closed for just a moment—

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table causing you to jerk your head up with a start.

Beside you, Jack has his head resting on a fist, eyes shut. 

You reach for your phone and squint the time into focus.

3:09 AM

Shit.

You rise a little unevenly, shoving your phone into your pocket and stretching an arm out for your bag.

Jack stirs, eyelids blinking slowly as he takes you in.

“It’s three in the morning,” you tell him, voice whispering, “I’ve got to get going.”

“Shit, yeah,” he says, words equally as quiet, “We must have fallen asleep.”

You nod, and sling your bag over your shoulder. He reaches for his prosthesis and starts to attach it to his leg.

“You don’t have to get up,” you reassure. “I was just going to walk.”

“At three in the morning?” he asks incredulously. “I’ll drive you.”

“It’s not far. I’m just down the block.”

“I know where you live.”

You frown at his tone. “Don’t say it like that, it sounds creepy.”

He rolls his eyes at you, finishing securing the metal limb before standing. “Look, I can either call you an uber—which will take forever at this time of night—or I can drive you. Pick one.”

You cross your arms, not having the strength to argue with him. “Fine, you can drive.”

“Good choice.” 

He turns, walking towards the door, snagging his keys from the kitchen counter on the way by. You follow behind him, toeing on your shoes in the dim light of the hallway and heading out the door.

After a quick elevator ride and walk through the lobby, he turns down the sidewalk and towards streetside parking. The chill of the early October air nips at your skin, but it's refreshing where it hits your warm cheeks.

Jack’s truck looks comically large sitting in between two sedans, and part of you wonders how he even managed to park it there. The headlights flash as he unlocks the doors, approaching the drivers side or the car. You slip in the passengers seat, pulling the heavy door closed with a click.

This isn't the first time you’ve been in his truck, though you can only count on one hand how many times it's happened.

It’s as clean as you remember—aside from the stray receipt crumpled in the center console, it mirrors his apartment. Tidy, with little clutter.

The truck rumbles to life, and the quiet sound of Bruce Springsteen's I’m on fire fills the vehicle as he pulls away from his apartment and down the street.

It doesn't take long to reach your place. On foot it would be less than five minutes, by car it only takes one, so the lilting tones of Bruce are still playing when Jack pulls up to the curb outside your building.

He moves the gear shift into park when you speak. “Thanks for the ride and for letting me stay.”

“Of course,” he says, one hand still on the wheel, the other drumming in his lap. “I don't usually have company… It was nice.”

You smile, heart beating weirdly fast in your chest, as you reach for the door handle. “Well, if you ever feel like company in the future, I’m always around.”

He smiles too. “I’d like that.”

A minute passes—maybe more, maybe less—your hand stays resting on the door handle, but doesn't move. Your eyes scan him, and it occurs to you that you’ve been doing that a lot lately. Watching him, the way he moves, the way his lips curve.

When you meet his gaze again, he hasn't looked away. 

Maybe it's the beer or the hour, but you have the strangest urge to reach out and touch him. 

What the fuck?

You clamp down on that desire, hard, and quickly look away, pulling on the door handle. 

You shuffle out quickly, dragging your bag with you as you go and turn to face him once your feet are planted solidly on the pavement.

“Goodnight,” he says to you, his lips curving into more of a smirk than a smile.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you return and shut the door. 

You turn from the truck and head for the doors, punching in your code and slipping inside.

Something pulls at you, so you glance back.

Jack is still sitting in his truck, watching as you.

You lift a hand in a small wave. A second later he does the same, before pulling away from the curb.

You linger on the spot where his truck was sitting a minute ago, like you’re rooted to the tile.

You take on breath. Then another before heading towards the elevator.

~~~~~~

An incessant, loud, banging at your door drags you from the depths of sleep.

You groan, blinking against the harsh daylight peaking in through your blinds.

Despite being a little tipsy and walking in the door at three in the morning, you hadn't managed to fall asleep until a few hours later.

It was impossible to get the events of the previous night out of your head—the way he looked at you, the quiet stretch of silence in the truck, the way neither of you moved.

The way you didn’t want to.

And you can’t figure out why.

Your brain had circled over it again and again, picking it apart and changing the angle until sleep became impossible.

The banging returns, louder this time.

You flinch, dragging a pillow over your head. Maybe if you stay quiet, whoever it is will go away—

Another round of knocking.

Insistent.

Persistent.

Fucking rude.

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming!” you croak, rising up on to your elbows and fumbling around your bedside table for your phone. You don't find it and instead are just successful in knocking over your water bottle and sending a dish of rings scattering across the floor.

You swear, and begin trying to untangle yourself from the mess of sheets caught around your legs as the pounding on your door continues.

“Fucking hell, I’m coming!” you yell louder this time, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

When you stand, you look down and realize your Joni Mitchell t-shirt from yesterday and a pair of black boxers are the only clothing you decided to sleep in last night, so you snag a crumpled pair of sweats from the floor and tug them on.

The knocking has stopped—thank god—as you step out of your bedroom and head for the door.

Who the hell—

You wrench open the door to find Ellis crowding around its frame, John leans against the wall behind her.

They’re both dressed in light workout gear, runners tied to their feet, and John with the most obnoxious water bottle you’ve ever seen in your life in his hand.

“Took you long enough,” Ellis says, arms crossed over her chest, looking incredibly annoyed.

That makes two of you.

“What the actual fuck?” One of your arms rests on the door frame, the other on the door itself. “You can’t come around banging on my door, I have neighbours!”

“Well maybe you should’ve thought about that before sleeping in,” she fires back. 

“Sleeping in? What are you—”

You take in their clothing again, groaning as the realization hits you. “Fuck, it’s Friday isn’t it.” 

“Yeah it’s Friday,” John says from the wall. “We’re going running.”

It’s a tradition that started not too long ago. 

Sometime in July you made an off hand comment about wanting to take up running, which Ellis took as an opportunity to drag you out at the crack ass of dawn to run you into the ground. 

Somewhere along the way, John had joined in, and now the three of you run every Friday morning.

The first few weeks of it were hell, but slowly, you found yourself looking forward to Friday mornings—running along the river, laughing at John who swears he’s only there for the promise of coffee at the end, swearing at Ellis who sets a pace like she’s training for something you are unaware of.  

You enjoy it more than you ever thought you could.

But not today, though. You don't think you’d survive it.

“Look, how about you guys just go without me?” you suggest, the heavy weight of sleep still threatening to drag you back to bed. 

“Absolutely not,” Ellis glowers, “I did not spend half an hour knocking at your door just for you to say you aren't coming.”

“You’ve been out here for half an hour?”

John shakes his head behind Ellis. “More like ten minutes.”

Ellis turns to glare at him over her shoulder, before turning back to you, “There’s no getting out of this.”

You look back at John with pleading eyes, but he just shrugs.

“Fine, give me five minutes,” you groan, holding open the door so they can step inside.

Ellis immediately makes herself at home on your couch, while John leans against your dining table, scrolling on his phone.

You turn and head for the bedroom when Ellis calls out: “You have a rough night?”

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice as you rifle through your dresser for a pair of leggings and a sweater.

“Huh?” you intone, hoping she’ll just drop it.

“You heard me.”

Well, so much for that.

“I was just up late,” you call out, trading your t-shirt for a sports bra and sliding your hoodie over top, “you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” You shimmy into your leggings and secure your hair into a ponytail, before you start the hunt for your phone.

“Sure it wasn't," John adds, sounding a little uninterested in this conversation.

You shoot a look through the door that you only hope he can feel.

Turning away, you scan the floor of your bedroom and spot your phone tucked under your nightstand. You snatch it up before tucking it into the pocket of your leggings and exiting the room.

Ellis stands when she spots you. “Finally, let's go.”

The three of you shuffle out the door of your apartment and onto the quiet street. 

The run starts out rough. Your feet hit the pavement in an uneven rhythm, lungs burning in the sharp morning air. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, untouched by clouds as it stretches high above you. The river ripples and sways as you run alongside it, the light reflecting off the stark yellow fences that line its edge. 

Ellis runs ahead—like she always does—leaving you and John to run beside each other as the footpath winds and curves. 

Despite your earlier hesitations, you’re actually glad you came out, if it only means you’ll sleep well before your shift tonight. But the fresh air feels good, and the burn in your legs reminds you that you’re here—that your body works, that it can push.

Your breathing even outs after a while, and your feet fall in a steadier rhythm against the sidewalk. Your mind is quiet. No overthinking the events of last night, no worries about potential patients. Just the sound of your breathing and the way the sunlight catches on the water.

At least, until John opens his big mouth.

“So, what's up with you?” he pants, sweat blooming across his forehead.

“What do you mean?” you breathe back.

“Well, you definitely weren't at your apartment last night.”

You shoot him a sideways glance. “How would you even know that?”

He shrugs and stays silent, waiting for you to answer.

You take a deep breath. 

You met John Shen when he was an intern at PTMC and you were still a med-student still doing rotations. His unwillingness to be bothered by anything ever and his ability to spit off weird historical facts that no one should know about had you becoming fast friends. 

Your duo became a trio not long after Parker Ellis began working in the pitt. If you're being honest, you thought she hated you at first. She was blunt, with a cutting sense of humor that always had you questioning whether she meant what she said. But after the third shift you had ever worked with her, she stopped you and John on the way out asked the two of you to join her for drinks.

Well, asked is a bit of an understatement—she practically grabbed the back of your shirts and hauled you there. But by the end of the night, a group chat was formed and you realized she harbored no hatred for you… she just bullied you into friendship.

You didn't see as much of them after they had switched to the night shift, and though you would have never admitted it to their faces, you had missed them. 

It wasn’t until a year later that you finally made the switch—marked with a clap on the back from John and a “Welcome to the darkside,” from Ellis

She made you watch the entire Star Wars series when you, regrettably, informed her you had no idea what she was talking about.

You glance up ahead where Ellis runs past a couple walking their dog and sigh.

“My apartment had a gas leak, so I stayed over at Jack’s,” you admit, not making eye contact with him.

“Jack?,” he questions, “As in night shift attending Doctor Jack Abbot?” 

You nod, eyes still trained on Ellis.

You expect him to gawk. Maybe to yell. 

Jack’s your boss, your superior. And you know it crosses the line of what’s professional to stay over at his place.  

John has the right to be a little concerned about where your head is at.

Hell, you're concerned where your head is at.

But John doesn't say anything, just keeps pace beside you.

It’s almost worse.

You dare a glance in his direction to gauge his reaction, but his face is annoyingly blank. It makes your stomach twist.

“Well, are you going to say anything?” Your breathing comes out hard and ragged.

“Do you want me to say anything?” he responds, still not looking your way.

“I don’t know.” Up ahead, on the corner, you can see Ellis jogging on the spot. “I just thought you might have more of a reaction than that.”

“You’re an adult,” he pants, “I’m not going to tell you who you can and can’t sleep with.”

“Who are you sleeping with?” Ellis asks when you approach where she jogs, intrigue lining her voice.

You slow to a stop. “No one—” 

 “Jack Abbot,” John says, stopping beside you.

Ellis’s face lights up. “You’re sleeping with Jack Abbot?"

“No,” you groan, but she looks at you like she doesn't believe it. “Look, I stayed at his place yesterday because my apartment had a gas leak and he had a couch I could crash on.”

“So you slept on his couch?” she asks skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Instead of calling one of us?” She gestures between herself and John, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I—”

Shit. Well, you hadn’t really thought of that.

You glare at her while John leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

“Hey, man,” Ellis says, raising her hands, “you do you. Honestly, I’m surprised this didn't happen sooner.”

“What?” you ask incredulously.

John straightens again. “You and Abbot are pretty close.”

“Pretty close is an understatement,” Ellis cuts in. “Those two are practically joined at the hip.”

“We are friends,” you emphasize. “Coworkers.” 

“I’ve seen that man almost break his neck because he heard you laugh and wanted to figure out why,” she says, crossing her arms. “But sure, friends. Coworkers.”

You open your mouth—

—and then stop.

Because.

Because—

John startles you with a laugh. “Holy shit, you actually had no idea.”

“I—”

You're speechless. Actually fucking speechless.

“You have him bringing you coffee and sandwiches and walking you home,” Ellis joins in, looking between herself and John, “he’s not doing that for us.”

“He—” you stammer, “He lost a bet.”

Ellis opens her mouth to retort, but John comes over and drapes an arm across your shoulder. “She’s in denial, Ellis. Let her live there.”

She shakes her head. “Fine, but one of these days you’re going to realize we were right.”

Their words follow you for the rest of the day.

On the walk to get coffee. On the way back to your apartment. In your apartment. While you're trying to sleep.

So, you may have a small, tiny—miniscule—crush on Jack Abbot. 

Which is fine, because you can get over it. And you will.

But for him to potentially feel the same. It’s not possible.

Because, you’re… you.

And he’s— 

Jack.

Confident and charming and capable, Jack.

So whatever they saw—whatever they’ve been seeing—is a misunderstanding.

But when you go to work that night, you’re a little more conscious of him.

You're conscious of the way he hands you your favourite coffee, too aware of your fingers brushing when you take it. Cognizant of his watchful stare when you place a chest tube or perform an intubation. His constant glances; the flirty eyes and the checking in.

He’s everywhere all the time.   

But you notice yourself, too.

The instinct to place an unnecessary hand on his back when you pass by; the way your eyes always seem to find him, no matter where he is in the room; the impulse to make him laugh and the dangerous urge to be the reason he keeps looking your way.

It has to be the proximity.

Being stuck in the same room for twelve hours a night; dealing with high-stress situations—its only natural you’d come to understand someone better, deeper.

At least that’s what you tell yourself for what feels like the hundredth time tonight as you walk towards Central 11. Your patient is supposed to be a Mrs. Perez with a scalp laceration. 

When you open the door, you’re greeted with a tan, middle-aged woman. She sits on the hospital bed, head tilted to the floor, her long, dark hair obscuring her face.

 “Mrs. Perez?” you ask, as you enter, sliding the curtain closed and reaching for a pair of gloves from the wall.

She lifts her head, and you blink. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the dark, purple bruise circling her eye, the deep cut in her hairline, and a fading ring of green and yellow bruises around her throat.

You steel yourself, and slip a kind smile on your face, not allowing for any sort of reaction to break free.

“Hi,” you say, pulling on your gloves, “I am one of the emergency medicine doctors here in the ED, and I’m going to be overseeing your care. Is that okay?”

She nods, casting her eyes down again. 

Watching her for a moment, you don't see any other signs of immediate trauma, though it is difficult given her long sleeves and pants. Her hands sit neatly in her lap as she twists a wedding ring around her finger.

You round the other side of the bed, pulling out a rolling stool, and sit down in front of her.

“Mrs. Perez, can you tell me what brought you in tonight?” You fold your hands in your lap, looking up at her.

“I fell down my stairs,” she says, voice quiet and a little shaky. “And you can just call me Val.”

“Okay, Val.” You lift your hand slowly, gesturing to the bruises on your face. “Is that how you got these bruises?”

She nods again, not quite making eye contact with you.

You take a deep breath.

You’ve seen enough injuries from stair falls to know that this isn't that. 

This is something worse.

“Okay, I’m going to do a quick assessment of your head, is that okay?” 

She nods again.

You start your assessment, checking her pupils and the severity of the cut in her hair line. You explain each movement you make, every touch and the reason for it. She barely flinches when you press into her cheek bones, feeling for breaks, and doesn’t even blink when you press gentle hands around the hand shaped bruises on her throat. You listen to her breathing, noting the bruises on her back, some old, some new. 

Your heart breaks over and over with each new wound you find, but you never let it show. 

This is about getting her the help she needs, and you won’t let anything jeopardize that.

You let out a long breath when you step back out into the pitt. Your head spins, thoughts flying with what the right thing to say to Val might be. You’ve dealt with cases like this before, but it is never a blueprint. What one patient needs to hear might be the very thing that sends another running out the door.

Walking past the central nurses station, you spot Ellis sitting on the far side at a computer.

“Hey, Ellis,” you call, stopping briefly when she looks up. “Have you seen Doctor Abbot?”

“I think he’s in pedes with that fever baby right now.”

“Shit.” 

“Do you need something?” She braces her elbows on the desk, clasping her hands together.

“Yeah, I need Abbot.” Your eyes pass over the ED. “Or Lena. Have you seen Lena?”

Ellis winces. “She’s also in with Abbot.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath as you sit down at the computer opposite to your friend, and begin sending off some work orders. 

It’s not until minutes later when you’re charting on a previous patient, that Jack leans against the desk.

“Heard you were looking for me.” He crosses his arms, an easy smile on his face as he looks down at you.

You spin your seat towards him. “Thanks for showing your face.”

“Well, it's such a nice one, hard to resist.”

Your eyes roll, a smile tugging at your lips before passing him a tablet loaded with the chart you started.

You take a deep breath, and your smile fades.

“I’ve got a patient in Central 11.” You say. “She came in for a head-lac—claims she fell down the stairs. She’s got a nasty bruise around her left eye, and on further examination I noticed multiple layers of faded bruising along her back.”

Jack frowns.

 “The bruises are mostly on her ribs, a few on her lower back,” you continue, “but what I’m concerned about are the ones around her neck,” you say slowly.

“Her neck?” Jack lowers the tablet, eyes narrowing.

“Yes. They’re a little faded, but I’m seeing what looks like finger marks.” You hold your hand up in front of your throat in a choking motion.

“So, you’re saying you think she was choked?” Jack tilts his head, handing the tablet back to you.

“I’m saying…” you hesitate, “I don’t think she fell at all.” 

You drum your fingers on the desk as he processes your words. You don’t think for a second that he’ll dismiss your concern, but his silence makes you antsy.

“The bruises on her back are too faded to be from a fall,” you press. “The only wounds she could have possibly received tonight is the bruise on her eye and the cut on her scalp.”

Jack meets your gaze. “This does raise some flags for abuse. Married? Boyfriend?”

“I didn’t ask, but I saw a wedding band,” you reply.

“Ok, what’s your plan, medically?”

“I’m sending her off to CT to rule out facial fractures or concussion,” you start, “Urinalysis to check for damage in her kidneys since there’s quite a lot of bruising in that area, then stitches for her head-lac.”

“Ok, good,” he says, nodding. “And non-medically?”

“Call a social worker,” you muse, shrugging thoughtfully. “See if we can get her some help.”

Jack nods. “Sounds like a good idea. Maybe send Lena in there, see if she can get her to talk about her home life.”

“Sure, will do.” You rise from your seat and begin to walk towards The Hub, Jack moving with you.

“So,” he starts, stepping out of the way of a nurse, "how's your apartment?”

“Good,” you say, “I don't have carbon monoxide poisoning yet.”

“There’s still time,” he smirks.

You rest your forearms on The Hub and stick out your leg to trip him as he goes by.

He steps around you. “Nice try.”

Ellis comes up next to you, mirroring your position on The Hub, phone in her hands. “Did you see what I sent to the group chat?”

You smile, recalling the video. “Yeah, that was hilarious.”

Ellis looks up at Jack, eyebrows raised, waiting for a response, but he just scribbles something onto a tablet screen. 

“I think he has us on mute.” You lean in, lowering your voice.

“In the group chat or real life?” Ellis asks.

“Proabaly both.”

Jack looks up. “It’s both.”

You snort, a wide grin spreading across your face. “Oh, come on! It was funny.”

“I see too much of you people as it is,” Jack intones, putting his back to you both. “I don’t need you blowing up my phone during off hours.”

“Grandpa’s cranky,” Ellis mutters.

Jack spins, pinning her with a look that has her turning to leave.

“Coward!” You call after her as she moves down the hall and out of sight.

When you turn back to face your attending, he has a small smile playing on his lips.

You two annoy the shit out of him, but you know he can't deny these shifts would be hell without the two of you.

You roll up onto the balls of your feet, scanning the ED while you wait for Lena to get back to The Hub.

You can see Jack watching you out of your periphery.

“What?” you ask after catching his gaze for the third time.

“How’s your other situation going?” he asks carefully.

Your brows furrow. “What other situation?”

“The one from earlier.” 

Ah. 

You had another visit from Doctor Myers this evening.

He came down under the guise of a consult that you’re pretty sure didn’t exist, and stuck to you like glue. No matter where you went—charts, patients, supply closet—he was there, following you like a lost dog.

It went like every other time he’s come to see you.

At first, its easy to brush. A question here and a comment there. Entirely harmless. Credibly professional.

But then it shifts.

“So are you ever going to say yes?” He’d asked, like it was a joke. Like the answer hadn't already been given a hundred times.

You’d kept your voice polite. “I’m really busy, Myers.”

“You’re always busy.” He’d said, smiling like this was all some game he already knew the ending to.

It’s what got under your skin the most. The fact that he thought this was mutual, like you’re playing hard to get instead of… not interested.

You said no. Again. With no smile to soften it.

He didn't drop it.

“Come on,” he’d coaxed, leaning a little too casually against the wall, like he had all the time in the world to do this. “Just one drink.”

Irritation had flared hot in your chest.

Your answer was unnegotiable. No amount of asking or trying to wear you down would change that.

Why couldn't he see it?

Still, even after he had finally peeled off, the feeling lingered. The low, simmering frustration under your skin.

But you’d taken a deep breath and gotten back to work.

He was not a man to waste a thought on.

“It’s fine,” you tell Jack, spotting Lena rounding the corner, “I handled it.”

He goes to say something else, but you push off of The Hub to catch up where Lena chats with another nurse.

She pats the young woman on the arm, sending her off, as you approach.

“Hey, Lena,” you say, stopping in front of her.

“What’s up, hun?” She smiles.

“I have a patient I could use your help on.”

“Sure, talk to me.”

Lena heads off in the direction of Central 11 after you explain the situation. 

She nods as you describe the bruising—and what you suspect isn’t from a fall. She promised to escort Val to CT herself, and see if she’d be willing to talk.

A weight is lifted off your chest knowing she’ll talk to Val. If there is anyone you’d want in your corner, it’s Lena—especially a situation like this. She always seems to find the right words.

The next few hours pass easily, and you don’t want to jinx it, but it's one of the easier shifts you’ve had in a long time.

No one yells, or spits in your face. The waiting room remains manageable and consistent throughout the night. You only had three major traumas—two ambulances, one fly in—that all made it up to surgery without severe complications.

It feels like a small victory.

Especially, when you return to Central 11 when Val has come back to CT, and find it empty.

You step out, asking a nurse if he’d seen where your patient had gone, but he just shook his head.

You walk the entire ED. The bathrooms, the hallways, the waiting rooms. You even find yourself scanning the tables in the cafeteria, hoping she’d only left to get something to eat.

She’s nowhere to be found.

When you find Lena, your face is pinched with worry.

“Where’s Val?” you ask, “she’s not in Central 11.”

“I just checked on her a few minutes ago.” Her brows furrow in confusion. “Is she in the bathroom?”

“No, I checked everywhere.” You shake your head, eyes hopelessly searching the pitt for her. “Did you talk to her?”

“I did,” Lena says, “She was a little shaken up when I asked, but told me everything is fine at home.”

“Well, of course she’s going to say that.” It comes out a little snappier than you intend, and Lena’s eyebrows lift.

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that.” 

“I know.” She places a hand on your shoulder. “This isn't your fault. She knows we are here now, it may be enough.”

You nod half-heartedly, not quite making eye-contact with Lena as she passes by.

You didn’t lose this patient, but it follows you around like a loss.

You replay your words, your gestures and decisions.

Was there something that made her run?

Did you make the wrong call?

How did you fuck this up?

You don’t even realize what time it is until Samira bumps into you at the North nurses station. She’s got a cheerful smile across her face, launching into a rapid monologue about the latest episode of Lioness—a show you convinced her to watch that she is now obsessed with.

You chat with her for a while, content to let her conversation take your mind off of your shift, before she’s called off to round.

Jack finds you by the lockers a few minutes later, as you pack your things into your bag. 

“Hey,” he says, casually leaning against one of the lockers, “You want a ride home? It’s freezing outside.”

“Thanks, but I actually drove too.” You close your locker and sling your bag over your shoulders.

“Okay. I’m just going to do handoff with Robby, so, I’ll catch you later?”

“Of course.”

You turn away from him, making to move off, but Gloria Underwood steps into your path.

“Ah, just the two I’ve been wanting to see.” She says, her bright blue blazer making you want to wince.

Jack comes to stand beside you. “What can we do you for?”

“Well, as you know, in a few weeks, the PTMC annual fundraiser is happening—”

You groan internally.

“—and I need you both in attendance.”

What?

You understand completely why Jack would be requested to attend. He’s a senior night shift attending at the pitt, it makes perfect sense.

But you?

You're a fourth year resident. Just another face in the swarm of residents at PTMC.

You open your mouth to object, but she stops you.

“I already know what you’re going to say, and yes. You do need to be there.”

“But, why?” You cross your arms, brows knitting on your forehead.

“Becuase you two are the face of the emergency department’s night shift,” she explains. “When someone brings up night shift doctors in the ED, your names are the ones they say. I need you there to represent.”

Jack snorts out a laugh. “You could just be honest, Gloria, and say no one else will go.”

You try your best to suppress a smile at Gloria’s wildly unimpressed look.

She steps forward. “Just get yourselves there. I’m not asking.”

She walks past you two, and before you can suppress it—

“Is it an open bar?” you ask, the comment flying out your mouth before you can catch it.

She glares at you, then sighs. “Yes, it is an open bar.”

You grin. “We’ll be there!”

She shakes her head and walks off.

There’s a beat of silence—then another—before you and Jack both lose it, laughter spilling out all at once.

It’s not even that funny, but you’re wiping tears from your eyes anyway. The look on her face was beyond worth it.

You sigh, gathering yourself from your fit of laughter, Jack doing the same.

Until you make eye contact, and the laughter comes roaring back causing you to double over, hands braced on your knees.

It’s not until ten minutes later that you actually make it out to staff parking, chest still aching with the remnants of laughter. 

Jack was right. The air is sharp and biting as you walk to your car, and you already know your cheeks will be read as—

You freeze, hand gripping the strap of your bag until your knuckles turn white.

Luke Myers is leaning on your car. 

He smiles, raising a hand in a wave as he stands and begins to walk toward you.

You’re not sure what to do. 

You look back at the hospital, debating whether you should go back inside, but he’s already in front of you before you can make a decision. 

“I finally caught you leaving,” he says.

His words are meant to be warm and friendly, but you know it's not the cold air that sends a chill running down your spine.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, throwing as much stone into your voice as possible. 

“Waiting for you,” he responds easily, “Let's go for breakfast.”

You ignore his request. “How did you find my car?”

“I saw you pull in last night. Figured this would be a good place to meet you after your shift.”

You’re at a loss for words.

“So, your shift is over, my shift is over,” he drawls, stepping closer to you. “We’re both finally free to go do something.”

“I—no,” you say firmly, stepping back and around him, making a beeline for your car.

You can hear his footsteps behind you.

“What do you mean, no?” 

“I mean, no.” 

Your car beeps as you unlock it, only a few feet away—

He grips your arm tight.

“Hey, come on, now. I’m not so bad—”

“Let go of me,” you command, pulling against his grip.

He listens, dropping your arm.

“Look, I just want—”

“How many times do I have to tell you no!” you snarl, backing up until your back hits the car door. “Stay the hell away from me.”

He looks taken aback for a moment, but then his feline smile returns.

“This is a bad time, eh?” He huffs a laugh. “It’s all good. We all have bad shifts. Another time, then.”

You go to protest, but he’s already turning away—which, honestly—is all you want right now.

So, you quickly open the door and slide inside your car, immediately reaching to lock them the second your inside.

Your heart pounds in your chest, breathing coming in uneven huffs as you clench your fists in your lap, trying to get them to stop shaking. 

You pick up your phone on instinct, thumb hovering over the contact of the only person you want to talk to right now.

But you pause. 

Hesitate— 

And slide your phone back into the center console, before putting your keys in the ignition—

“I think this is the prettiest world—so long as you don't mind a little dying…” - Mary Oliver

Jack Abbot is going to make your life a living hell. 

That is, if he ever makes it into work—which at this rate—not looking likely. 

The walk to your favourite coffee shop was already a few minutes out of his way, and despite him leaving with enough time, he could not have anticipated this.  

He stands off to the side, fingers drumming impatiently along his arms where they’re crossed over his chest, waiting for the order he put in over ten minutes ago. He checks his watch and eyes the time as it inches closer and closer to 7:00 PM. 

This is only the second time this week he’s found himself here—thanks to having a few days off. The warm lighting, potent smell of pastries, and sheer abundance of plants had Jack understanding why you liked it here so much. It was quaint, cozy, and he might have even found the place a little charming if it wasn't for the line up he was greeted with.

He had half a mind to reach over the counter and steal one of their cups, only to fill it with staff-lounge coffee to see if you’d notice. But you would and he’s already here. 

He checks his watch again—6:55 PM. 

“Order for Jack.”

Thank god. 

He steps forward, accepting the two coffees, sandwich bag, and box of two dozen cookies from the kind-eyed girl behind the counter. He smiles, offering a polite, Thank you, before shuffling back to the side and maneuvering the pastries into his bag.

He knows it goes beyond the bounds of the bet, he does not need to be in this coffee shop at all. But he also knows you got called-in to work a double today, so the sandwich is mostly a peace-offering and so you don’t crash half-way through the night. 

The cookies are to just keep Lena off his back. 

He moves quickly down the street, once the food is secured in his bag. He over-takes slow-moving pedestrians and jaywalks at a few crossings, ignoring the irritated honk of a car that has to slow for him. 

The hospital looms a block ahead. From here, he can see ambulances parked in the bay, their lights and sirens harsh against the darkening sky and the settling city. Jack cuts across the street again before the light changes, pushing through the sliding doors and into the depths of the emergency department. 

He gives way to a patient being pushed on a wheelchair and moves toward The Hub, where he sets his bag and coffees on the counter. As he unloads his bag, he looks around the ED, not catching sight of anyone from day-shift. He frowns, as Ellis comes to stand next to him.

“You’re late,” she comments, resting her arms on the counter, gaze stuck to the board.

“By like—” he checks his watch again, “—two minutes. Besides, I was stalking up for the night.”

He opens the lid of the takeout box and slides it her way. Her eyes widen in delight before taking the dessert and biting into almost half of it.

“I can let it go,” she says, the sound muffled by her chewing. Jack makes a disgusted face at her antics as she tilts her head, eyeing a second bag placed by a lone coffee. 

“What’s that?”

Jack follows her line of sight, stopping on the sandwich bag. He rounds the other side of The Hub when he says: “A sandwich.”

“Who's it for?” She asks like she already knows the answer. 

He gives her an unimpressed look when she smirks as he leans over one of the computers to clock-in. “She’s working a double. Be thankful it’s not you.” 

“Believe me I am.” She follows him to his side of the desks, cookie in hand, and takes a tablet off the rack. “I saw that message go out and thought I was going to die.” 

Abbot snorts, recalling the mass text Robby sent this morning to see if someone could cover an unexpected call-out. Jack was typing out a message saying he’d take it when you beat him to the line. 

He looks around again, still not spotting anyone from day-shift. “Where is everybody?”

“Doing a debrief in trauma one.” She lifts her head from the computer, then swings it over to the aforementioned room. 

Sure enough, he can see the outline of close to a dozen bodies standing in a circle around a gurney. The room is still, quiet. He can make out your frame somewhere in the thick of it: black scrubs, navy-blue long sleeves, hair tied into a bun on the top of your head. 

He can’t determine the state of the room, or what happened, but he gleans enough from Robby’s grim face beyond the glass doors. 

The stillness shatters when Robby claps his hands and people spring into motion, filing out the double doors and into the ED. He watches as they maneuver around the ED, most heading to the lockers to leave, others making their way over to The Hub, you and Robby among them.

 You’re both talking quietly when Santos eyes the box of cookies on the counter and snags one as she goes by. 

“Hey, those are for my staff,” Jack calls after her. She raises her hands in defense, cookie between her teeth as she sits at a computer. When Mel walks past, also eyeing the box, he nods at her, and she takes one with a smile.

His gaze collides with you and Robby again. He bumps your shoulder with his and a small smile inches across your face.

What is happening? 

Your eyes find him, and he feels caught watching you. But he doesn’t have time to linger on the feeling as Robby approaches.

“Everything alright?” Jack juts his chin out toward the trauma room in question.

“Thrity-six-year-old with a massive STEMI,” Robby responds, bracing his hands on the counter, “he was stable for a little while, but we just spent the last hour running a code…”

Robby trails off, eyes distant as he looks around the ED. Jack doesn’t quite know what to make of his friends look. 

You come up beside Robby, your face covered in a thin layer of sweat, likely from CPR; a few strands of hair stick to your forehead where they’ve come loose from your bun.  

“His eleven-year-old called 911,” you continue from where Robby left off, eyes hard, “the mother arrived a few minutes ago. She’s in the family room.”

That seems to set Robby back into motion. He straightens and rotates his neck. “I’ll go talk to her.”

“I can come with you,” you offer, already making to move away from The Hub. 

You look haggard, and though you don’t show it, he knows you're in desperate need of five minutes alone. Jack is about to open his mouth to object, when Robby beats him to it.

“I’ve got it.” He claps you gently on the shoulder, before walking towards what will most certainly be a very difficult conversation. Jack briefly watches him leave before turning back to you.

You sigh and wipe your forehead with the back of your sleeve, leaning on the lip of the desk. Your eyes follow where Robby disappears around the corner, but they remain, as if you could see the conversation that’s unfolding in that room.

“They were roughhousing,” you confess suddenly. Jack carefully studies the faraway look in your eye, “The boy kept saying it was his fault.”

He can see your inner struggle of tearing your eyes from the hall, before you let the heels of your palms rest under your chin. 

He knows this feeling. The guilt of not being able to save a parent—especially in front of their kid. The trick is to fold up the feeling and bury it deep enough so that the next patient won't see it; only digging it up when you truly have a moment alone. 

It’s unhealthy and agonizing, but there’s no time to dwell when there's another patient waiting for help. 

And there is always another patient.

“Here,” he says, reaching to his left and sliding the coffee and sandwich towards you. “Go sit in the staff-lounge for a few minutes.” 

You eye the sandwich suspiciously. “This is definitely not a part of our bet.”

“It’s insurance.” He pushes the sandwich closer.

“For what?”

“For my head. When you inevitably try to bite it off.”

You laugh lightly, and it sends a small wave of relief through his chest. It’s easier to see you like this—cracking jokes, smiling. Not heavy with the weight of loss.

“I don’t need a break,” you say, letting your hands fall from your chin to the counter. "Besides, I’ve got patients.”

“You’ve been on your feet for twelve hours with another twelve ahead. I’ll check on your patients.” 

He gives the coffee and sandwich a final nudge, letting it brush up against your arms. 

Your brows pinch in hesitation as you glance around the ED, as if one of your patients will suddenly code. 

Jack has always admired your work-ethic. You're relentless in your pursuit of quality patient care—combing through articles and studies that reflect in your later treatment plans, picking up shifts when others won’t. You are the kind of doctor he wants his med-students to strive to become. 

But your ability to recognize when you are running yourself to the ground is… lacking. Sometimes to a fault. The line between helping your patients and being too exhausted to do them any good is one you toe more often than he would like.

Sometimes, you need a little push.

“Twenty minutes. I’m not asking.”

“Fine,” you concede, grasping the coffee and sandwich bag in one hand, “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as you stride off towards the staff-lounge. 

Impossible.

Jack finishes clocking-in, rounds on the day shift patients with Dana before she heads out for the night. Lena bumps him with a hip when she spots the cookies on the counter before immediately declaring they go to the staff-lounge—something about keeping them away from emergency department cooties. 

He laughs at her, but picks up the box and walks it to the breakroom anyway. 

Jack spies you at the small table as soon as he enters—crumbs from the sandwich littered over the bag you used as a make-shift plate, coffee discarded off to the side, scrolling on your phone with one hand, a RedBull in the other. 

“Jesus,” he remarks, placing the box of cookies on the table in front of you, “Your heart is going to explode with that much caffeine.” 

“Well,” you utter, not looking up from your phone, “at least that way I’d get some sleep.” 

He levels you with a not funny look, before reaching for your trash and chucking it in the bin, careful not to spill crumbs on the floor.

 “All your patients are stable, by the way. Though, I’d rerun your labs on Mrs. Randall—your End Stage Renal Failure Patient. She's looking a little jaundice.” 

That gets you to look up. You’ve fixed your hair back into its neat bun, your face is no longer flushed, and you look a little less dead on your feet than you did minutes ago. 

He sits down across from, throwing his leg over a knee. 

“Shit, I know.” You shake your head, dropping your phone on to the table with a thud, “She needs dialysis, but they’ve got no beds in MedSurg or the ICU. So, I’m trying to get the MARS tech to do her dialysis down here but they’re worried about not having a specialist be able to monitor the machine.”

“What she needs is a transplant,” Jack imparts, “did you consult Surgery?”

You eye him incredulously. “Obviously. Doctor Walsh came down an hour ago to get her admitted but she was bumped by a trauma. Besides, she's already on the list.” 

“Let me see if I can get the ball rolling on a MedSurg bed.” Jack drums his fingers along the wood of the table. “If not MedSurg, I know a nurse in the ICU that might be willing to shuffle some things around.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Your shoulders fall in relief, and you give him a small smile. “And thanks for the food and coffee. I needed that.”

“Of course.” 

The faint sounds of the ED accompany the silence that stretches between the two of you. Not uncomfortable, just quiet. 

Jack watches as you eye the box of cookies thoughtfully. 

“Since when do you buy cookies for your staff?” You ask suddenly, raising a brow.

“What? I can’t do something nice every once in a while?” 

Your smile grows. “I’m surprised there’s still any cookies left. Day-shifters are greedy bastards.”

“Tell me about it. I’m pretty sure Santos took a handful with her when I was rounding on patients,”  Jack muses and you laugh, bright and airy.

The sound sets off a flutter in his stomach.

He brushes it off quickly and stands. 

You follow, closing your eyes and stretching your arms above your head which exposes a small bit of skin at your waist line. 

He doesn’t mean to linger on it. In fact, he’s actively trying to tear his eyes away from you but… can’t. 

The realization stuns him. 

The door opens behind him as you lower your arms, your shirt sliding back over that taunting patch of skin.

He snaps his gaze away and looks at Robby.

Robby shuffles to the sink, turning the handle and rinsing out the tumbler in his hands.  His shoulders are tense; his hands remain under the hot water for a little longer than necessary. 

A lot of what this job entails is unenviable. But informing a family about the death of a loved one is what he considers to be the most unenviable thing of all. 

There is no good way to say it. No phrasing that could ever soften the blow. He’s tried every variation over the years—I’m sorry, we did everything we could. Their wounds were too extreme. I’m afraid we lost them. 

First comes the looks of mistake, of disbelief, like he might take it back. Sometimes anger follows, sometimes tears, sometimes silence falls so thick that he swears he could reach out and touch it. 

Hollow-eyed stares and the screams of grieving mothers have a way of following him home.

He’s certain it will follow Robby home, too.

“How did it go?” You question cautiously. Robby takes a deep breath, before shutting off the sink and turning around.

“As to be expected.” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but it falls a little flat. 

“Are you alright?” Jack offers. Robby just grabs a tea-towel and dries the inside of his tumbler.

“I will be once I’m out of here.” He throws the towel down on the counter and heads for the door. 

Jack exchanges a concerned glance with you just as Robby spins in the door frame, eyes on him.

“Oh, Gloria wanted me to remind you about that fundraising gala thing in a few weeks.” He drums his fingers where they rest on the door frame, “She says you haven't RSVP’d.”

Jack gets the urge to roll his eyes. “I didn’t realize Gloria was in charge of the guest list.”

“Well, she's the one cracking the whip about it.”

You snort, crossing your arms, and leaning back against the table.

“Hey, don't laugh,” Robby points a finger at you, “you’re going to this too.” 

“What?” You shoot up, arms falling to the side. “No, no. Absolutely not!”  

“You are a senior resident in the ED,” Robby argues, “it’s important to represent the department.”

“Represent that I think this place is a dumpster fire one gust away from burning down?” You say dryly, tilting your head, “Sure thing, Robby. I’ll go, no problem.” 

“Funny,” Robby quips, "sounds something like what Collins said.”

“Because she knows that spending her one night off sucking up to rich snobs is worse than a shift here.” You cross your arms again.

“Think of this as an opportunity to network for your fellowship,” Jack points out, but it's a weak point. He hasn't discussed fellowship opportunities in depth with you, but your interest remains in emergency medicine, he knows that much. 

You get a glint in your eye, wicked and wild, and Jack knows he’s in for it. It sends a thrill through him.

You open your mouth at the same time Lena pops her head over Robby’s shoulder. 

“Hate to interrupt the party, but there’s a trauma flying in. Three minutes out.”

You let out a woop and make for the door. “Saved by the bell!” 

“This conversation is not over,” Robby calls after you, “You’re going!”

“We’ll see about that Robina-bitch.” 

Jack chuckles and shakes his head, following out the door and into step beside Robby. He watches you move a few steps ahead, around past The Hub and towards the elevator. 

“You’re in trouble.” Robby says, watching where Jack’s line of sight collides with you, tugging on a white gown over your scrubs. 

Lena’s there, laughing as she ties the gown behind your neck. She pats you on the back before walking towards the Tauma rooms, giving orders to Nurses and Med-techs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure you don’t.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “I’m out of here, brother. Have fun tonight.”

“I won’t.” Jack pulls him into a brief hug before they split, going their separate ways. 

Closing the distance to the elevator, Jack takes the white gown you offer him and slips his arms through it. You walk around behind him, tying the flimsy string around his neck. 

Your warmth bleeds through the light blue gloves that brush against his neck as he sets off tying the one around his torso.

“You sure you’re good?” He asks, spinning to look at you.  

“Always. You?” You echo.

He holds your stare, the corner of his mouth rising. “Always.”

“Then let's go.” 

You turn your back to him, pressing the elevator button for the roof. The doors slide open and you step inside with Jack right on your heels.

~~~~~~

You think you might be a bit of a masochist. 

Well, not entirely. Not in the ways that matter. 

But picking up a twenty-four hour shift in the pitt is broaching too close to the line of masochism for your liking. 

Maybe you should call your therapist. 

You had had the day before off, spent mostly catching up on sleep and some light grocery shopping in the evening. But, thanks to your affinity for the night shift, you fell asleep close to three in the morning, only to be rudely awoken at eight-thirty by your apartment's fire alarm. 

It had jarred you so much that you knew any hope of sleep was out the window. Picking up a day-shift was just about giving you something to do for the day.

You don’t work doubles too often. Mostly, because you're not supposed to work more than 2 in a week, partly because after twenty-four hours in this place you want to check yourself into the psych-ward. 

But you love work. Always have. 

Whether it was the restaurant you worked in when you were sixteen—bussing tables, sweat dripping down your back, feet flying along the floor while delivering food. Or the beach you worked at as a lifeguard when you were twenty—hot summer days, harrowing rescues and close calls. 

Work kept you busy. Grounded. There was always something so satisfying about getting a paycheck knowing the time and effort behind it was all your own. 

The reward is a little different now. Getting to see people who you pulled back from the grasp of death still smiling and laughing. Families who grasp your hands and cry at the knowledge that their loved one will be okay. 

That is the reward.

 It’s what makes shifts like this worth it. 

Your fly-in trauma was an unrestrained passenger in a car crash. He flew through the windshield and slid down the road—his long pants and shirt saved him from the worst of the road rash, but the blow to the head he received on impact has left him unconscious. 

You’re not sure when—if—he’ll wake up.

Abbot was able to get Mrs. Randall a bed in Med-Surg, which means she’ll receive the dialysis she needs while she waits on a liver. 

You’re happy for her, if only because that means you don't have to try and convince the techs upstairs that your nurses are perfectly capable of keeping an eye on a dialysis patient. 

You might've thrown your phone through a wall if it wasn't for Ellis who took it from you before HR could open a file. 

The day-shift was unusually manageable. Limited traumas, easily and quickly fixed patients. The worst thing about the day was your guy with a STEMI.

The night-shift is a whole different beast. 

You barely got the car crash victim stabilized before someone had a seizure in chairs. The patient was wheeled into the second trauma room where Abbot watched as you coached an intern on seizure protocol and the administration of medication. 

After five minutes the patient finally stopped seizing and you were able to intubate when Lena, swung open the doors, informing the room about a Jane Doe who fell from a bridge into water, on her way in 5 minutes.

You swore under your breath. 

“You got this?” Abbot asked, already backing out the door.

“Of course, go!” You called back, not even looking up from where you were connecting the ventilator to the ET tube. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Abbot wheeling the patient into the trauma room next door—working right next to the semi-stable car crash victim.  

You swore again, telling your intern to watch this guy like a hawk, while you moved next door to help Abbot. 

A nurse was hunched over the women, performing CPR vigorously, while Ellis wheeled the car crash victim to the hall, saying something about taking over your seizure patient. 

It was a blur of motion. Commands overlapped. Monitors shrieked. Hands rotated in and out of compressions. 

The woman was deathly pale, skin slick and cold beneath gloved hands. The Arctic Sun hummed as it pumped warm water over her body. 

But her rhythm never gave you anything to fight for.

Over a few minutes, the room began to quiet. Less people maneuvered around, Abbot was in and out as he tended to the other trauma patients—urgency, bleeding out of everyone as the minutes ticked on.

Thirty. Forty. Forty-five.  

You knew. You felt it. 

After every pulse check and every, Just another round of Epi, you felt it just as you did with all the others.

Death.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Abbot when he called it.

You didn't say much. Couldn't over the heartbeat pounding in your ears. 

But you moved on. 

You picked up more patients in the waiting room—diagnosing, treating and discharging them as quickly as you could. If only to keep your mind off of it.

To lose one patient in a shift is hard. 

To lose two…

You're sitting at a nurses station off of central fourteen, charting on a college kid with a fever when the clock rolls to 4:00 AM.

Tired is not a strong enough word to describe how you feel.

It’s bad enough that you found yourself drinking a second Redbull from Princess’s secret stash. She offered you one when you made it to the breakroom earlier in the night—you’ll have to buy her another case before she notices the missing can.

“You know those things will kill you right?”

You turn and—Oh, Jesus Christ.

Doctor Luke Myers.

“I could only be so lucky,” you respond dryly, turning back to your computer.

Ever since the shift you met him, he’s found a reason to wander the pitt. 

I’m here for a consult.

Just waiting on a transfer. 

The coffee’s better down here.

And somehow, every time, he can’t seem to do what he supposedly came to do without asking you out. 

The first time he came down, he apologized for the way he treated you that night. He had this whole speech about how unfair it was to use patient care to score a date.

You were almost ready to forgive and move on—

Right up until he offered to take you out to coffee as an apology.

You’ve never uttered the word no faster in your life. You thought he was going to piss himself with how hard he was laughing. 

Still, Myers has not seemed to get the hint.

“So,” you say, as he maneuvers into your line of sight, “what is it this time? The elevator on your floor’s broken?”

“Can I not just come down to see a friend?” 

“We aren't friends,” you deadpan, still typing out orders on your fever patient. 

“You wound me.” He dramatically places a hand over his chest.

“I wish,” you murmur under your breath. You spot the time again, remembering a patient that still needs fluids, before pushing back from your chair and walking up toward The Hub.

Myers follows at your back. “So, what are you doing Friday?

You roll your eyes. “I’m working.”

You scan the pitt as you move, looking for your missing intern, when they catch on Lena, standing by the PDS.

“Aren’t you sick of this place?” he questions with a smirk as you approach her.

“Something like that.”

When you reach the charge nurse, she looks up from the machine, eyes sliding past you and landing on Myers.

“You have a shadow.” Lena comments, eyeing him carefully.

“It appears that way,” you reply, “Can you find someone to hang fluids for my patient in South 20. I’ve lost my intern.”

“Sure,” she turns again, jerking her chin at the doctor behind you, “you need anything else?”

“No, thanks though.” You try to smile, but you think it comes across as more of a grimace. 

You move away from her.

Myers moves too. 

You don’t bother stifling the frustrated sigh that escapes your mouth.

“Do you not have patients?” you ask tartly, heading towards The Hub. 

Abbot looks up from a tablet when you approach, frowning when he spots your companion. You roll your eyes again in his direction and his brows raise slightly. 

“I do,” Myers replies, rounding the counter, resting his hands on it. “We’re quite busy actually.”

“Well, maybe you wouldn't be so busy if you were actually upstairs with your patients,” you suggest, pulling a tablet from the rack and opening a discharge form. 

“I’m always willing to make time for you.” 

His smile makes your skin crawl.

“I wish you wouldn't." 

Abbot clears his throat from behind you. “Doctor, can I speak with you for a moment?” 

You don’t miss the look he gives Myers. “Privately.”

“Of course,” you say, returning the tablet to the rack.

Abbot’s eyes flick briefly to Myers again before he steps aside, opening a path for you to move past him and out from behind The Hub. 

“I’ll catch you later then!” Myers calls after you.

You don't look back.

Air fills your lungs and you shake out your hands as you move.  

You make it all the way to the Peds room before you realize you don’t actually know where you're going. Thankfully, Abbot steps ahead of you and opens the door to the family room, motioning for you to enter. When you make it inside, you pace a few steps and blow out a long breath.

“Thanks,” you tell him, where he remains by the now closed door.

“What the hell was that all about?” His frown has deepened and he crosses his arms.

“Remember that guy from a few nights ago? The resident that I got into it with?” 

Abbot nods. 

“Okay, well… he came down a couple nights ago to apologize. Or at least that's what I thought he was doing but…” You trail off, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed by what you're about to tell your attending. 

While you're closer with him than all your other attendings—maybe even close enough to be friends—it’s still not the conversation you want to be having with him.

Abbot takes a step closer, concern etched across his every feature. “But what? Did he do something?”

“No, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head, “nothing—no. He… asked me out.”

Abbot straightens, his concern shaping into surprise. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you admit, sliding into a chair. “I told him no. But he hasn’t really seemed to get the hint yet.”

That fast, his face is stone and a muscle in Abbot’s jaw twitches.

“You want me to say something?”

You shake your head immediately, placing your forearms on your knees. “No. He’ll get bored eventually.”

“Your plan,” he says slowly, like he can’t quite believe it, “is to wait until he gets bored?”

You nod. “Men are not complicated creatures. At some point, he’ll get it through his head that I’m not interested and he’ll move on to the next girl.”

He looks even less convinced.

“Seriously, I can handle it.”

“Right,” he intones, “it’s not like I just watched you practically sprint across the pitt to get away from him.”

Sprint?

“Abbot—”

“No, he doesn’t get to follow you around like a creep.” His voice raises slightly. “I’m not gonna let you take that.”

You stand from your seat. “And you get to decide what I can take?”

“Yes!”

The word seems to slip out of his mouth before he can rein it in. 

He takes a breath.

“I’m your attending, and when it's happening on my shift, yeah, I do.”

You hate the way the words land between you. You don't need him to step in. But it’s hard to ignore the fact that he would. 

“Abbot,” you start, taking a step closer to him, “I appreciate the concern, but if you go out there swinging you're going to make this a bigger problem than it is. I need you to trust me on this.”

Some tension drains out of his shoulders. “Of course I trust you.” 

Hope and… something else flutters in your chest for a moment. 

He glances around the room, thoughts running rampant in his head. He studies you for a moment before sighing.

“Fine,” he agrees, “but you need to promise me that the second this gets out of control, you’ll tell someone. It doesn’t have to be me, it can be to HR or whoever you’re comfortable with. But you have to tell someone.”

You nod. “I promise.” 

The words hang between you for a moment. 

Abbot studies you again, his gaze lingering a little longer this time.

“Do you want to go home?” He asks. 

The question comes out of nowhere. You're a little stunned.

“What?” A laugh slips between your lips. 

“Do you want to go home?” He repeats. 

“No.”

“There’s only a couple hours left, you’ve had a rough shift—just go home, sleep it off.”

“Every shift is a rough shift, ” you huff, crossing your arms, “let me finish it off.”

Abbot raises his hands and backs towards the door. “Suit yourself. But, I’m spending the rest of the shift convincing you to go to that fundraiser.”

The corner of your mouth lifts. “Never gonna happen.”

“We’ll see about that.” 

~~~~~~

After twenty-four hours stuck inside with no sleep, the morning sun on your face is a fucking relief. 

The city is busier than you expect for seven-thirty on a Thursday. You and Abbot weave in and out of people’s path on your way home, dodging commuters clutching travel mugs and phones pressed to their ears. 

It’s always a little odd to be heading home when the world is just waking up.

Next to you, Abbot is halfway through one of his wartime stories that he thought you might learn from. Something to do with a gun shot wound to the chest and a thoracotomy, if you're following correctly.

A wave of people spill out from a bus that has Abbot stepping behind you with a hand on your back, guiding you through the mass of people.

He doesn't miss a beat in his story, you’re not even sure if he knows he did it, based on the way his hand drops back casually to his side when you clear the group. 

You can feel the touch lingering there as you keep moving. 

“Okay, wait,” you interrupt, waving your hands in front of you, “I don’t understand how you did that in the dark?" 

“We didn’t have a choice. Besides it wasn't completely dark, we had headlamps,” he reasons.

“But headlamps can cast shadows around the organs, especially if there’s no overhead light.” Your shoulders brush with his as you step out of the way on a man in a suit. “It’s why our trauma rooms are so well lit.” 

“It’s all about the feeling,” he emphasizes, “You need to picture what it looks like in your head and translate it as best you can to what your hands feel in the chest.”

“That’s the most cowboy-shit thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It comes with training.” 

The smell of coffee and bacon waft into your senses as you pass by a street vendor.

Christ you’re starving.

“Speaking of,” he starts, and you turn to look up at him, “you looking at any fellowships?”

You sigh at his question and he laughs a little. “Sensitive subject?

You shake your head. 

You’ve been looking. It’s just… difficult. And time consuming.

PTMC has been your life for almost four years. It’s hard to process the fact that your time as a resident is already close to being finished and looking at fellowships is only a reminder that your life is about to be upended. 

“I’ve looked at a few,” you say cautiously, “but I haven't made any decisions.” 

“Well, you’ve got time.” He adjusts his bag on his shoulder. “What have you looked at?”

“There’s a program in Seattle that focuses on aviation medicine,” you begin, “you know, like medevac work.”

He nods as you keep listing them off—the program in San Francisco that focuses on clinical medicine, the one in New York that runs a humanitarian aid program, the trauma fellowship in Atlanta. 

The morning traffic hums as you walk.

“Have you thought about a fellowship here?” He asks, causally. 

“Yeah.” You shrug, “but the only one I’d want around here is the medical education fellowship, and it’s crazy competitive.”

“Well, Robby runs the program,” he argues, stepping around a puddle, “and he knows you well. You’d be the exact candidate he's looking for.”

“But then I'd have to switch to day shifts.”

Abbot laughs. “What a tragedy that would be.” 

The rest of the walk is filled with idle conversation about the little things. You don’t even realize you’ve walked past the corner he takes to go home until you’re across the street, Abbot still rambling on about some missed shot in a hockey game that could’ve won the whole thing. 

Your apartment is not far from here, so you don’t mention it as you keep walking.

You walk up a block, then turn down your street—and stop short when you’re hit with the flashing lights. Fire trucks and police cars line the curb outside your building. 

“What the hell?” You mutter, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Abbot frown. 

He stays by your side as you approach where a police officer stands on the steps up to the lobby. Behind him, yellow caution tape bars off the glass doors.

“Hello,” you greet, and the officer walks down a few steps, "what's going here?”

“Do you live in this building?” The officer asks, hands resting on his belt. Abbot steps out of the way of a group of firemen who make their way up the steps and into the building.

They're all wearing gas masks. 

“Yes, I live in 617.” 

“Ma’am, there’s been a gas leak under the building. It had to be evacuated early this morning.” 

“A gas leak?” Abbot asks incredulously, and the officer nods.

“Yes. A pretty major one. No one can enter the building until it's resolved. Your landlord should’ve notified you.”

You pull your phone out of your pocket and, sure enough, an email sits in your inbox from your landlord at 6:47 this morning.

You run a hand down your face.

“I just got off a twenty-four hour shift at the hospital—I didn't see it.” Your voice is muffled behind your hands and you’re not really sure who you’re saying it to.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But you can’t come in until the utility company fixes the leak.” The officer doesn't sound sorry at all.

“Do you know when that will be?” Abbot presses, but you turn away, leaving him to argue with the officer.

You pace back and forth as you type out a message to your friend who lives on the other side of the city, asking if you could crash at her place for a few hours. Text bubbles pop up, disappear, then pop up again before her message comes through.

Hey girl. I totally would but I’m in Philly for work. I’m so sorry.

For a second, you think you might burst into tears.

You’ve spent twenty-four hours on your feet and there’s nothing you want more right now than your bed. 

But of course your apartment gets a fucking gas leak. 

Abbot comes over to where your head is buried in your phone. 

“The officer says it could take all day to get it fixed,” he relays, brows pinched, “Do you have anywhere you can go?”

You shake your head, looking around the street like someone will come forward and magically solve all your problems. “I texted a friend, but she’s in Philadelphia so there’s no way for her to let me in.”

You tap your phone against your hand, debating on going back to the hospital and its unattended eight floor, when Abbot speaks.

“You can crash at mine.” he offers, like it's the most obvious solution in the world.

“No—no. It’s fine.” you protest, “I can’t ask you to do that. I’ll just go back—” 

“If you say ‘go back to the hospital’ we’re going to have problems," he deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don't want to impose,” you say, a little sheepishly.

“You’re not imposing,” he assures gently, “you need a place to crash, and I’ve got one. And in any case, I’m not leaving you out here after a crazy long shift. I can’t trust you won’t fall to the floor.” 

You rub a hand against your forehead again. “Alright, as long as you’re sure.”

“I am.” 

He jerks his head down the street and starts walking.

“Come on.”

You set into motion, taking a few jogging steps to catch up to him.

The walk to his apartment is quick. So quick, it shocks you that you had no idea how close the two of you actually lived to each other. 

The apartment lobby is classy. Marble floors, ambient lighting. You’d be impressed by it if you didn't see his apartment right after.

It was massive. 

You take your shoes off at the door, laying them on a large shoe rack that only holds a pair of boots.

You followed him through the small hall that opens up into the large apartment.

Dark, hardwood floors spanned the majority of the space, warm against the morning light. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the west wall, framing a breathtaking view of the city. Hues of pink and yellow stretch across the pale blue sky. 

If this is what it looked like at sunrise, the sunsets here must be unbelievable.

A large sectional couch anchors the living room, the kind that you could fall into and not move for hours. A soft throw blanket is draped over the corner, a couple of neatly arranged pillows break up the dark fabric. 

A low coffee table is set in front of it, stacked with a few medical journals, a TV remote, and a ceramic dish that holds a set of keys. 

The kitchen opens into the living space—sleek, modern, and unsurprisingly tidy. The counters are clear except for a bowl, half filled with various fruits, tucked in the corner next to the fridge. 

It’s cozy.

You’re not sure what you were expecting. Maybe something a little more… military?

You used to tease him—along with Ellis—about sneaking into his place to throw a rager. 

But then he’d say something like you’ll never find it, which only made you more persistent. 

You and Ellis—on a rare night off—spent the entirety of five minutes, drunk, scouring the internet for any clue of where he might live, before you gave up and re-watched the whole Harry Potter series. 

You don’t remember much beyond that. 

You spin, a little dumbstruck as you take in the place, and let out a low whistle.

“Damn, Abbot, I knew that attending salary was good, but this is…” You trail off, a smirk playing at your lips.

“Not what you were expecting?” He asks, making for the kitchen, throwing his on a stool by the counter. 

You follow, a little tentatively, suddenly feeling like you're encroaching a bit.

He turns to open the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs, some milk and butter before placing it all on the counter. 

His gaze collides with yours, before it flicks down towards the stools underneath the counter.

“You don’t have to stand there so awkwardly." 

You flounder a little, and he smirks before turning again, grabbing a pan from a cupboard and placing it on the stove.

You pull out a stool and sit, legs crossed under the counter. Placing your own bag on the ground beside you, Abbot washes his hands in the sink then lights the stove, throwing some butter in the pan.

“You don’t have to cook for me, you know.” 

He snorts quietly, cracking eggs into a bowl before beating them together. He pours milk in after.

“I’m aware.”

The eggs hiss when they hit the pan, mixing with the butter. His movements are practiced, completely absent-minded in the way of a person who's done it a thousand times without thinking.

Your elbows find the counter as you watch him.

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook.” You comment casually.

“I don’t,” he corrects, taking a spatula and stirring the eggs, “scrambled eggs is the only thing I do decently. That and boxed mac and cheese.”

A laugh falls past your lips. “I feel like that tracks.”

He turns down the heat, then faces you. “You seem lively, for a person who just spent an entire day in an ER.” 

“It’s the post-shift rush.” You fold your arms against the counter, leaning on them. “I’ll probably crash in a few minutes.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he studies you. 

His gaze feels heavy on your skin and he gets this faraway look in his eyes. 

You wonder where he’s gone—what corner of his mind he’s retreated into, brought about by this moment.

For a second, you think he might say something.

But he just keeps staring at nothing.

“Abbot.” You say, trying to pull him back into this reality.

He blinks, like he’s remembering where he is.

The spatula scrapes softly against the pan when he turns back to the stove.

Huh.

Silence stretches for a minute before he speaks again.

“You always call me Abbot,” he states, entirely observational.

“What would you prefer? Doctor Abbot?”

He moves to the fridge again, pulling out a bottle of orange juice. He places it on the counter before moving to a cupboard, pulling out two glasses and a set of plates.

“I’d prefer Jack.” He turns back to the counter, pouring out a glass of orange juice and sliding it towards you.

“Jack?” you try, testing the shape of his name, “Nah, I don’t know if I can do it.”

“We’ve worked together for almost four years,” he says, carrying over the pan and dividing the eggs between the two plates, “and you can’t call me Jack?”

He eyes you with disbelief before setting the pan down and pulling two forks from a drawer.

“That’s four years of calling you Abbot.” You take the fork from his hand. “Don’t rush me.”

His eyes roll, but he doesn’t respond, just stabs his eggs with his fork.

You both eat in comfortable silence, nothing but the scraping of forks against plates and the clinking of glasses fills the air.

You can feel yourself starting to come down from whatever last ditch effort your body made to keep you awake. 

You’re not sure if it's warm food finally entering your stomach, but your eyes grow increasingly heavy; your movements are lethargic. 

You try, and fail, to stifle a yawn when you move to clean your plate.

Abbot—Jack—just takes it from you and points you down the hall. 

“Bathroom’s the second door on your right,” he explains before putting your plate in the sink, “Feel free to have a shower. Towels are under the sink.”

You respond with a quiet thanks—not really having the strength to offer to wash dishes, before you slip off the stool and head towards the bathroom, your bag in hand. 

The hallway is dimmer than the kitchen, lit by one recessed light that pools along the hardwood.

The second door opens to a bathroom just as polished as the rest of the apartment.

White tiles climb half way up the walls, the counter is wide marble, with a deep set sink, and a large mirror stretches above it. Everything is tidy—no stray toothpaste caps or damp towels tossed aside. 

Your eyes snag on a bottle of hand soap tucked neatly by the sink faucet. Lavender. 

You drop your bag to the floor and brace your hands on the counter, head hanging, trying to dredge up the last bit of strength you need to wash off twenty-four hours of pitt germs.

The shower is glass walled, and like everything in this apartment, big.

You crouch down and open the cabinet under the sink and find a stack of neatly folded, dark grey towels.

There are extra things down here too—a packaged toothbrush, a small bottle of shampoo, suggesting he’s thought ahead about guests.

It’s unexpected. He doesn’t really seem like the type. 

You dig into your bag, thanking past-you for always keeping a spare set of clothes in your work bag. You pull out a pair of black leggings, an old Joni Mitchell t-shirt,a pair of underwear, and set them on the closed toilet seat next to the folded towel. 

Steam fills the room when you start the shower. The warm water is a balm over your skin, relaxing your muscles, the water pressure beyond divine.

You move quickly, fearing you might fall asleep under the shower’s spray.

Using the small bottle of shampoo you found, you lather your scalp, forgoing conditioner—leave it to Abbot to use a 2-in-1. You find a simple body wash on the shower stand and foam some soap between your hands, scrubbing away the nastiness of your workplace.

It’s quick and clinical, not wanting to remain in the bathroom for too long, no matter how nice it feels.

When you step out of the shower, you spy the steam that has fogged the mirrors, obscuring yourself from view.

You dry quickly before stepping into your clothes and using the towel to soak up the moisture in your hair as best you can.

You dig around again, trying to find some toothpaste, but come up short. So, you just wet the toothbrush with some water and make do. 

The air is cool, a stark contrast from the bathroom you turned into a sauna, when you step back out into the hall. 

You’ve got a towel tied around your head, the rest of your things shoved unceremoniously back into your bag. 

Abbot looks up from where he’s sat on the couch looking at his phone, to your frame as you move into the open living space. He’s sitting next to some pillows and a thick, white duvet, folded neatly on the long end of the sectional.

“Shower good?” He asks, still watching as you move toward him.

“Yes, thank you,” you say, dropping your bag down next to the coffee table, “I hope you don’t mind, I sort of raided under your sink.”

He waves a hand in front of himself, before standing. “I wouldn’t even know what's under there, so I won’t miss it.”

You give him a small smile, rocking forward slightly on the balls of your feet.

“Where did you get the clothes?” He looks you up and down.

“Oh.” You peer down at yourself, tugging on the bottom of your shirt, “I always keep a spare set in my bag.”

“Smart,” he says.

Silence stretches.

Abbot clears his throat.

“Well, you’re probably exhausted so,” he begins, moving past you and towards the hall, “I’ll show you to my room, there’s fresh sheets on the bed—”

“Abbot,” you interrupt his rambling and he stops to look at you, “the couch is fine.”

“No, I’ll take the couch” he starts again, “I’ve got to be up in a few hours for some SWAT stuff. I’ll wake you up if you’re out here.”

“You’re working with SWAT right after a shift? Do you ever sleep?”

“Sometimes,” he replies. “Usually by accident.”

“That’s deeply concerning.”

He shrugs like it isn't. 

“Just take the bed. It’s very comfortable and you’ve been awake for—”

Oh my god.

Rolling your eyes, you turn back towards the couch and begin unfolding the duvet. You move the two pillows he’s set out to the corner of the sectional and sit, swinging your legs over the longer end. Reaching down towards the unfolded duvet, you pull it up to your lap.

Abbot looks less than pleased.

“The couch is perfect.” Your mouth curves into a smile.

“Fine,” he relents, but points a finger at you. “Don’t get mad at me if I wake you up.”  

“You’re not going to wake me up, I’ll be sleeping like the dead.” 

You shift further into the corner of the sectional, pulling the duvet with you as you sink into the cushions. The couch is very comfortable—almost annoyingly so.

Abbot lingers for a moment, like he’s about to say something else. 

Instead, he crosses the living room towards the tall windows that line the far wall.

You watch, eyes falling heavy as he pulls heavy fabric curtains closed. The light from the city vanishes, leaving only the dim ones from the kitchen to illuminate the room.

When he turns back around, you're already sliding down the cushions and on to your back.

You hear more than see him move around the room, whether it's from the lack of light or the fact that your eyes are getting increasingly difficult to keep open, is unclear. 

You roll on to your side, legs coming to tuck under you when the hall light turns off.

“Sleep well,” Abbot murmurs.

“Thanks, Abbot.”

He huffs a laugh. “What did I say about calling me Abbot?”

But you don’t respond, already out before you have the chance.

~~~~~~

Jack Abbot lingers in the hall, half turned with one hand braced on the wall.

You’re asleep faster than he expected. It’s like the lights went out and suddenly your body remembered it can sleep.

There’s a familiar ache in his chest as he watches your breathing even out.

He turns suddenly down the hall, realizing that continuing to stand there borders on being a little creepy, and makes for his bedroom.

He closes the door carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible, and begins ditching his clothes.

A jacket lands over the back of a chair in the corner. His watch follows, set down with care on the table beside his bed.

Jack drags a hand down his face before pulling his black scrub top over his head.

The chain around his neck catches briefly in the fabric before slipping free, the dog tags dropping against his chest with a metallic clink.

A black band hangs on the chain with them, threaded through the tags.

He glances down at it for a second, before pulling it over his head.

The chain lands beside the rest of his things.

The apartment is quiet. It always is.

Tonight, though, the faint sound of breathing coming from the living room.

He moves to the connecting bathroom and starts the shower. 

Steam begins to fill the small room and he removes the rest of his clothing.

He sits down on the lid of the toilet and starts the process of removing his prosthetic.

His movements are practiced—he knows exactly where to pull and twist to get the prosthetic to pop free. 

The relief he feels when it does is palpable. 

Once the liner is off, he hauls himself up with the grab bar beside the toilet and carefully maneuvers towards the shower.

When he shuffles under the hot spray, he lets out a sigh. 

The heat sinks into his shoulders, then slowly works its way down his back. For a moment, he just stands there, hand braced on the shower's grab bar to keep himself steady.

He’s not sure how long he spends in the shower, but when he’s stepped out, the counter has a thin sheen of moisture along its surface.

Eventually, he finds his way into bed. 

Sleep finds him in short stretches—twenty minutes here, maybe a forty there—the sheets twist around his legs as he tries to find a comfortable position that never lasts. He drifts, wakes at the smallest sound, then drifts again. 

Sleep has never been his strong suit, even before the days of being an army physician. Everything wakes him up—rain, thunder, small creaks in the floor, but his dreams are the worst.

Sometimes he dreams of the desert. Hot summer days and the screams of injured soldiers, an explosion and an unbearable searing pain up his leg. 

Sometimes he dreams of the hospital. An ICU room and a beautiful woman with a tube down her throat, his hand clutching a lifeless one and a scream he thinks may be his.

Sometimes, he doesn't dream at all. 

After a few hours of the same routine, he gives up. 

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a grunt, before reattaching his prosthetic. 

The apartment remains quiet, only the sound of the ticking clock to accompany him as he dresses. 

He slips his dog tags back over his head before pulling on his combat uniform—camo print pants, boots, black t-shirt, and belt. He packs the rest of the uniform in his bag to be put on when he arrives at the station.

Stepping out of his bedroom, he finds the hall and living room still dark. 

He can make out your still sleeping frame curled under the thick duvet. One of your hands hangs halfway off the couch.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He moves as quietly as his combat boots will allow him to, towards the kitchen, where he pulls out a couple of protein bars out of the cupboard and shoves them in his pockets. 

When he turns back around, he can see your head’s popped up from behind the back of the couch.

So much for not being woken up. 

He moves towards you.

You look entirely sleep rumpled, hair a little wild, marks on the side of your face from where it was pressed into the pillow.

It’s kind of endearing.

“Jack?” you question sleepily as he approaches, sitting up more.

“I’m headed out for SWAT,” he says, keeping his voice low, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Your face scrunches in what seems like confusion, but you nod. 

He’s about to turn for the door, when you begin to shuffle, throwing the duvet back and swinging your legs over the side of the couch.

“What are you doing?” He takes a step toward you.

“We gotta go to SWAT,” you say, but it comes all slurred and muffled where your hand rubs across your face.

The confusion hits first, then the realization. 

You’re not actually awake.

You move to stand, so he closes the distance between you two. 

“No, lay back down,” he coaxes gently.

“I just need my things.” You try to stand again, so Jack places a hand on your shoulder and gently pushes you to lay back on the sectional.

You protest, saying something about your apartment, but Jack just smiles at your antics, continuing to guide you back down.

“You’re fine,” he reassures, voice soft, “it’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

You mumble again, but he can tell you’re pretty much out by the time he pulls the duvet back over your body and up to your shoulders.

Hair has fallen over your face again, so he reaches out and brushes it back with a soft hand. 

When he realizes what he’s doing, he snatches his hand back like it burned him.  

His smile is pulled from his face by shock. 

And shame.

He turns away, snatching his duffle bag up with his hands as he makes for the door.

The waiting room is packed.

Every single chair is occupied, with an overflow of people hugging the walls, or even sitting on the floor. The line up for registration is out the door— all people with various injuries, each in different stages of pain.

You sigh and tuck your bag closer to yourself as you begin to shuffle through the mass of bodies. Some move politely out of your way, others you have to physically shoulder past in order to reach the doors to The Pitt, vaguely registering someone shout at your back that there’s a lineup, asshole. Still, you smile at Lupe who was sitting behind the registration desk as you unlock the doors with your badge.

You’re immediately greeted with harsh overhead lights; the beeping of monitors, moans of patients in pain, the static voice of a nurse on the PA. 

The familiarity of it all is comforting in the way it could only be to an emergency medicine doctor. You have practically lived at PTMC since your rotation here as a fourth-year medical student— this place brings you to life, it’s where you excel. The fast-paced environment that makes your feet ache; the triumph of solving a particularly puzzling case that earns you a nice work from your attendings; the thrill of running a code on a patient that’s lost a pulse but you bring back through pure determination and skill.   

This job brings you to life, while simultaneously choking it out of you.

You make your way up towards The Hub, where you see Robby looking over Whitaker's shoulder at one of the computers, assessing what you assume to be a patient's chart. You nod at Robby when he catches your eye, which he returns with a raised hand, before turning his gaze back to the computer in front of him.

You walk past the first trauma room— currently being turned over by a member of the cleaning staff you don't recognize, then the second, which is mercifully empty— to the lockers ahead of you. 

You don't think as you punch in your code; toss your bag inside, throw a black scrub top over your burgundy long-sleeve, just going through the motions of your pre-shift routine. 

You begin to secure a single braid down the back of your head when you hear faint beeping of someone opening their locker next to you. You lean past where the door to your locker is blocking your view, and you see Heather grabbing things from her own.

“It’s a shit-show out there,” she says, by way of greeting. “We’ve been slammed all day.”

“Yeah, I got a small glimpse of it in chairs.” You finish securing your braid, before wrapping your stethoscope around your neck and shutting your locker. “Thanks for the heads up.”

You begin to walk backwards towards The Hub—still facing Heather—“Abbot in yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.” She closes her own locker, turning to face you. “Seriously, good luck out there tonight. I would not want to be you.”

 “Thanks for instilling me with confidence, Collins.” You smile wryly.

Before you started working nights, Heather Collins was one of your favourite co-workers. Her approach to her work was enviable: her impeccable technique and vast sum of knowledge always inspired you to work just that much harder. You missed it, sometimes, day-shifts with her. 

Heading back towards the hub, you pass Dana, who smiles and offers a quick hey hun before leaving for the night. A few others, doctors and nurses alike, have already left, thinning out the herd of day-shift as it transitions to night. 

You stop in front of the board, reading off the patients and their RFVs as Robby comes to a stop in front of you on the other side of the desk. His glasses are sliding down his nose while he reads off of a tablet.

“What the hell is all this?” You brace your forearms on the counter’s surface, still looking up at the large TV. “You guys playing cards back here?”

Robby narrows his eyes at you, looking mildly offended. “You know, sometimes I wonder why I don't miss having you on day-shift, but then you say things like that, and I suddenly remember.”

You lower your eyes from the board and you chuckle. “Oh, come on, Doctor Robby. You know you miss me on your shifts.” You tease, grinning as he hands you the tablet. You scan it quickly, before signing and handing it back to him. “It must be so boring without me.” 

“It’s certainly less lively.” He removes his glasses, hangs them off his shirt, then scans the ED while rubbing his hands together. “Where’s Abbot?”

As if on cue, he walks behind the The Hub desk and sets a coffee down in front of you, his own in his hand while he leans over a computer to clock in. 

“Speak and he shall appear!” You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. Robby’s eyes jump between you, Abbot and the coffee in your hands, eyebrows raised.

“He lost a bet.” You answer Robby’s silent question. He lets out a noise that falls somewhere between a chuckle and an enervated sigh. You move to commandeer a computer to clock-in and receive your sign-outs, sitting in one of the rolling chairs when Abbot straightens and sips his coffee. 

“Yeah,” he adds, with a bit of snark in his tone, “a bet that's going to cost me six dollars every day for the next month.”

“Don’t make bets you can't afford to lose.” You sing-songed to him, rolling back from the desk and spinning toward him.

“Can’t afford?” He retorts, crossing his arms. “Are you calling me broke?” 

“Never,” you claim, placing a hand on your chest in mock offense. “Just think of this as an investment in humility.”

He shakes his head at you, but you don't miss the ghost of a smile that creeps up on his face. 

Jack Abbot has been a fixture on the night-shift long before you came around. You met in passing during your years as a medical student and resident, but it wasn't until your fourth year that you officially made the switch. Night-shifts in the Pitt had a way of stripping someone down to their core. It tested your patience, your skill— when the witching hour hits and you're facing MVCs and GSWs while exhaustion weighs down on your bones, finding the drive to keep pushing through sometimes feels utterly impossible.

But Abbot never wavered, always steadfast in his duty to help those who could not help themselves. There was an unmistakable tacticalness that he ran the ED with— he organized chaos into strategy, was decisive when the seconds mattered, and could pull-off a unique, almost bat-shit crazy procedure that would save a patient that had next to no chance of making it. But above all else, he always had absolute faith in the people he worked with.

You were surprised, the first time he let you execute one of his insane ideas on a patient. You were unsure; it was risky and you’d never done anything like it before. You looked at him, eyes wide, about to ask him to take over when he just said, You can do this. His tone was steady, certain. Like he was stating a matter of fact instead of opinion. His eyes showed no sign of doubt, completely and utterly confident in your abilities.

You saved that patient, under his careful guidance, you saved the patient. And when it was done, when the patient was rolled up to surgery, he turned to you, a small smile on his face and something that might have been pride in his eyes, and said, Told you.

That was one thing you always admired about Abbot. He knew when and how far to push you so that you gain valuable experience, but never so far that it tears at your confidence.

You stand from your chair, walking back over to where you left your coffee before leaning back against the desk.

“So, Cap,” You begin, crossing one ankle over the other. “What’s the damage?”

Robby turns from where he was speaking with Lena, who came in from… somewhere. She grins at you before rushing off. Robby blows out a breath and places his hands on his hips turning to you and Abbot.

“You’ve got a sixteen-year-old girl with menstrual cramps in North 1,” He starts, turning and pointing a finger in the direction of North 1. “She’ll need an ultrasound, maybe a CT to rule out anything serious.” 

Robby continues, listing off patients in different rooms, and the longer he goes on, the more you realize how totally and irrevocably fucked you are. Central 10 and 13 are waiting on Ortho consults, which means they'll be here all night. There’s a combative 53 year-old male boarding in BH1 waiting on a Psych consult, so he'll also be here all night, meaning there’s now nowhere to park the aggressive drunks that will inevitably roll in later. South 21, persistent vomiting, waiting on CT. Central 7, perfed-bowel waiting for surgery. South 19, full-thickness burn from boiling water on the chest, needs monitoring and a spot in the burn unit.  

It doesn't end. Three-quarters of these patients are waiting on tests and consults that will take twice as long to get at night, not to mention the waiting room that is still completely clogged with people. You cast a sideways glance at Abbot, and now Ellis, who has joined in half way through Robby’s speech.

Abbot’s eyebrows are knotted tightly on his face, already concocting a battle plan in his head to try and clear out the place. Ellis looks like Robby is reading out her obituary. You probably don’t look much better.

“Well,” Robby finishes, clapping his hands together, “I think that's it.”

“Thats it?” You echo incredulously, placing your coffee on the table with a thunk.

“Help! Somebody, please help!”

You all turn to look toward the ambulance bay doors, where a young woman has the arm of a second woman slung over her shoulders. Blood stains their skin, who it belongs to or where it’s coming from, you can’t tell.

“Well, there's that.” Robby offers, but you’re already moving. 

You snag a set of gloves while Ellis yells for a gurney, and when you reach them, it's apparent that the second young woman is in much worse condition than the former. Her long, black hair is blocking the view of her face, but your eyes don't linger there long anyway. They fall to the massive amount of blood inked across her shirt— wet, actively oozing from somewhere. 

Fuck.

“What happened?” You question the woman holding the injured one up, as a gurney slides in beside you. Abbot comes up next to you and helps one of the nurses lift her into the bed before wheeling her off to trauma one.

“We were cutting through the park off of Fenharrow, trying to get to a bar,” she stutters out, looking toward where Abbot and Robby have wheeled her away, “A man came out of nowhere! He tried to grab my purse but Chelsea grabbed it back so—” she hiccups, tears streaking through the blood on her face, gasping for a breath. “He shot her in the stomach!”

“Abbot!” You call out, turning your head toward Trauma 1, where they’ve just gotten the doors open and are wheeling her in. 

His eyes shoot to yours, assessing both you and the woman in front of you. 

“Her name is Chelsea, GSW to the abdomen.”

He nods, quickly adding, “If she’s stable we're gonna need you!”

You acknowledge him, before turning back to the sobbing girl, placing your hands on her shoulders. “How do you know her?”

“She’s my roommate.”

“Do you know if she’s allergic to anything?” You question, keeping your voice calm and stable so as to not rattle the already shaking girl.

“No, I don't think so.” The girl's eyes land back on the trauma room doors, where they begin to work on Chelsea.

“Ok, what's your name?” 

“Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, are you hurt?” 

“No,” her voice shakes when she responds. “There was only one shot, and I was out of the way.” 

“Ok— Lena,” You turn to where the night-shift charge nurse has returned behind The Hub. She’s already moving towards you, murmuring a soft I'll take her, as you rush off to Trauma 1. 

When you enter, a wave of copper and antiseptic floods your senses and sticks to the back of your throat. You chuck your bloodied gloves into the bin without looking, a nurse already tossing you a second pair. You pull them on as you move, donning a white gown to protect your scrubs.

The room is a blur of motion.

People move around each other like it's a practiced dance— monitors chime in an overlapping rhythm, a voice rattles off medications, nurses grab supplies.   

“BP is cycling.” 

“SATS down to ninety-two.” 

You look up at the cardiac monitor and— fuck.

“We’re gonna need to intubate.” You say, moving toward the patient's head before you hear a response. A nurse hands you a laryngoscope and an ET tube, knowing exactly what you need before you ask.  “Drop Ketamine and ROC.”

“Already done,” Robby calls back. He stands at the end of the bed, keeping the room under his watchful eye.

They’ve cut the girl’s shirt, exposing her chest, abdomen, and a small hole just above her navel that's pouring out blood. The wound itself is unimpressive, but you know the havoc it is certainly wrecking under her skin. 

“Alright, let's get some pressure on that!” Abbot orders, and a nurse is right there with gauze, putting pressure on the wound. “Massive Transfusion Protocol. Let's put in some orders.”

Ellis is at the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard while she lists off blood products like grocery items. “Page Surgery.”

You turn back to the girl. 

You let the noise and chaos fall to a faint hum in the back of your mind, your focus completely set on this intubation. This patient. You’ve done this some many times you could do it asleep. Muscle memory kicks in before your brain has time to tell your hands how to move and the intubation is finished before you even realize it. 

“Yellow on the end-tidal.” You say, to no one in particular. 

“Great.” Abbot responds, having moved to the end of the bed next to Robby. “Surgey can take her.”

When the consult came in, you don't recall. Your focus was entirely on the patient and the intubation and not entering the esophagus. You take a deep breath as the girl is rolled out of the room, a surgical resident and nurse with her.

You can't help but notice how small she looks on the gurney. Her frame is dwarfed by the machines and people leaning in to assess her. You weren't able to get a complete history from her friend, but she couldn't be older than 23— just a young woman looking for a fun night out. How quickly a night can turn.  

Robby turns to speak with Ellis, quietly discussing patient handover and something else you can't quite hear, when Abbot walks towards you.

“Nothing like a crash intubation to start the night.” He tosses his gloves and gown in the bin then stops in front of you. “Good work. You handled that well.”

It startles you into motion. Realizing you're still standing there with your gown and gloves on, you toss them in the bin. You turn back to Abbot, who surveys you with a look you can’t quite place. You don't really know what to do with his praise, this look, you never do. It's loaded with enough pride that makes you squirm. So, fall back on old habits.

“Please, I could do an intubation blindfolded.” You smirk, sliding past him and out the doors of the trauma room. You feel his presence beside you when you stand in front of the board again, trying to decide which patient to pick up.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges, reaching over the top of the desk for his coffee. “Then how would you see the cords smartass?”

“With my mountainous talent, obviously.”

“Is your mountainous talent as big as your mountainous ego?”

You cut him a sharp look, but the corner of your mouth tugs up before you can stop it. Abbot has the good sense not to comment.

“I’m going to Central 11,” You say, “Seven-year-old with a rash. I bet it's chicken pox.” 

“No more bets.” Abbot begins to move behind the desk again, reaching down and holding out your coffee to you. “This one is costing me enough.”

You chuckle, raising the coffee in thanks, before turning and heading off. 

~~~~~

Your kid with a rash turned out to be a simple case of poison ivy. You had him wash his feet with dish soap and prescribed a calamine lotion to ease the itching. You discharged him with instructions to go see his family doctor if the rash didn't ease within forty-eight hours.

You go back to The Hub and page Ortho again for the patients waiting on consults in 10 and 13. Though, you figure they're all too busy shopping for Audis and Muskoka cottages to even bother looking at their pagers. You pick up two more patients: abdominal pain you put in line for a CT and a hand laceration from a kitchen knife that you have an intern stitch up. You barely get a start on charting for your kid with a rash before you get pulled in on another trauma. 

Thirty-two year old male with glass in, well… everywhere. Supposedly, a bar fight over a Hockey game which ended with him through a window. You get him stabilized and up to CT before Surgery takes him to remove the glass from his body.

You get back to The Hub to continue charting when a voice you don’t recognize calls out: “Someone call for an Ortho consult?”

You spin from your place at the computer and see a middle-aged doctor in navy scrubs and a white lab coat looking way too well rested for your liking. He’s got dark stubble growing on his chin, enough to make you question whether he forgot to shave or if it’s entirely intentional. You catch what looks to be a Rolex peeking out from the cuff of his white lab coat and internally roll your eyes.

So he’s one of those.

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes and plastering a nasty smile on your face. 

“Well, thank you for finally gracing us with your presence.” Your voice drips with sarcasm and barely concealed frustration. “Keeping two patients waiting for almost—” you check the time— 12:23 AM, Jesus— “Six hours has got to be a new record.”

You want him to balk at your rudeness, bristle and get all offended so you can lay into him some more. But, he doesn't do any of that. In fact, he just smiles, wickedly, like a cat that’s laid its eyes on a mouse for the first time in days. You can practically see the cloud of arrogance that floats around him, his pride comes off of him in waves as pungent as his cologne.

You squint at the embroidery on his white coat— Doctor Luke Myers.

“It’s busy tonight.” He tilts his head slightly, the smile stretching across his face tells you they’ve been anything but busy. “And things aren't always as urgent as they seem.”

His deliberate refusal to be moved by your frustration only serves to heighten your anger. “I think I know enough to recognize when a broken bone requires surgery.” 

“I’m sure you do,” he drawls, unabashedly looking you up and down. 

You don't respond, lifting your brows at his boldness and crossing your arms over your chest. His eyes track the movement and linger. It makes you want to crawl out of your skin. 

You need him gone, so you deadpan: “Central 10 and 13.”

“10 and 13?” His eyebrows raise and it feels mocking, like he’s having fun. You just stare blankly at him, no longer wanting to feed into whatever he thinks this is. “You want to walk me there? I get so turned around in this place.”

“Can’t,” you shoot back, turning toward your computer again to finish putting in your orders, “it’s busy tonight” 

You let your voice draw out the words as you sign out of the computer and walk off toward your next patient. You hear him call out something like thanks a lot, sweetheart that makes you want to spin right back around and introduce his face to your fist, but you refrain. You take the long way around to North 1 to give you a second to cool off. 

You’re not sure what’s got you so testy. Maybe it’s the six-hour waits for patients who do not need to be in pain for that long. Maybe it's the fact that you don't need an ortho consultation to know when bones need surgery, but policy always seems to outrank judgement. Maybe it's the fact that you’ve been dealing with misogynistic, egotistical men your entire career, who allow what's between your legs to stop them from acknowledging what's between your ears.   

By the time you’ve made it to the curtain of north one, you realize your cool-off walk has done nothing to actually cool you off. Your face feels hot, your stomach feels like its churning acid, your heart pounds against your ribs, your thoughts spiral, each one more bitter than the last. 

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your nervous system out of this attack mode it’s found itself in, and when you open your eyes—

“What’s got you picking a fight so early in the shift?”

Abbot. 

He’s stood in front of you with his arms by his sides, surveying you like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb. Where he came from or how he knows you're a powder keg ready to blow, you don’t know.

“I—” You falter, not sure how to explain to your attending that you let your temper get the better of you, let it distract you from your work. “I don't know. That guy just got under my skin, that's all.”   

“What did he say to you?” He coaxed, crossing his arms over his chest. His brows pinch, concern etched in his features. You know Abbot is protective of his staff—you’ve seen him lay into a few drunk guys who got too handsy with a nurse countless times since you’ve worked here. It’s unsurprising he’s the same way with you.  

“He didn't say anything— do anything,” You reassure, blowing out a breath, shoulders sagging. You feel your heart slow, your breath comes in a little more even, the blood that’s rushed to your face retreats. You feel steady again. “I’m just angry at the system. And he seems like one of those guys that likes to feed the system.”

Abbot nods in complete understanding. He doesn't criticize your reaction, brush it off or try to fix it. He just nods, listens. Lets you stand there with him for a few more moments while you collect the last bits of yourself. Where most people would rush to fill the space with reassurance or advice, he doesn’t. He doesn't treat your emotions like something to fix, just lets them exist, trusting you can handle it. This is well-worn ground too. Whether it’s floating in each other's presence on the roof after a hard shift, or standing in silence in the ambulance bay during a rare, but needed break. It's comforting— grounding, in a way it isn't with anyone else.

You let air fill your lungs one last time, before setting it free. “I’m good,” you reassure again, “Really, I’m good.”

You only now realize that he hasn’t actually asked if you’re okay, not once.

But when lines on his face soften, you know he's let you come to that conclusion on your own. 

“Alright,” He says, nodding once, “Find me if you need me.”

His hand falls to your shoulder as he passes, giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze, before he’s out the door, fading into the chaos of the ED.

You glance down at your shoulder as if you could see an imprint of his hand left on your scrubs. You don't see one, but let the warmth of it seep it into your skin.

What is the matter with you?

You shake your head, take a final, steadying breath, and pull back the curtain to see your next patient. 

~~~~~

“Can I confer with you on something?”

Jack looks up from where he’s signing a discharge form on a tablet—handing it back to the nurse beside him with a polite thank you—to see you sitting at one of the smaller work stations off of Central 9. “Of course.”

He stands behind your chair and watches as you pull up an ultrasound result on the computer in front of you. Nothing immediately jumps out at him, but he lets you present the case to get the full picture.

“Fiona Rivers, sixteen,” You begin, "complaining of painful menstrual cramps with little relief after 5 milligrams of morphine. She’s been here for four separate visits prior to this one, all with the same complaint. I did an ultrasound, looking for ovarian cysts and signs of endometriosis, but I didn't find anything.” 

Jack lets your words fill in the gaps of information left by the ultrasound, and, well… you're right. There is nothing there to suggest this patient has any cysts or endometriosis. He looks at the chart you’ve pulled up beside the images and sees you’ve also completed a standard set of labs, all looking normal. 

His instincts kick in, offering up differentials and treatment options, but he holds his tongue. Jack knows you’ve likely already got your own plan formulating in your head, and he has always preferred to hear them first, not wanting to take over when you can navigate a challenge perfectly on your own.

Even when you were a med-student, and he’d find himself on those rare day-shifts, he knew your instincts were not something that could be taught. You were a little underconfident, still had years worth of experience to gain, but your thought-process, the way you approached difficult tasks and communicated with your patients? It was something he usually saw in his third or fourth year residents, and now that you were one… well he doesn't know how he’d run the ED without you. You're the eye of the hurricane that is this place. Calm, collected, always right where he needs you. He can trust you to handle tricky procedures and even trickier patients without hovering over your shoulder. Not that you’d let him. Where you used to be hesitant and uncertain, you're now assertive and self-assured.

He’ll never admit it, but you're his favourite resident and he’s proud of how far you’ve come. When it comes time for you to select a fellowship, he knows he’ll have to fight tooth and nail to keep you.

“What are you thinking?” He asks. Your lips twist in a way that tells him you're biting the inside of your cheek, whether you realize it or not. 

“I’m thinking this much pain even after 5 milligrams of morphine is abnormal,” You respond, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the desk, “I don’t want to rule out endometriosis just yet, because it doesn't always show up on standard ultrasound. I’d like to send her for a transvaginal ultrasound, which will be better at catching any peritoneal implants. If something shows up on the imaging, then I’ll consult Surgery for a diagnosis.”

Jack hums softly in agreement. “I agree. Put in your orders.”

It's less of an approval and more of a loop-in. Just you letting him know what you were already going to do. 

You turn back to the screen and begin writing up orders, fingers flying over the keyboard before pulling out your pager, and requesting a consult from what he assumes to be gynecology. He goes to turn away but notices your coffee—or rather the one he bought you— left a few feet from where you're sitting. He picks it up, the weight of it in his hands suggesting you’ve barely had a few sips. 

You begin to push back from the desk, but before you stand he places the forgotten coffee in front of you. 

“Drink this,” He orders, “It cost me six dollars.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” You intone, but you take the coffee in your hand, “twice now.”

“I’ve mentioned it twice because six dollars for a coffee is insane.” Another nurse hands him a tablet with another discharge for him to sign. He paces away slightly as he does, but he can see a smirk forming on your lips in his periphery. 

Oh lord. 

“Hey, I never said you had to buy me a coffee,” You inform him, taking a sip before continuing, “I said you had to bring me a coffee. I would’ve taken one from home. Hell, I would've taken one from the shitty pot in the staff lounge.”

He lifts his eyes from the screen and pins you with a knowing look. You’d never accept coffee he got from the staff lounge pot. 

You rise, likely having the sense to exit this conversation before he turns it on you. 

“All I’m saying is you didn't have to buy the expensive one.” You edge out from behind the desk and move out into the main area. 

If he’s being honest, he couldn’t care less about the price of the coffee. He likes to provoke you, watch your eyes spark with a wickedness he knows means you got something sharp about to fly off your tongue. This is just another opportunity for that. It's playful, easy. 

But he didn't even think of it, not really anyway. When he walked into the café he somehow knew you liked, and bought you your six-dollar usual that he’d somehow memorized— he didn't second-guess it until Robby eyed the cup in your hand, recognizing it for what it was. 

Or for what it isn't. Because it's just coffee. He lost a bet and he's honoring it. That's all this is.

He finishes reviewing the discharge, then hands the tablet back to the nurse with a nod. Jack's eyes track your movements to The Hub where you rest your hip on the edge and chat with Lena. Your posture is relaxed and an easy smile lights up your face as Lena laughs at something you’ve said.

Whatever intense anger you harbored from earlier has disappeared, replaced with the steadiness he’s grown familiar with. It eases his worry. 

He watched you interact with the resident from Ortho while supervising an intubation, so he couldn't hear what was said, but he gleaned enough from the way you tensed, how your eyebrows rose on your forehead, the way you crossed your arms.

He knows you don’t launch genuine anger at just anybody, and he’s only had to be on the receiving end of it once to know it's not a nice place to be. But this guy just took it like you were a child throwing a tantrum, smiling condescendingly instead of apologizing, not only to you but the patients he’s kept waiting in pain for hours on end. He recognized the shape of this conversation. The tone. It’s the kind of exchange that leaves behind no evidence, but he knows will linger long after it's finished. He would have gone out there and to give him a piece of his mind if he could’ve, but he was tied up, and by the time the intubation was over you had walked off and the resident went to find his patients. 

He was standing in front of you a minute later, before he even realized he had followed. And when you told him about the resident—about the system you thought he perpetuated— he understood. Understood the emotions that swell when patients are spit out by a system that aims for their wallets and not quality care. He understood, too, the barriers you would’ve faced, that you continue to face, as a female physician, and how it must add extra weight to the already heavy baggage you carry on a day-to-day basis. 

He didn’t offer much—couldn’t really. There’s not much to say in moments like those that don’t sound hollow. So instead, he let you gather yourself. Let you take a brief minute to quell your anger before treating a patient, parting with an absent squeeze to your shoulder as he moved past.

His attention drifts to where it never really left, your smile still lingering as Lena launches into a story. He forces his eyes away, scanning the ED, its patrons and staff. His eyes catch Ellis talking with an elderly woman, then follows a nurse who darts in front of them carrying vials of blood, across to a monitor that beeps quietly in the otherwise loud environment. A clock on the wall reads 1:04 AM, and he sighs.

Barely half-way through this shift and he can already feel the pain threatening where his prosthetic meets his leg. He shifts his weight for a few moments, but it only serves to put pressure on where his heel aches. 

So, he accepts his fate and moves to see another patient, sending a silent prayer to someone—anyone— that this shift might pass quicker than it’s come.

~~~~~

You love Lena.

Really, you do. She’s an excellent charge nurse: always keeping things moving, could recite the names and room numbers of every patient that resides in the ED, and constantly seems to be three steps ahead of everyone else.

 Which makes her perceptive. Extremely perceptive. 

Maybe it comes with the territory. She’s not only in charge of anticipating the needs of her nurses but also the doctors she works with—more often than not she rattles off orders for patients before the words have time to form on your tongue. She knows what you need before you even know you need it.

It’s incredibly helpful when it comes to patient care, and incredibly annoying when it comes to your personal life.

“So,” she starts, "what's with the coffee?”

You don’t look up from where you are writing discharge notes for a patient, typing furiously about oral antibiotics and wound care. Her words register a second later and your fingers stall their sprint over the keyboard. 

“What do you mean?” You ask cautiously, looking up at her briefly before your fingers resume moving. “It’s my usual.”

“But it doesn’t usually come from Jack.” You can feel her eyes pinning you to your seat even when you don't meet them. 

“So?” you puzzle, keeping your eyes trained to the screen, “How do you even know that?”

“I see all, know all,” she responds, “like Jesus.”

An uncontrolled laugh flies from your mouth, eyes flicking up to meet Lena’s, who grins right back at you. You rise from your seat, shaking your head, the coffee in your hand starting to feel like the center of this shift. 

“Alright, well, relax, Jesus. He lost a bet.” 

“What kind of bet?” Her eyes brows lift mischievously.

“Wouldn’t Jesus know that?” You say, by way of response. 

You suppose you could tell her. It’s not like it's a secret. In fact, you’ve been enjoying getting to boast about your victory over Abbot. But the way she looks at you makes you feel transparent.

Like she can see past the punchline.

The cup is suddenly heavy in your hand. The last of its warmth seeps into your fingers and fades. 

You flit your eyes up to where Abbot had stood minutes ago—where his presence was a steady pillar at your back. You swear you could still feel it linger there and you have the sudden urge to smile—

What is the matter with you?

You snap your eyes back to Lena like a whip, but not fast enough. Her gaze follows to where yours had held, then slowly drags back to you.  

Extremely perceptive.

“Don’t.” You rise from your seat, the coffee in your hand starting to feel like the center of this shift.  

“I didn't say anything.” She raises her palms in defense, but the corner of her mouth lifts

“Mhm.” You turn, making to leave, when Doctor Luke Myers steps directly into your path.

You nearly collide with him.

He grins, not making a move to step out of your space, “Hello again, sweetheart.”

“That’s doctor, to you.” Your voice turns hard, body going rigid as you take a step back. You can feel Lena watching you two carefully from The Hub.

“My apologies, Doctor.” He says it in a way that a parent might to their child playing dress up. 

Your anger boils back up like it never left, hot and wild. But you check it, draw it back in and set your face in a mask of cool professionalism, refusing to give this guy an inch. 

“What can I do for you?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral. 

“Your cases in 10 and 13 both need surgery.” He folds his arms and begins to explain the breaks to you: their type, severity, how complicated and challenging both surgeries will be. You groan internally.

“Thank you,” you cut him off, not being able to listen to another second of his mansplaining, “but I understand these cases perfectly fine.”

Lena shuffles by with a hand on your shoulder and a pointed look. You nod, letting her know you’re okay, that she doesn't need to hover, as she strides away. 

“It never hurts to gain another perspective.” You draw your attention back to Doctor Myers, the muscles in your face shifting faintly in shock. He has some nerve, you’ll give him that.

“If I recall correctly,” you say tartly, annoyance dripping back into your voice, “I did tell you they would have to go to surgery.”

“You have good instincts.” He shrugs, his praise patronizing, voice dripping with indulgence— like you somehow stumbled on something clever. “I’d like to see more of it in action.”

His smile turns feline and he inches imperceptibly closer. You slide away, the back of your thighs hitting the chair you were sitting in minutes before. You need more space— more distance, but there’s not really anywhere to go that won’t require you brushing past him. And you can’t trust he'll move back if you take a step forward. 

“We’ll come grab Central 10 in the morning.”

“In the morning?” You bristle, “take them now.”

“The orthopedic surgeon is not here right now.”

“You have beds upstairs.”

“You have beds down here.”

“Not really,” your voice rises just enough to be a challenge, “These patients will pay a fortune if they sit down here all night. And we need the beds for the other dozen patients sitting in the waiting room.”

He studies you for a beat too long.

“I guess I could take them,” he says slowly.

Silence stretches between you two.

“But?” You ask, impatiently.

His mouth curves.

“Dinner,” he adds lightly, “with me.”

You must look absolutely ridiculous, because you just stand there, mouth agape, arms slacking at your sides. You’re almost not sure you heard him correctly, because there is no way he is that idiotic.

“Are you negotiating patient care for a date?” You ask, utterly perplexed.

“I’m negotiating with you.” His words drip with honey, but it feels oily where it settles against your skin. He thinks you're into this—thinks that your verbal sparring was somehow you flirting back.  

Fuck professionalism. 

You take a step forward, no longer caring whether he moves away—which he does not. 

“How about you take my patients, now, because it's clinically appropriate,” you demand, voice dangerously quiet, “and not because you think I owe you something.”

You shoulder past him, aiming to put as much space as possible between you two, heading for the ambulance bay. You need air—you need to not feel so… inhuman.

The bay doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, the night air sharp against your skin. You let it slide down your throat and into your lungs—it feels good. You tilt your head up towards the sky, searching for stars you won’t see this deep in the city and blow out the air sitting in your lungs.

You want to scream. Want to slam your fists against the walls of the hospital until the stone cracks and crumbles to its foundations.  

Instead, your hands curl into fists at your side.

The anger isn’t explosive. It’s dense—heavy. It sits behind your ribs with a heartbeat of its own, pulsing and pounding and burning. You don't bother trying to rein it in anymore, letting it flow through you with abandon.

How dare he. 

Treating your patients like bargaining chips, treating you like—

How dare he.

You don't know how long you stand there for. You just stare and stare and stare at the sky until sirens rip through the quiet.

You let out a chuckle that's void of humour. There is no space for anger here. No time.

So you shove it down and move.

~~~~~

You meet the ambulance when it pulls into the bay.

It carries a twenty-nine year-old male, Dylan, with a temperature of 104 and difficulty breathing, accompanied by his fiance.

His fiance—Daniel—who never lets go of his hand the entire way. Not during the transfer: the work up, the intubation. Not when you send off labs, blood work, and tests. He never leaves his side, knuckles white where their hands are entwined.

You watch from where you're sitting at a desk as Daniel whispers something against Dylan temple. 

A soft, sad smile tugs at the corners of your mouth and something pinches in your chest. 

Their love was palpable. Thick and heavy that comforted rather than suffocated. It rinses your earlier interactions from you like water, reminding you of the kind of love that asks for nothing, that is free. 

You’ve had boyfriends, flings. A nice guy during your undergrad who never let you drive his car, but always let you claim the front seat. A douchebag during med-school who complained about your lack of attention, then cheated on you—twice. And a situationship during your R3 year that was more about stress-relief than anything tangible. 

You're not sure whether you’ve ever been in love. Truly in love. The kind that alters gravity: shifts your center before you even realize you’re falling. You’ve wanted, lusted. But the kind of love that sits by your hospital bed at three in the morning hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings that you may not be able to hear—you’ve never had that.

Maybe you’ve never been in love because you never made room for it. You had your life set up like a trauma room—everything always in reach, organized and controlled. There is no shelf space for something so messy.  

That pinch behind your chest returns. Not hot like jealousy, but an ache like desire.

Desire for that kind of love, for that kind of life.

You drag your eyes away from the couple and back to your screen, rotating your neck to ease the pain forming where it meets your shoulders. 

The time in the corner of the screen reads 3:51 AM. 

Since your breather in the ambulance bay, you somehow got busier. Between the trauma, your existing patients, and the ones you picked up from the waiting room, you're slammed. In fact, this might be the first time you've sat down since then.

Your coffee is discarded off to your left, cold and half empty. 

You feel a heaviness start to weigh down on your bones, your eyelids getting harder to keep open. You place your elbows on the desk and rub your eyes with the backs of your hands. 

You can’t wait for this shift to be over.

“You better not be falling asleep over there.” 

You lift your head, spinning the chair to where Abbot’s replacing a tablet on the rack. 

He looks just about as tired as you feel. His salt and pepper curls lay a little flatter on his head, you can see the blossoming of dark circles under his eyes, and the way he favours his left leg suggests his prosthetic is starting to ache. 

It was an accident, finding out about his leg. 

You knew he was ex-military, it didn't take a genius to discover that, but you never really asked about it. You made assumptions. Likely Middle East, somewhere hot. Saving soldiers who fought for your country, who fought for others. 

But it wasn't your business, so you never asked. 

Until—after a particularly rough night when you shuffled off to a patient room to cry— you found him, hunched over and massaging the residual limb, prosthetic discarded on the bed.

He looked up first.

You stood frozen, one hand braced on the door, eyes wet.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, voice tight. “I didn't realize—”

“It’s fine.” He responded, almost clinically, resuming the press and pull of muscle on his leg.

You knew you should leave. This was a private moment, you didn't need to see him like this. But you were glued to the floor, questions swirling in your mind. 

When did this happen? 

How did this happen? 

Is he in pain all the time? 

Why am I still standing—

“It happened when I was in the Middle East."

His words shook you from your stupor. You realized you were staring at him and guilt flooded your body.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, the sound rough and broken, “I can go.”

You were about to pull the door closed when he cut you off.

“You don't have to.” 

You stilled again and looked at him. Really looked. 

His eyes weren't wet like yours, but you could see the heaviness in his shoulders, the darkness that clouded his hazel eyes.

So you stepped inside, not sitting beside him but placing your back against the wall, sliding down to the floor, knees up to your chest.

And you listened. Listened to his story, the parts he could manage to tell. You didn’t press for details and he didn't offer any. He listened to you, too. He passed you tissues when tears streaked down your face, nodded in understanding at the words that couldn't move past your lips. By the end, you were both raw: eyes red rimmed, ribs aching, voices in shreds. But the air had shifted. 

You never mentioned it, and he didn't either.

Abbot keeps the wall of The Hub between you as he walks closer, bracing his forearms on the ledge. You lean back in the chair causing you to slide down a few inches.

“I’m not sleeping,” you say, “I’m—”

A yawn catches in your throat and you cover your mouth with an elbow.

“—Meditating.” You finish.

“At The Hub?”

“It’s inspirational.”

Abbot chuckles. It’s a rich sound, earthy and rough. 

“Do you need anything?” He’s not looking at you when he asks, his eyes catching on where Ellis is supervising an intern suturing a patient's leg. 

“A shot?” You ask, following his line of sight, watching as the intern's hands shake slightly when reaching for a pair of scissors. You slide further down the chair as his eyes find yours again. 

“Of what?” He braces more weight on his arms, taking some pressure off his prosthetic.

“Preferably tequila,” you muse, using your foot to rotate the chair back and forth, “but I wouldn’t object to morphine.”

“Morphine is not going to help,” he looks you up and down, “this.”

You open your mouth to retort but he shifts his weight again, head hanging.

“Do you need anything?” You ask, pointedly. It’s a genuine question. When his leg starts to bother him he can get unintentionally snappy and the last thing this ED needs right now is a short-tempered Abbot. 

He shakes his head, eyes back to scanning the ED. 

“Ice pack? Ibuprofen?” You let your voice trail off, "Retirement brochure?”

His eyes swing back to yours, sharpening when they land on your frame. “Watch it.”

“What?” You absolutely know what. A ding sounds from your computer, so you turn and see a set of labs has returned on Dylan. 

“You are one comment away from me giving you a sex injury in South 22.” 

Your head whips to him at the same moment Ellis slides behind you, stopping abruptly. 

“What did I just walk in on?” She remarks, looking half-traumitized-half-delighted for a new piece of blackmail to hold over Abbot. 

You are still stuck staring at him, mouth agape. His face morphs from confusion at both your reactions, to understanding, to horror in the span of a heartbeat.

“That wasn’t— I didn’t—” he splutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Ellis joins in and soon you're both keeled over, tears spilling over your cheeks, and gasping for air. You’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable and you’ve never heard him stumble over his words before. It's weirdly refreshing. You don't often see him make mistakes, second-guess himself over patient care, and he’s annoyingly charming in most social scenarios. 

This is uncharted territory. This is brilliant. 

It takes another minute for you and Ellis to collect yourself, patients and staff alike watch you two like you’ve gone insane. The entire time Abbot eyes you both, red in the face, and you can't tell whether he wants to throttle you or himself.  

“Freudian slip, Abbot?” Ellis teases, wiping her face with the back of her hands. It sends you into another fit.

“There’s a patient in South 22 with a sex injury.” He grounds out, not quite making eye contact with you. 

“Uh-huh.” You retort, standing to round the other side of the desk. When you reach him, you pat him on the back. “I’m never letting you live this down, by the way.”

“I’ll report you to HR for workplace harassment,” he fires back.

“You’ll report me?” you taunt, “After that comment, Abbot, I don't think you’ll be the one doing the reporting.” 

With one last pat, you stride off and you can hear him mutter something like I hate this place as you reach your next patient.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur. You go through the motions of assessing, treating, and discharging patients, moving quickly enough to avoid feeling the pain in your feet. You deal with a group of drunk frat boys, a GSW that comes in by ambulance, a mom that screams in your face about her sick son needing a blanket. You check your temper for the third time tonight when you argue with Abbot over the course of treatment for a diabetic patient with an extremely high blood sugar. You try to let it go, mostly because he’s your attending, partly because you know he’s not being harsh for the fun of it. 

By the time the clock hits 7:00 AM, you're running on fumes. Everything is pissing you off: the lights are too bright, it’s too loud, your shoulders ache, you're giving and receiving instructions left, right, and center and you’re so over it.

You’re at one of the nurses stations, which is blissfully empty, writing up your hand-offs and finishing the bulk of the charting you didn't get done. You already know you’ll be here for at least another hour post shift to get your charting done. You usually are, which just sets to irritate you more. You can picture your bed stacked with pillows and throw blankets and wish you could be laying in it. You imagine a hot bath and a chilled glass of white wine that is wholly not appropriate for the hour but you live alone so no one would know anyway. You just want to be home, just need this shift to be over—

“Doctor—”

You jump, letting out a string of curses as you turn, finding Robby with his hands raised like he’s trying not to scare a wild animal.

“Jesus, Robby,” you breathe, putting a hand on your chest, “What is your problem?”

He tilts his head, slightly amused. “Rough night?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, “but I’ve still got at least an hour worth of charting to do so, it’s not over.”

“How about you go grab some air?” He placates, placing his bag on the counter. 

“I’m fine,” you respond, albeit a little tightly, “I’ve got to finish these hand-offs for day-shift.” 

“Don’t worry about hand-offs,” he brushes off, “they’re more for hospital records than our benefit.” 

You hesitate. You’ll have to finish these hand-offs at some point; putting it off won't help you get out quicker. But some sun on your face sounds incredibly good right now.

“Go,” he insists, “your charting isn't going anywhere.” 

“I wish it would,” you joke, but you stand and make your way to the stairs.

The climb to the roof makes your thighs burn in the way it only could after a long shift, but it’s familiar. Golden light spills over your face as you push through the doors to the roof, sun rising on the edge of the city. The late September chill slices at your skin and you tug your long sleeves down from where they were pushed to your elbows to stave off the cold. 

You can be grateful for a shift like this. It was grueling, but you know you’ll sleep like the dead once you get home. There was a non-stop flow of patients, but they're stable, there was nobody you couldn't save. You can take the small win of death not following you home this morning, because Lord knows what will happen tomorrow. 

Tonight. Whatever.

You allow your arms to rest on the railing blocking the edge of the roof, content to bask in the glow of the early sun and bustle of morning traffic. You let your head fall forward, stretching your neck and shoulder muscles where they cramp viscously. 

You hear the whine of the roof door’s rusted hinges and a steady gate approach. 

You do not need to turn to know who it is.

Abbot was the one who first showed you the roof. You had just moved to nights when you lost your first kid. Six-year-old Amelia, struck by a drunk driver in a crosswalk after walking home with her sister from ballet. You were doing CPR with tears sliding down your face, knowing you wouldn't get her back. When Abbot finally called it, you took off to the stairwell, climbed a few floors up and cried. 

You cried until you couldn't breathe, until you thought you might pass out. That's when Abbot found you and dragged you up to the roof. Snow whipped at your face, shocking your system into drive, and you could finally breathe again. You stayed until you thought your fingers might turn blue, but Abbot was there, a gentle nudge with his hand on your arm got you back downstairs.

He walked you home that night. The first of many times.   

Abbot comes to a stop beside you, a sweater now around his shoulders, mimicking your position on the railing. It’s only a little tense between you two after your argument earlier. He is your attending and you will always respect the years of experience he has on you, but sometimes you can't help pushing. 

The woman rolled in on a gurney, unresponsive with ketones on her breath, blood sugar close to 300.

“Let’s start with 1 litre an hour of normal saline for four hours,” you had said, typing out the orders on the computer in Trauma two.

“That’s a bit aggressive don't you think?” Abbot approached from your left and watched you place the orders. 

“Yes, but she needs fluids, she’s in DKA.” You responded, holding his gaze. 

“Studies show that infusing fluids at a slower rate is equally as effective as an aggressive infusion,” he disputed, voice clipped, “Besides you run the risk of cerebral edema if you replenish her fluids too quickly.” 

You knew you should back-off, it wasn’t worth getting into it.

“The risk of cerebral edema is low in adults with DKA.” You turned to face him fully and crossed your arms. He recognized it for the challenge it was, jaw ticking in annoyance.

“Low, but not nothing,” he argued right back, his voice low and even, “try 100 mils, per kilo, per hour first.”

“But—”

“Stop.”

It shocked you, the volume. The finality.

“Stop arguing with me about this.” He turned, peeling off his gloves and strode out.

It’s rare that he raises his voice, even in the testiest of moods. And never usually with you.

You stood there for a moment, before the compulsion to run after him and demand what his problem was kicked in. But you kept your feet planted firmly to the floor, and let it go. Or tried, whether or not you were a little short with him for the hour that remained in the shift was your business. 

Standing next to him on the roof, however, made your little spat seem small. Made you feel small. You trust Abbot implicitly. Why you pushed… you guess you’ve been a little pushy all shift. Not necessarily with him, but in general.

You don’t speak for a while and you wonder if it’s because neither of you wants to concede first.  

You’re like that. Well, you suppose most emergency medicine physicians are. You see everything, train for everything, and generally end up more well rounded than doctors in other specialties simply because of the exposure you receive. It’s why your egos are so big. But with time, you come to learn to check your ego at the door; to not let it override patient care.

It comes with time; experience. It’s why Abbot speaks first.

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting his hands fall open, eyes on the horizon, “about earlier. I was a little harsh.” 

You take a deep breath. Somewhere below, you can hear a siren. “It’s fine. You were right about the treatment. No reason to take an unnecessary risk.”

“Yes, I know.” He turns to face you, eyes trying to catch where yours are glued to the ground. “Still, I was harder on you than needed. For that I’m sorry.”

You let your eyes find him and nod. “Thanks. I’m sorry too. For pushing when I knew I should back-off.”

“You probably picked that up from me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, eyes a little softer. “I want you to push, it’s important that you do. Your superiors aren't always right, they don’t always know more than you. There will come a time when you disagree with someone about treatment and you’ll be right and it’ll be your duty to advocate for your patient when that happens.”

You nod, letting his words sink in.

“But,” he adds, “you need to know when the right time to press is, when it’s worth arguing over. You’ll get better at that. Hell, I still need to get better at that.”

You nod again, your smile small but genuine. 

“You’re great. Seriously,” he continues, “you’re one of the best residents I’ve seen come through here in years. Maybe in my entire career.”

You don’t know what to do with his words, where to put the feeling that swells in your chest when he says them. It’s one thing to receive a nice work or a good catch from him when you just do your job. It’s easy to let those ones go. But to hear him say you’re the best he’s seen in his whole career?

“Jeez,” you snort, “you must really feel bad if you’re saying all these nice things about me.”

He knows you're deflecting, you can see it in his eyes as he shakes his head. “Do you know how to take a compliment?”

“Nope. I’m incapable.” 

“A trait you share with Robby.” 

You chuckle at that. “I do not want to share personality traits with that man.”

“Might be too late for that, 3 years is certain to rub off on you.” 

Your smile fills out as a gust of wind sends the loose strands of your braid across your face. You both fall silent again, letting the sound of the city fill in the cracks of your lack of conversation. When the sun finally peaks over a distant building, he drums his fingers on the metal railing and stands.

“You ready to get out of here?” He asks, and it’s a real question. You’re sure he’d stand here with you all day if you refused to leave, if only to make sure you didn’t jump. 

“I’ve still got an hour’s worth of charting to do.” You sigh, standing and following him back to the door. “I won't be out of here for a bit.”

“Thoughts and prayers.” He jokes, holding the door open for you as you make your way back downstairs.

You end up finding a quiet room in the back of the ED to get your charting done, even managing the strength to get through your handoff reports. It’s close to 8:30 AM when you make your way back to the lockers to retrieve your things. You let your braid down and comb through it with your fingers where the curls are a little wild. The weight of your bag when you throw it over your stiff shoulders is enough to make you want to leave it here, but you won’t risk it being rifled through, so you just close your locker and head for the doors. 

You're stopped by Javadi on your way out who asks about one of your previous patients in North three, then by Santos, who starts to rant about her Mom before promptly walking off, leaving you very confused. You barely make it past The Hub when Dennis walks straight into you, dropping a bunch of papers on the ground. 

“What’s all this?” You ask, bending down to help him pick them up.

He starts to ramble on about applications for internships and match day and you're really trying to listen, but your eyes catch on Abbot who’s stood by the ambulance bay doors with a day shift nurse you don't recognize. He’s leaning casually against the wall: camo print bag slung over his shoulders, sweater zipped up to his waist and smiling lightly as the woman’s hands fly around in front of her. He laughs and she smiles even brighter, ever so slightly closing what was a respectful distance between the two of them. An ugly feeling stirs and your stomach, and you can't quite place why. He’s your boss, chatting with a co-worker, it doesn't mean anything. And even if it did, it’s none of your business anyway.  

You shake it off, tuning back into Whitaker's rambling as you rise to hand him back his loose papers. He takes them from you, eyes darting around the ED like he’s got a hundred other thoughts running in the back of his mind as he speaks. At least you aren't the only one.

“Hey, Whitaker.” You cut him off, and his mouth snaps shut. “You are going to be a great doctor. And whatever hospital you end up at for your residency will be lucky to have you.” 

He straightens a little, shoulders squaring like your words have actually done something for his confidence. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” you smile, patting his shoulder as you pass by. 

You walk towards the ambulance bay doors where Abbot still leans against the wall as the woman offers a goodbye. She passes you with a smile and you muster your own.

“Thought you left already?” You remark when you reach him. 

“I had some stuff to finish up.” He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside you as you both wind your way between paramedics and patients on gurneys, out into the light of the day. It’s a relatively nice one, if a little windy. The temperature is cool but you know by mid-day it will be warm again. 

“Are you getting up to anything today?” He asks, while you adjust your bag on your shoulders as the two of you set off down the street. “Other than sleeping, of course.” 

You shake your head. “Nothing, short of an alien-invasion, will get me out of bed after that shift.” 

“Well, at least if aliens abduct you you won't have to come into work.” 

“Best thing you’ve said all night.” 

He huffs a laugh as you turn down the next block. The morning traffic is starting to pick up— cars flowing by in steady streams, the sidewalks beginning to fill with people. The hospital fades behind you with every step.

He talks about his week; patients you hadn't known he’d seen, stories that have you clutching your chest in laughter. You tell him about panicky medical students; the continued saga of your weird neighbours, and what you’ll have to eat when you make it home. It’s light, easy. The only conversation you’d be able to hold in the state you're in. 

Up ahead, the street splits and a familiar corner where you go your separate ways comes into view. 

He slows when he reaches it, before stopping completely. You turn your back to your path home, watching as he fixes his bag on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to walk you the rest of the way?” He offers, like he usually does. Sometimes you’ll say yes, not quite ready to be alone yet. Sometimes, you’ll say no, needing to be as far away from anything that reminds you of work as possible or because he looks so worn out that you’re worried he might not make it back to his place. Sometimes, you don’t get a choice.

“I’m good,” you say, “go get some sleep.” 

“Alright,” he concedes, raising his hand in goodbye, “you too.”

You linger longer than you mean to, until he passes behind a delivery truck and out of sight.