Untitled

The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.

Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.

You wake slowly.

Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.

Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.

You smile to yourself.

"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.

A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.

"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.

You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.

Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.

You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.

"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.

One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"

"Your point being?"

"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."

"Oh?"

"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."

Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.

Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."

He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."

You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.

By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.

You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.

When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.

The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.

You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.

Jace had noticed.

Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.

"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.

"Why can't you believe it?"

"You drew me a map."

"It was an excellent map."

"It had little dragons."

"So you wouldn't get bored."

You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."

"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.

In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.

A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.

The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."

You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.

Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.

Not even for a moment.

"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."

"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."

Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.

Jace exhales through his nose.

"There he is."

You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.

The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.

Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.

Toward this very window.

You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."

Jace joins you at the window. "No."

He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."

As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.

You blink. "Surely not."

Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.

It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.

"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."

You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"

"He is stealing my wife."

As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.

Jace stares. "You see?"

"He wants attention."

"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."

You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.

You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.

The dragon has stood and started following.

"Vermax."

He stops, tilting his head.

"You can't come into the castle."

It doesn't stop there.

If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.

If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.

The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.

You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.

One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.

Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.

You don't even look up.

"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.

He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.

And there he remains.

When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.

"You've got to be joking."

"What?"

He points.

Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.

You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.

Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.

He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.

A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.

You escape the hall as politely as you can.

"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.

His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."

"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."

The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.

You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.

A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.

"You again?" you laugh.

His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.

You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."

You continue scratching him anyway.

The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."

You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.

"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."

"You are very kind, my lord."

He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."

You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."

The lord laughs and takes a step closer.

Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.

His smile falters.

Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.

The rumble deepens.

"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.

The sound stops.

You blink.

"…That was odd."

The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."

You think little of it.

Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.

If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.

If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.

A fortnight passes.

The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.

If anything, he grows bolder.

By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.

"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.

You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.

You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."

That afternoon, the weather is fair.

Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.

Or appears to.

His eyes are closed.

One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.

Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.

Vermax's eyes snap open.

The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.

Jace freezes.

For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.

The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.

"...Vermax."

The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.

You blink. "What on earth was that?"

Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.

"I've never..." he murmurs.

"What?"

"He has never stood between us."

By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.

The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.

He bows deeply.

"My prince."

"You've noticed." It is not a question.

The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."

"Then tell me."

Another pause.

"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."

Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.

The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."

"What things?"

"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."

Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"

"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."

"Protective?"

"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.

Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.

"No."

"It is only a possibility."

"No."

"Has the princess been unwell?"

"...No."

"Has she been unusually tired?"

Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.

"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"

Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.

He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."

Three months, almost exactly.

The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."

Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.

"Jace?"

His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.

"What is it?"

He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"

You blink. "...No."

"Not at all?"

"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."

His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"

"I've slept later than usual."

"You've always liked sleeping late."

You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"

You stare at him. "What?"

He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."

Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."

His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."

"They've seen it before."

"Surely they haven't."

"They swear they have."

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."

"And because he stood between us."

"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"

"Yes."

You both fall quiet.

"Oh."

It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.

"I've sent for the maester."

"You've... already?"

"He'll be here shortly."

The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.

When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.

"My prince."

Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.

"So?"

The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."

The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.

The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."

He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.

The door clicks shut.

Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.

"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."

He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."

Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.

"No more riding."

You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.

The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.

Then come the stairs.

"If no one is with you."

"Jace."

"They're uneven."

"They have been uneven for a hundred years."

He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.

By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.

Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.

"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"

"I am aware, yes."

"They don't all require an escort to the library."

"I don't care, because you will have one.

Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.

Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.

The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.

At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.

You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.

"There you are."

"I've been looking everywhere."

"I was comfortable."

"I can see that."

By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.

"I cannot reach my boots."

Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."

"I was smaller yesterday."

He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.

"This child is already causing problems."

"Our child," Jace corrects.

"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."

A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.

"Oh, don't you dare."

"You said you couldn't reach."

"I did not ask you to-"

"You were about to."

He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.

"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."

"I know."

"So why do you?"

He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."

A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.

Not roaring; pacing.

The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.

You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."

Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"

Another rumble.

Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.

Jace sits up. "...That's odd."

For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.

The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.

Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."

You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The courtyard is in chaos.

Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.

One keeper catches sight of Jace.

"My prince."

"What happened?"

"We don't know."

Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.

Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.

You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."

The feeling passes as quickly as it came.

Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.

You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"

He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.

Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.

Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"

"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."

Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."

For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.

Then his eyes widen.

"No."

"I think so."

As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.

"The maester."

His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.

"Someone fetch the maester!"

Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.

He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.

His head remains lifted toward the tower.

After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.

Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.

Jace is here.

He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.

“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.

You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.

“He's beautiful,” he says finally.

You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.

“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“You thought it would feel like what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

“Louder,” he admits.

You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”

He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.

You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”

“Alright, I need to hold him.”

You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.

He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.

Then, barely audible, “I can't believe he’s mine.”

You smile faintly. “Yes.”

Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”

“That’s probably just you projecting.”

Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.

“Oh.”

Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.

“I should-” he starts.

You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”

He’s already standing. “I should show him.”

You blink at him. “Jace.”

But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.

“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”

“I’ll be quick.”

So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.

By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.

The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.

Then Jace steps into the open.

Vermax’s head lowers immediately.

Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.

“This is my son.”

Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.

For a long moment, he does nothing.

Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.

The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.

Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”

The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.

Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.

“Say hello,” he whispers.

Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.

Jack's POV

The radio became the centre of the hospital. Not officially.

Officially, the command point was the centre. Lena's roster. McKay's board. Police at the perimeter. Security holding the east hall. Garcia with the OR team on the phone. Anesthesia with airway equipment ready. Robby standing at Jack's shoulder like a human restraint with a medical degree. But Jack knew better.

The radio was the centre. Ugly black plastic on the rolling cart. One scuffed corner. Dust caught in the speaker grille. A red light that blinked whenever someone on the other end pressed to talk.

That little red light had become his entire world. Vale's voice came through cleanly. "Vale to command."

Lena picked up immediately. "Command." "I have preliminary stabilization," Vale said. "Preparing controlled extraction and handoff. Medical standby."

Jack went still. Extraction. Handoff.

Beside him, Robby's breathing changed. Garcia lowered her phone from her ear. McKay turned from the whiteboard.

The command point quieted in one terrible ripple. Then Vale continued.

"Nurse remains alert. Hand position unchanged. I am going to guide pressure release and angle. Due to position, she will have to draw the component out and hand it to me. Patient will need immediate medical entry once I call safe enough for movement." The words were clinical.

Clean. Controlled. They hit Jack like a body blow.

She had to pull it out. Not Vale. Her.

Her hand. Her fingers. Her fear. Her body fighting every instinct to flinch, to jerk away, to survive. Jack's hand moved toward the radio before he decided to reach for it.

Lena saw. So did Robby. Neither stopped him.

Maybe they knew he would not survive the next part without saying something. Maybe they knew she wouldn't either.

Jack pressed the button. "Abbott." His own voice sounded wrong.

Too flat. Too calm. Like a man trying to pass for himself.

Vale answered, "Dr. Abbott, I need you to listen. Do not interrupt unless I ask for medical input." Every instinct in Jack rejected that.

He forced himself to answer anyway. "Understood." The word tasted like blood.

Vale said, "Nurse remains alert. Hand position unchanged. I am going to guide pressure release and angle. Due to position, she will draw the component out and hand it to me. Patient will need immediate medical entry once I call safe enough for movement." Garcia stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Tell him we're ready."

Jack pressed the button. "Garcia and anesthesia are ready." "Good," Vale said. Then silence.

Short. Not empty. Jack stared at the radio.

He should stop. He knew that.

He should let Vale have her. Let Vale keep the room narrow. Let Vale's voice be the only thing inside her head because she had already told Jack the truth. I can't think about you. I have to think about my hand.

He knew. He knew. Still, his thumb stayed near the button.

"Can she hear me?" There was the smallest pause. Then Vale said, "Yes."

The command point seemed to vanish. No patients. No police.

No command board. No Robby. No Lena.

Only the radio. Only the idea of her on the other side of it, standing in Trauma One with her hand inside a wound and a bomb component under her palm.

Jack pressed the button again. "Don't listen to me right now," he said. His voice nearly broke.

He caught it. Barely. "Listen to Vale. That's your job."

Robby's hand closed briefly around his shoulder. Jack kept his eyes on the radio. He could see her too clearly.

Protective glasses. Blood on her glove. Her mouth trembling. Her eyes trying not to search for him. "You can do this," Jack said.

Then he let go. Not because there was nothing else. Because there was too much.

Because her name was behind his teeth. Because I love you was behind that.

Because if he gave her either one, he was afraid she would turn toward it. Toward him.

Toward the thing she had told him she could not think about. So he let go of the button. And the radio went quiet.

No one moved. At the command point, the entire department seemed to wait with him.

The ED had been pushed out and held in pockets around the hospital, but it still breathed. Jack heard an oxygen tank hiss somewhere in the east hall. A child murmured something to Princess. Perlah's pen scratched once against the roster, then stopped. Someone's phone buzzed and was silenced immediately. The waiting was obscene.

Medicine hated waiting. Medicine did things. Cut. Pushed blood. Bagged air into lungs. Started lines. Called labs. Compressed chests. Ran toward noise.

This was nothing. This was standing outside the blast radius while she pulled a device out of a man's body one impossible fraction at a time.

Jack's hands gripped the edge of the cart. He imagined the count. Couldn't stop.

One. Two. Three.

Pressure release. Stop. Hold.

No shift. Again. One.

Two. Three.

He knew what Vale would be doing. Guiding her in pieces. Keeping her from anticipating. Keeping her body from turning fear into movement. He knew what she would be doing.

Obeying. Crying, maybe. Making some impossible dry comment because she was terrified and stubborn and still herself.

He shut his eyes. Bad idea. In the dark, memory opened its mouth.

Dust. A flash. A corridor that used to be there.

The sound after. Not the explosion itself. The sound after was worse.

He opened his eyes. Robby was watching him. "Stay here," Robby said quietly.

Jack's mouth twisted. "I'm not moving." "You're somewhere else." Jack looked back at the radio. "Not enough."

Robby did not answer. Smart. The radio crackled.

Everyone in the command point snapped toward it. A bomb squad voice. Not Vale. "Secondary to Vale. Confirm status."

Silence. Jack's grip tightened. Lena reached for the radio, but did not speak yet.

Static. Then again. "Vale, confirm."

No answer. Garcia whispered, "He may have his hands full." Jack knew that.

That was exactly why the silence was wrong. If Vale had both hands full, that meant the object was out. Or almost out.

Or in the handoff. Or— No.

He stopped the thought before it could finish. The radio hissed.

Then Lena pressed the button. "Command to Trauma One. Status?" Nothing. Jack's chest tightened.

"Trauma One, status?" Lena repeated. Static. Jack could hear his own pulse now.

Robby moved closer. Not touching him. Ready.

Jack hated that he noticed. Another voice came through, low and urgent in the background. "Vale, confirm."

Still nothing. Jack reached for the radio. Lena's hand moved as if to stop him.

Then didn't. He took it. "Vale," Jack said.

Static. "Vale, respond." Nothing.

His voice sharpened. "Is she clear?" Robby inhaled beside him. No answer.

The silence after the question was worse than any answer could have been. Jack's thumb pressed harder against the radio.

He almost said her name. Almost. It sat behind his teeth with everything else he could not give her right now.

Her name. I love you. Come back.

All of it too big for the static, too dangerous for a room where Vale had told her not to think about him. So he swallowed it.

His voice came through rough instead. "Is she clear?" No answer.

Then, faintly, through the open channel, he heard Vale's voice. Not to command. Not to them.

Farther away. "Stay where you are." Jack stopped breathing.

She answered. He heard it. Barely.

Small and distorted. "Vale—" Jack's heart split.

Vale's voice again. "Do not follow me. Do not move toward the door. Medical will come when the route is clear."

Jack's eyes lifted from the radio to the blocked corridor. Vale was moving. He had it.

He was carrying it out. That was why he wasn't answering. The command point understood at the same time Jack did.

Lena's face went pale. Garcia's hand tightened around the strap of the trauma bag. Robby stepped closer.

"Jack," he said. Jack didn't look at him. The radio murmured again, voices overlapping.

"Vale, confirm status." "Hold perimeter." "Command standing by."

No response. No her. No Vale.

Only static. Then the world went white. The blast hit before the sound did.

A hard, invisible shove rolled through the evacuated ED, punching the air from the command point. The floor kicked beneath Jack's feet. Lights flashed white-hot, then red under the fire alarm strobes. The rolling cart slammed sideways. The radio screamed with feedback and cut out. Clipboards flew. The whiteboard hit the floor with a crack. Sound arrived wrong.

Huge and delayed. A pressure-wave roar that rattled through Jack's teeth and into bone. Someone shouted.

Someone fell. An oxygen tank clanged against the wall. Jack was already moving.

He did not decide. One second he was at the command cart. The next, he was running toward the trauma corridor.

Robby caught him from the side before he made it more than three steps. They crashed into the edge of a portable monitor cart, hard enough to send leads and tubing skidding across the floor.

"Get off me," Jack snarled. "No." Robby held him with both arms now, not pretending it was gentle.

Jack shoved against him. "Move." "No." "She's in there."

"I know." "Robby, move." "No!"

The word cracked through the command point. For half a second, Jack froze. Not because Robby was stronger.

Because Robby sounded scared. Really scared. Then smoke rolled faintly from the direction of Trauma One.

Grey under the red strobe lights. A thin, ugly line of it curling down the corridor. Jack saw it.

Everything inside him went quiet. Not calm. Quiet.

The way the world went quiet right before a body chose violence. Robby must have felt the change because his grip tightened. "Jack."

Jack looked at him. Robby's face changed. "Don't," Robby said.

Jack's voice was low and empty. "Let go." "No." "She is in there."

"I know." "No," Jack said. "You don't." Then he wrenched hard.

Robby tried to hold him. He really did.

But Jack had leverage, panic, and the kind of strength that came from a place bodies were not supposed to access unless something was burning. He twisted out of Robby's grip, shoulder slamming into the side of the cart, barely feeling it.

Lena stepped in front of him. "Jack!" He sidestepped her.

She grabbed for his sleeve and caught fabric for half a second before he pulled free. "Abbott!" Garcia shouted. "We don't know if there's a secondary!"

Jack did not stop. Could not. Would not.

There was nothing between him and Trauma One now except distance, smoke, alarms, and people yelling his name like that had ever been enough to bring him back from a room he needed to reach. A police officer moved into the corridor with one hand up.

"Sir, you can't—" Jack shoved past him. Not hard enough to put him down.

Hard enough to get through. The officer shouted something behind him. Robby shouted too.

Then footsteps followed. Jack didn't look back. The trauma corridor was a different world.

Smoke hung low, thickening near the floor. Sprinklers spat unevenly from one section of ceiling but not another. The lights strobed red and white through dust. Glass glittered across the tile in tiny, vicious pieces. A ceiling panel had dropped near the medication room, wires dangling like torn veins. Jack ran anyway.

His prosthetic hit debris and adjusted badly for half a step. He caught himself against the wall, palm skidding over soot and plaster, and kept going.

Pain snapped through his hip. He ignored it. The air smelled wrong.

Burned metal. Dust. Blood.

Electrical fire. Memory tried to open. He slammed it shut.

Not now. Not her. Not her.

Farther down the corridor, figures moved around the blast point. Bomb squad. Police. Someone on the floor near the wall. Vale.

Jack saw dark gear, a shield angled low, someone kneeling beside the containment case. He did not stop. Could not stop.

Vale had taken the component out. Vale had carried it away from Trauma One. Vale had bought her distance.

Not enough. Maybe enough. Jack grabbed that thought like a pulse.

Maybe enough. The trauma bay door hung crooked in its frame. Half-open.

Blown inward. The glass beside it had spiderwebbed and shattered in places, leaving jagged teeth around the window frame. Smoke drifted from inside Trauma One in slow grey sheets.

Jack hit the door with his shoulder and forced it open. "Hey!"

The word tore out of him, rough and useless against the alarms. Then he saw her.

Thrown back from the bed, half on her side near the base of the wall, protective blanket twisted around one leg, vest shifted crooked across her torso. Her glasses were cracked. Her hair was dusted with plaster and tiny shards of safety glass. Blood marked her cheek, her temple, her arm. Still.

Too still. Jack crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside her hard enough that pain shot up his leg.

He did not feel it properly. "Baby." The word came out before he could stop it.

Not nurse. Not colleague. Not careful.

Baby. Raw. Terrified.

Already too late to take back. His hand hovered near her face for half a second before training dragged it where it needed to go.

"Hey, baby," he said, voice wrecked and low now. "Stay with me." She did not answer. His hands went where they had to.

Airway first. Always airway.

He checked her mouth, her breathing, her neck position with hands that wanted to shake and did not dare. Breathing.

She was breathing. Shallow. Ragged.

But breathing. "Breathing," he said, because he needed the room to know. Because he needed himself to know.

"Unconscious, breathing." Footsteps hit the doorway behind him. Robby.

Of course Robby. "Jack!" "She's breathing," Jack snapped. "Get suction. I need a collar, monitor, trauma bag, now."

Robby didn't argue. Thank God. He moved.

Garcia appeared behind him with anesthesia and Shen, all of them crossing the threshold now because Jack had already broken the seal and no one was going to pretend command still mattered more than bodies on the floor. Garcia went straight to Mr. Mercer.

"Patient still has a pulse," she called. "Airway compromised." Anesthesia moved to the head of the bed. "I've got him."

Shen grabbed the portable monitor from the doorway. Robby dropped beside Jack with the trauma bag. "Talk to me."

Jack's fingers went to her pulse. Carotid. Present.

Too fast. "Pulse present. Respirations shallow. Blast exposure. Possible head injury. Possible barotrauma. Lacerations. Right arm exposed. Need C-spine. Need oxygen. Check pupils."

Robby already had the penlight out. Jack almost laughed. Hysterical.

Wrong. No. Not now.

Robby leaned over her, careful and quick. "Pupils equal. Sluggish but equal." Jack exhaled once. Not relief.

Not yet. "Collar." Robby handed it to him.

Jack fitted it with hands that were too controlled to belong to someone who loved her. Her face was pale beneath dust and blood.

Too pale. He leaned close enough that only she could hear him, if anything in her could hear him at all.

"You do not get to do this," he said. His voice nearly broke on the last word. Robby's eyes flicked up.

Jack ignored him. "You hear me?" Jack said, low and furious and terrified. "You do not get to make me leave, pull a bomb out of a man's body, and then check out before I can yell at you."

She did not move. The fire alarm strobed across her face. Red.

White. Red. White.

Jack pressed oxygen over her mouth and nose. "Come on," he said. "Breathe." She did.

Barely. Enough. He looked at Robby. "Get her out."

Robby nodded. "Stretcher." "Now." "Already coming."

Princess appeared at the door with a stretcher, face streaked with tears and soot, jaw locked like she had decided crying could happen while working or not at all. "Where?" she asked.

Jack's voice snapped into place. "Here. Lock it. Slow roll. Watch the glass." She moved instantly.

Lena appeared behind her, breathing hard, face pale with rage and fear. Her eyes found Jack on the floor beside the woman he had just called baby in front of half the department. For half a second, she looked like she might tear him apart.

Then she looked down. And everything else waited. "Tell me what you need," Lena said.

Jack swallowed. The answer was too big. Too much.

He wanted time. He wanted the blast undone. He wanted the corridor back.

He wanted her eyes open. Instead he said, "Oxygen. Monitor. Trauma bay outside the perimeter. CT when stable. ENT later if hearing deficit. Burns check. Full trauma workup."

Lena nodded once. Done. No argument.

Robby's hand touched Jack's shoulder briefly. "We need to move her." Jack looked down.

Her right hand was still curled against the floor. Empty. Free.

Shaking faintly now, though maybe that was his imagination. He reached for it before he could stop himself. Not to hold.

Not exactly. Just to check. Pulse.

Perfusion. Movement.

Anything clinical enough to excuse the fact that his fingers closed around hers for one second too long. Her skin was cold through the glove.

But her pulse was there. There. There.

There. Jack bowed his head over her hand for half a breath. Then he let go.

"On my count," he said. Robby moved to her shoulders. Princess took the stretcher position.

Lena cleared debris with her shoe. Jack slid one hand beneath her arm, careful of the lacerations, careful of everything, careful in the way he had not been careful with himself since the blast.

"One," he said. His voice held. "Two."

Robby looked at him. Jack did not look back. "Three."

They lifted her. They got her onto the stretcher. That should have been simple.

It wasn't. Nothing was simple in a room after a blast.

There was glass everywhere. Under the stretcher wheels. In the folds of the protective blanket. Glittering across the floor like the trauma bay had broken into pieces too small to matter and too sharp to ignore. Smoke drifted in low, stubborn layers, catching in the red-white flash of the alarms. Somewhere overhead, the sprinklers sputtered uselessly against a section of ceiling that wasn't burning. Jack kept one hand at her shoulder and the other at the oxygen mask.

"Slow," he said. Princess locked the stretcher into position. Her hands were steady. Her face wasn't.

Robby took the head. "I've got C-spine." "I have airway," Jack said. "I know."

"Then don't shift her." "I'm not shifting her." "Her neck—"

"I know, Jack." The edge in Robby's voice got through. Barely.

Jack looked at him. Robby's face was pale beneath the soot, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped near his ear. He wasn't fighting Jack now. He wasn't trying to hold him back. He was in the room, hands on her, doing the work.

Jack forced himself to nod once. "On three," Robby said. Jack hated not being the one to count.

He hated that he noticed. "One. Two. Three." They transferred her.

Carefully. Too carefully.

Her body moved as one unit between them, collar in place, oxygen pressed to her face, blood and dust and glass and protective gear all tangled around her. Her right hand slipped toward the side of the stretcher as they settled her. Jack caught it before it dropped.

Not because he needed to. Because he couldn't not.

Her glove was slick with Mr. Mercer's blood. The fingers curled weakly, not with intention. Reflex, maybe. Residual tension. Shock. Her hand had held a bomb inside a man's body and then come out empty. Free.

He had seen that first. He would probably see it first for the rest of his life. "Jack," Robby said quietly.

Jack let go of her hand. Immediately. Too immediately.

He tucked the blanket around her right arm instead, clinical enough. Useful enough. An excuse with a shape. "Monitor," Jack said.

Shen was already attaching leads, his expression locked down in the particular way doctors looked when they were scared and had decided professionalism was cheaper than falling apart. "Leads going on," Shen said. "Pulse ox next."

"Careful with the right arm," Jack said. "I heard you the first time." "I didn't say it the first time."

"You thought it loudly." Under any other circumstances, Jack might have answered. He didn't.

The monitor crackled to life on the portable screen. Heart rate fast. Too fast.

Oxygen saturation climbing with supplemental oxygen but not where he wanted it. Blood pressure low-normal, maybe from shock, maybe pain, maybe blast, maybe blood loss from lacerations he had not fully assessed yet.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Not stable. But alive.

"Pulse one-twenty-eight," Shen said. "Sat ninety-four on oxygen. Pressure ninety-eight over sixty." Jack's breath left him through his nose.

Not relief. Data. He could use data.

"GCS?" Robby asked. Jack leaned over her. "Hey. Can you hear me?" Nothing.

Her lashes didn't move. The oxygen mask fogged faintly with each shallow breath. Jack's throat tightened.

He pushed it down. "Pain response?" Robby's eyes flicked to him. "Jack."

"I need a GCS." "I know." "Then assess."

Robby held his gaze for one second too long. Then he nodded and applied a careful trapezius pinch. Her face tightened.

Not much. Enough. Jack's heart kicked.

"She's responding to pain," Robby said. "Localizing?" "Withdraws. Not localizing."

"GCS eight-ish," Shen said quietly. Jack's jaw clenched. Robby said, "We need CT."

"We need to secure airway if she doesn't wake up." "She's protecting enough for now." "For now is not a plan."

"No," Robby said. "It's a status." Garcia's voice cut across the room from the bed. "Mercer needs to move."

Jack looked up for the first time since they lifted her. Mr. Mercer was still on the trauma bed, surrounded by Garcia, anesthesia, and two nurses who had come in after the blast like the world had remembered it was a hospital. His airway tubing had been corrected. Blood was running again. The bed sheet was soaked around his flank now that her hand was no longer there to hold the bleeding back.

Garcia had one hand pressed hard into his side, using pressure and packing and fury to buy her own version of time. "OR route?" Jack asked.

Lena answered from the doorway. "Cleared as of thirty seconds ago. Bomb squad says no secondary in trauma corridor." Jack's eyes flicked toward the hall.

He saw movement through the wrecked doorway. Bomb squad gear. A shield on the floor. Someone kneeling. Someone else standing too still beside the blast mark. The containment case was twisted open near the far wall.

Vale was on the floor beside it. Jack knew before anyone said it.

There was a stillness to some bodies after disaster that medicine could not argue with. Not really. Not without lying to itself. He had seen it before.

Too many times. His throat tightened once. Then locked.

"Status on Vale?" he asked anyway. Lena's face changed. Not much.

Enough. "Jack." He looked at her.

She swallowed. "Vale's gone." The words moved through the room differently than the alarms.

For half a second, nobody spoke. Even Garcia's hands seemed to pause against Mr. Mercer's wound.

Vale had carried the component out. Vale had taken it farther from the room. Farther from her.

Not far enough for himself. Enough for everyone else. Jack looked toward the corridor again.

At the blast mark. At the place where Sergeant Vale had made the last useful choice of his life.

Something cold and heavy settled behind Jack's ribs. There was no room for it. Not now.

Not while she was on the stretcher. Not while Mr. Mercer was bleeding.

Not while Vale's last order was still working its way through the room. Medical will come when the route is clear.

The route was clear because Vale had made it clear. Jack forced air into his lungs. One breath.

Then another. "Okay," he said. Robby looked at him sharply.

Jack did not look back. If he looked at Robby, he would lose a second he did not have.

"Mercer goes to OR," Jack said, voice flat with effort. "She goes to resus outside perimeter. Full blast workup. CT when stable. ENT after. We move now." Lena held his gaze for one second.

Then nodded. No sympathy. No speech.

Just the kind of respect that understood grief could wait because bodies could not. Garcia's voice came, lower now. "Mercer goes first?"

It was not really a question. Jack looked down at the woman on the stretcher. Unconscious.

Breathing. His entire body rejected the idea of not moving her first.

His brain answered before his grief could interfere. "Mercer is actively hemorrhaging and has a surgical source," Jack said. "He goes to OR. She goes to resus outside perimeter, then CT when airway is secure and vitals permit."

Robby watched him. Jack felt it. "Say something," Jack snapped.

Robby shook his head. "No. That was right." That should have helped. It didn't.

Garcia nodded. "Taking him." Anesthesia moved with her, bagging Mr. Mercer as they unlocked the bed. "OR now."

Princess looked torn for half a second, eyes darting between the bed and the stretcher. Jack saw.

"Go with Garcia," he said. Princess's mouth parted. "She'll need hands," Jack said. "We have enough here."

Princess swallowed. Then nodded and moved with the bed. Garcia looked back once from the doorway. "Abbott."

Jack lifted his eyes. "She got him there," Garcia said. The words hit in a place he could not afford.

Mr. Mercer's bed rolled out. Garcia followed. Anesthesia followed.

Princess followed. Blood dripped from the side of the mattress onto the trauma bay floor as they disappeared into the wrecked corridor.

Jack looked back down. She got him there. Yes.

She had. And now she was on a stretcher under his hands, unconscious, face pale beneath soot and blood.

"Move," Lena said. Jack looked up.

She had cleared a path through the debris, one shoe covered in dust, her face still bleeding from the thin cut across her cheek. Behind her, McKay had commandeered the outer resus bay beyond the perimeter. Staff waited there with oxygen, suction, a monitor, blankets, IV supplies, and the particular silent horror of people watching one of their own come through broken. Jack nodded.

"Slow roll," he said. "Watch the right side." Robby took the head. Shen took the monitor.

Jack stayed at her left, one hand on the stretcher rail, one hand near the oxygen mask. Lena led them out.

The hallway was worse than the room. The blast had made the trauma corridor unfamiliar. The walls were blackened in a rough bloom near the detonation point. Ceiling tiles hung at strange angles. Water and dust made paste underfoot. Glass crunched beneath stretcher wheels no matter how carefully anyone had tried to clear a route.

Jack saw Vale as they passed. He didn't mean to. He couldn't not.

Sergeant Vale lay near the blast point, one arm thrown out beside the broken containment case, dark gear torn open by force and fire. His helmet had rolled several feet away. Two members of his team were crouched near him, but neither of them was moving with urgency anymore. That was how Jack knew.

No compressions. No airway. No shouted orders.

Just one bomb squad tech kneeling beside him with a hand pressed to his own helmet, head bowed like he had forgotten the department was still burning around them. Vale had been alive when he told her to stay standing.

Alive when he carried the case out. Alive when he put distance between the device and the woman Jack loved.

And then he wasn't. Jack's steps faltered. Only for half a second.

Robby noticed immediately. "Keep moving." Jack did. But his eyes stayed on Vale until the smoke swallowed him.

There would be time later to feel the shape of that debt. Maybe. For now, there was her breathing under the oxygen mask.

There was her pulse. There was the stretcher. There was work.

So Jack kept moving. At the inner line, staff parted. No one spoke.

That was worse. The night shift crew, the evacuated patients' nurses, police, security, command — all of them watched the stretcher pass with the same expression, like the building had exhaled one of its own and no one knew how badly she was hurt yet.

Jack hated their eyes on her. He wanted to cover her. He wanted to tell them to look away.

He wanted to tell them she had done what none of them could have done and deserved more than their fear. Instead he said, "Move."

People moved. The outer resus bay had been made out of an ordinary treatment area by force of will and panic. Supplies stacked on every surface. Portable suction. Monitor. Airway cart. Warm blankets. Two nurses waiting with IV kits. McKay at the foot of the bed, sleeves pushed up, eyes sharp.

"Transfer on your count," McKay said. Jack nodded. Robby looked at him. "You want me to—"

"I've got it." Robby didn't argue. Smart.

Jack leaned over her. "Hey," he said, low. "We're moving you again." She did not answer.

He pretended that didn't hurt. "One. Two. Three." They moved her from the stretcher to the resus bed.

Her head stayed aligned. Her airway stayed open. Her oxygen stayed on.

Her body stayed too still. Jack straightened and immediately started cutting away the protective vest where it was safe to remove. His scissors slid through straps, fabric, tape. The gear had protected some of her. Not all. Her right sleeve was dark with blood that was not only Mr. Mercer's. Small cuts peppered her forearm. A deeper laceration crossed near her elbow, sluggishly bleeding.

"Right arm lac," Jack said. "Control bleeding. Check distal pulse." One of the nurses moved in.

Jack's hand almost stopped her. Almost. He let her work.

Barely. "Radial pulse present," she said. "Weak but present." "Sensation impossible to assess," Shen said.

"Motor impossible until she wakes," Robby added. Jack hated both statements for being true.

McKay shone a light again. "Pupils still equal. Sluggish." "Head CT," Jack said.

"Once airway decision is made," Robby said. Jack looked at him.

Robby held up both hands slightly. "I'm agreeing with you. Badly, apparently." Jack looked back down. "She needs trauma scan. Head, C-spine, chest, abdomen. Blast exposure. Possible lung contusion, tympanic injury, concussion, internal injury from impact."

"Portable chest now," McKay said. "CT when stable." "FAST?" Shen asked. "Do it," Jack said.

A probe appeared. Gel. Hands.

Too many hands. Necessary hands.

Jack stepped back half a foot because if he didn't, he would block care. The move felt like tearing skin from bone. Robby noticed.

Of course he noticed. "Good," Robby said quietly. Jack shot him a look. "Do not praise me like a dog."

"Then stop looking like one who wants to bite the ultrasound tech." The tech froze.

Jack exhaled sharply. "Keep scanning." The tech kept scanning.

Lena appeared at the doorway. "Mercer is in OR. East hall patients are stable. No deaths reported from evacuation." No deaths.

The words moved through the room. Lena's eyes went to the woman on the bed. Then, for half a second, beyond the room.

Toward the corridor. Toward the blast mark. Toward Vale.

"No patient deaths," she amended quietly. Jack looked at her. She didn't flinch.

Good. He needed people who wouldn't flinch. The ultrasound tech said, "FAST negative."

"Good," Robby said. "Chest?" McKay asked. "Breath sounds," Jack said.

Robby was already listening on the left. McKay took the right. "Present bilaterally," Robby said. "Diminished at bases but present."

"No tension signs," McKay added. "Oxygen?" Jack asked. "Ninety-six now," Shen said. "Respiratory rate twenty-eight."

Jack watched the rise and fall of her chest. Too fast. But there.

There. There. Her eyelids fluttered.

The room paused. Jack saw it first. Of course he did.

"Hey," he said, moving back in before anyone could stop him. "Can you hear me?" Her eyes did not open fully.

Just a flicker. A struggle under the weight of blast and pain and whatever darkness she had been thrown into.

"Hey," Jack said again, softer. "You're in resus. You're safe." The word safe felt obscene after what had happened.

He said it anyway because she needed a word and that was the one he wanted to make true. Her lips parted.

No sound came out. Robby leaned closer. "Don't try to talk." She tried anyway.

Of course she did. Jack's hand found the bed rail. White knuckles.

Her eyes opened a fraction. Unfocused. Glassier than they should have been.

They moved past McKay. Past Robby. Past the ceiling lights.

Trying to orient. Trying to find. Jack stepped into her line of sight.

"I'm here," he said. Her gaze caught on him. Barely.

But it caught. Her mouth moved again. He leaned in.

"What?" Her brows drew together. She looked frightened.

Not confused-frightened. Wrong-frightened. Her eyes moved to his mouth as he spoke.

Not his eyes. His mouth. Jack's stomach dropped.

"Can you hear me?" he asked. Her eyes stayed on his lips. No answer.

He said it again, louder. "Can you hear me?" Nothing.

Not recognition of the sound. Not flinch. Not even the tiny wince people gave when a room got too loud.

The monitor kept beeping. The fire alarm still flashed somewhere beyond the doors. Staff were speaking around her.

She did not react to any of it. Only to his face. Only to the shape of his mouth.

Robby saw it at the same time Jack did. "Jack," he said quietly. Jack ignored him.

He leaned closer, careful not to crowd her, careful not to shake. He mouthed the words more clearly. Can you hear me?

Her breathing quickened. Her eyes filled with tears. Then she gave the smallest shake of her head.

Barely. Too much. Jack's hand lifted automatically toward her face.

Stopped. C-spine. Injuries.

Boundaries. Everything.

His hand hovered uselessly for half a second before he lowered it to the mattress beside her shoulder. Not touching.

Close enough that she could see. Her eyes followed it. Then found his again.

Jack swallowed. His own voice was useless now.

He spoke anyway because Robby and McKay and everyone else needed to hear the plan. "Acute hearing loss post-blast," he said, and the words tried to cut him open from the inside. "Likely temporary threshold shift or tympanic injury. ENT after stabilization. Keep communication visual. Speak facing her. Slow. No crowding."

Her tears slipped sideways into her hairline. She still couldn't hear him. But she could see his face.

So Jack made it behave. Barely. He leaned into her line of sight again and shaped the words carefully.

You're alive. Her eyes searched his mouth. He repeated it.

You're alive. She blinked. A tear fell.

Then her left hand shifted weakly against the sheet. Not the right. The left.

Looking. Searching. Jack did not make her work for it.

He placed his hand where she could reach. Palm up. A choice.

Her fingers found his. Cold. Weak.

There. He closed his hand around hers gently. Robby looked away.

McKay didn't. Lena stood in the doorway with one hand over her mouth. Jack didn't care.

Let them see. Let the whole damned hospital see. Her fingers tightened by the smallest amount.

Jack leaned closer. His mouth formed the words before he could second-guess them. I'm here.

She stared at him. Then, after a second, her eyes dropped. To his left hand.

To the hand holding hers. Bare. No ring.

Even through shock, even through blast, even through the terrifying quiet she had been trapped inside, she noticed. Of course she noticed.

Her eyes lifted back to his. Jack's chest broke open. Not enough to spill.

Enough to ache. He mouthed the words again. I'm here.

Her face crumpled. Silently. That was the worst part.

The silent crying. No sobs. No broken sounds.

Just tears and shaking breath and her fingers clinging weakly to his because the world had gone muffled and wrong and Jack was the only thing she could read. Robby touched his shoulder.

Gentle. A warning. A reminder.

"CT," Robby said. Jack nodded without looking away from her. He squeezed her hand once.

Then shaped the words carefully, slowly. We have to move you. Her grip tightened.

Panic flashed across her face. Jack shook his head once, small enough not to startle her. I'm coming.

She stared at him. He repeated it. I'm coming with you.

Only then did her hand loosen enough for them to prepare the transfer. Not let go. Not really.

Jack didn't make her.

Readers POV

The world had gone wrong. Not dark anymore. Not entirely.

There were lights above you. White ceiling panels sliding past. Red flashes somewhere beyond them. Shapes moving in and out of your vision. Faces appearing over you, mouths moving, eyes too wide. But the world had gone wrong because it had gone quiet.

Not silent. Not completely. There was a sound, but it wasn't sound the way you knew it.

It was pressure. A high, thin ringing stretched through your skull, endless and sharp, like someone had pressed a tuning fork against bone and forgotten to take it away. Beneath it, everything else arrived muffled and far away.

The stretcher wheels. The monitor. Voices.

Alarms. All of it blurred beneath the ringing. You tried to turn your head.

A hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

Jack. You knew it was him before your eyes found him.

He was walking beside the stretcher, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other holding yours. His face stayed in your line of sight like he had decided the rest of the hospital could move around him if it wanted to. His mouth moved.

You watched it carefully. Too carefully. You caught nothing.

Panic rose so fast it almost took the oxygen from your lungs. Jack saw. Of course he saw.

He leaned closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you could see his lips clearly. Slowly, he shaped the words.

I'm here. Your fingers tightened around his. The ring in your ears screamed.

You could not hear him. But you could read that. You could hold that.

I'm here. You blinked hard. Tears slid sideways into your hair.

Jack's face changed. Pain first. Then control.

Then the version of him that made things smaller. He mouthed it again. I'm here.

You tried to answer. Your throat worked. Nothing came out except a rough breath that you felt more than heard.

Jack's hand closed more securely around yours. Not tight. Never tight.

Just there. Your anchor. Your proof that the blast had not taken everything.

Robby appeared on your other side, walking backward for two steps so you could see his face. He was talking too. You knew because his mouth moved, because his eyebrows lifted with that careful Robby expression that meant he was trying very hard not to scare a patient while being absolutely scared himself. You couldn't hear him either.

Your chest started to hitch. Jack's head turned sharply toward Robby. His mouth moved in profile.

You couldn't make out the words, but you knew the tone. An order.

Robby nodded and stepped slightly out of your direct line of sight. Jack came back in.

He tapped two fingers gently against the mattress beside your shoulder. Your eyes dropped. His left hand.

Bare. No ring. The thought surfaced through the pain and ringing and confusion with strange clarity.

Jack's ring was gone. Not just now. Not because of gloves.

Not because of trauma. His hand looked like it had looked in resus when you first noticed. Bare in a way that felt deliberate. Bare in a way that made something inside your chest ache harder than the rest of you.

Your eyes lifted to his. Jack saw where you had looked. Of course he saw.

For a second, all the doctor left his face. Not enough for the others to catch, maybe. Enough for you.

His thumb moved once over your knuckles. Small. Careful.

Then his mouth formed two words. Not now. You blinked.

He shook his head, barely. Later. There it was again.

Later. Vale's word. Jack's word now.

A place to put everything that would break you if you tried to hold it in this hallway. You swallowed. It hurt.

Everything hurt, actually, but in layers. Your head throbbed dully beneath the ringing. Your right arm burned from shoulder to wrist, a hot, electric ache that made your fingers twitch. Your ribs complained when you breathed too deeply. Your back felt bruised in the shape of the floor. Your cheek stung. Your mouth tasted like smoke and plastic oxygen.

And still, beneath all of it, your hand was free. You remembered that suddenly. Your right hand.

You tried to lift it. Jack caught the movement before it became movement. His eyes sharpened.

He mouthed, Don't. You stared at him. Then down at your right arm.

It was wrapped now. Not fully. Not fixed. Just bandaged enough to control bleeding for transport. Blood had darkened through at the edge near your elbow. Your glove was gone. Your fingers looked pale and wrong against the blanket. But they were there.

Empty. Free. A sob tried to climb out of you.

It turned into a cough. Pain sparked through your ribs. Jack's face tightened.

His mouth moved faster now, too fast for you to catch. He stopped himself. Breathed.

Then shaped the words again. Small breaths. You obeyed because it was Jack.

Because even without sound, his face still worked like an anchor. Small breath. Another.

Your chest hurt less. Not enough. But less.

Jack watched every breath like he had personally negotiated for it. His fingers shifted around yours, thumb pressing once.

Not a squeeze. A count. One.

Then again. Two. Then a third time.

Three. You understood. Of course everything was on three now.

A soundless, broken laugh tried to form behind the oxygen mask. Jack saw the flicker of it. His mouth almost moved.

Almost a smile. Not quite. But enough.

Enough that for one second, through pain and smoke and the screaming silence in your head, you remembered him standing by the nurses' station before all of this. His hand under your bruised wrist. His mouth nearly smiling because neither of you had known how to say what the room was already full of. Your fingers tightened.

Jack leaned closer. There you are. You read it.

Barely. You stared at him. He repeated it, slower.

There you are. Your face crumpled. Because you were there.

You were still there. You had not disappeared inside the blast. You had not stayed in Trauma One. You had not vanished when the world went white.

Jack could see you. That made it real. You moved your lips.

You didn't know what came out. Maybe nothing. Maybe a sound.

Maybe his name. Jack's eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.

He mouthed, Don't talk. You tried again anyway. He gave you a look.

Even now. Even with blood on his jaw and soot on his scrub collar and his eyes cracked wide open with fear, Jack Abbott still managed to look disapproving.

It was so him that another tear slid into your hair. His face softened instantly. Don't scare me, he mouthed.

You stared at him. The words landed too deep. Too close to the thing you had given Vale before the count.

Make sure Jack knows I love him. Your heart lurched. You wondered if Vale had told him.

No. Vale had said you would. Vale had promised later.

Your breathing changed. Jack saw it. His grip steadied around yours.

What? You swallowed. Your throat hurt.

Your eyes flicked around, searching. Faces. Robby.

McKay. Shen. A nurse you couldn't place.

No Vale. Your stomach dropped. You looked back at Jack.

Your mouth formed the name, or tried to. "Vale." You couldn't hear yourself.

Jack's face changed. That was answer enough. Your chest tightened so violently the monitor reacted.

Jack looked toward it, then back at you. He leaned close, mouth forming careful words. Look at me.

No. You tried to shake your head. The collar stopped you.

Pain flashed up your neck. Jack's hand came up, hovering near your cheek, not touching. Don't move.

Your eyes filled. Vale. Vale, who had told you to stay standing.

Vale, who had made you talk about Jack because your breathing changed when you did. Vale, who had refused to deliver your message.

Vale, who had walked out with the bomb in his hands. Jack watched the realization move through you and looked like it hurt him physically not to be able to hide it from you.

His mouth formed the words slowly. He saved you. No.

Your eyes burned. No. Jack held your gaze.

He saved you. That wasn't an answer. It was worse than one.

Your left hand tightened around his so sharply his jaw shifted. Not in pain. In grief.

In understanding. You tried to speak again. Vale's name.

A question. An apology. A denial.

Nothing worked. The ringing swallowed everything you might have said. Jack's face blurred through your tears.

Then he did the thing he had been doing all night, in different rooms, under different lights. He made the world smaller.

He lifted his free hand, held up one finger. Then pointed to you. You.

A second finger. His own chest. Me.

A third finger. The hallway ahead. CT.

You blinked through tears. He repeated it. You. Me. CT.

Then he lowered his hand and mouthed slowly: Vale later. Your breath hitched.

Jack's face tightened like the words cost him. He mouthed them again. Vale later.

Not forgotten. Not ignored. Not gone without witness.

Later. Because if you thought about Vale now, you would drown.

Because if Jack thought about Vale now, maybe he would too. You squeezed his hand once. Weak.

Jack's thumb answered. One. Two.

Three. Small breath. Another.

The lights changed above you. The hallway narrowed. CT.

You knew it from the ceiling, from the cold air, from the way people's bodies arranged themselves around equipment. Hospital geography still existed, even if sound didn't.

That almost helped. Someone touched the stretcher brake. A jolt went through you.

Your body jerked despite yourself. Jack's hand came up immediately, hovering near your face without touching.

His mouth moved. You're okay. No.

No, you were not. Your eyes filled again. Jack read that too.

His jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he mouthed something different. You're safe with me.

That one broke you. Not loudly. Nothing was loud anymore.

But your face crumpled and your fingers dug weakly into his hand, and for one second you were back in Trauma One telling Vale that Jack made you feel safe even with a bomb under your palm. Jack saw it.

Not the memory. The effect of it. His face shifted.

His eyes lowered briefly to your joined hands. Then back. He mouthed, I've got you.

You wanted his voice. The thought was sudden and brutal. You wanted to hear the words.

Not read them. Not guess them. Not catch them off his mouth like scraps.

You wanted Jack's actual voice. The low one that cut through trauma bays. The dry one that corrected your charting jokes. The soft one you had only heard in fragments when no one else was close enough to matter. You wanted it so badly your chest hurt.

Maybe he saw that too. Maybe it was all over your face. Jack leaned closer.

Careful. So careful. His lips touched your forehead.

Not long. Barely a second. A kiss so light it might have been a check for fever if either of you wanted to lie.

But neither of you did. Not now. His mouth moved against your skin.

You couldn't hear the words. But you felt them. A vibration more than sound.

Low. Broken. Real.

You didn't know what he said. Maybe your name. Maybe I'm here.

Maybe something he wasn't ready to let anyone hear. But you felt the shape of it through bone. Your eyes closed.

For one second, the ringing was still there. The pain was still there. The grief was still there.

But Jack's mouth was against your forehead, and his hand was around yours, and the world had narrowed to one point of contact. Then Robby touched Jack's shoulder.

Jack lifted his head. Reluctantly. Furiously.

His eyes never left yours. Robby moved into view again, holding a marker board someone must have grabbed from CT or a nurses' station. His handwriting was fast and ugly.

We need CT pictures. Jack is staying. Don't move. Your eyes flicked over the words. Jack is staying.

You looked back at Jack. He gave the smallest nod. I'm staying.

You believed that. Even with the ringing. Even with Vale gone.

Even with your body feeling like it had been thrown out of itself and then badly reassembled. You believed Jack would stay because he had already run through a blast corridor once and nobody in the world was going to drag him away now.

A CT tech appeared near your feet. Her mouth moved, and Robby immediately shook his head, pointing to the board. She looked stricken.

Then she nodded and wrote beneath his words. We're moving you onto the CT table. It will feel cold. We'll keep your neck still.

You read it twice. Cold. Neck still.

Jack staying. Okay. Maybe okay.

No. Not okay. But possible.

Jack squeezed your hand once. Then mouthed, We have to move you. You tightened your grip.

Panic flashed through you so fast it made the room tilt. He shook his head. I'm right here.

You looked at the CT table. Hard. White.

Narrow. Too much like another place where you would have to be still while something dangerous happened around you. No.

You tried to pull your hand closer. Jack did not let you move far. Not forceful.

Enough to keep the line. His mouth shaped your next instruction. Eyes on me.

Your tears came harder. You were so tired of being brave.

You were so tired of eyes on someone else, hand still, don't move, breathe small, follow the count. Jack seemed to understand that too, because his face broke for half a second.

Then he shifted closer, bringing your joined hands to the edge of the oxygen mask. Not moving it. Not interfering. Just close enough that you could feel him.

He mouthed: Last one. You blinked.

He held your gaze. Last count. A terrible little laugh caught in your throat.

Of course. Everything on three. Jack's mouth almost smiled.

This time, it got closer. Then I'm right there. You stared at him.

He nodded once. Promise. Your eyes dropped again to his left hand.

Bare. No ring. You lifted your fingers weakly and brushed the place where it used to be.

Jack went still. Completely. The hospital moved around you.

Robby. McKay. CT staff.

But Jack stopped. You touched the bare skin with the side of your thumb, the smallest question you could ask without sound.

His breath caught. You saw it. His mouth formed your answer carefully.

Later. You looked at him. No.

Not enough. Jack's eyes shone. He bent closer so there was no chance you would miss the words.

I took it off. Your chest went tight. You knew.

You had known. But seeing him say it, seeing his mouth shape the truth while his hand stayed open in yours, was something else entirely.

Your fingers trembled against his. He swallowed. Then mouthed:

For me. A beat. Then, with his face cracking in a way he couldn't hide from you:

And for you. The room blurred. Your eyes filled so fast you lost him for a second.

Jack's hand tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to bring you back.

Later, he mouthed again. All of it. Later. All of it. Your confession sitting in Vale's hands before the blast.

His bare ring finger. The thing between you that had finally outgrown silence. Later.

You nodded internally. Not with your head. Never with your head.

Jack counted with his fingers where you could see. One. Two.

Three. They moved you. The pain hit hard enough to white out the edges of your vision.

Your back. Your ribs. Your arm.

Your head. You made a sound you couldn't hear.

Jack's hand stayed in yours until the last possible second, then slipped away because the CT table demanded space and positioning and all the cruel logistics of saving a life. Your fingers opened on air.

Panic surged. Jack stepped immediately into your line of sight on the other side of the table. There.

Still there. He lifted his hand, palm toward you. Bare.

Steady. I'm here. You stared at him while they positioned you.

While the collar kept your head still. While the table felt cold beneath you. While someone adjusted your oxygen.

While Robby wrote something else on the board and held it where you could see. Scan first. Then back to Jack.

Back to Jack. You held onto that. The CT tech moved everyone back.

Jack did not want to go. You could see it in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way Robby put a hand on his chest before he even took a step.

Protocol. Radiation. Lines.

Distance. Always distance. Jack leaned into your line of sight one more time.

I'm right outside. Your chest tightened. No.

Your eyes said it because your mouth couldn't. No more outside. No more glass.

No more perimeter. Jack's face tightened. Then he mouthed, slower:

Door stays open. You blinked. He pointed to himself.

Then to the control room window. You'll see me. That was not enough.

It was what there was. You forced your fingers to uncurl from the sheet. Jack waited until he saw you understand.

Then he stepped back. Not far. Never far.

The CT table began to move. You slid into the scanner with the ringing still screaming in your head and Jack visible through the glass.

Not trauma bay glass. Not a perimeter. Just CT glass.

Still too much. But he was there. Bare left hand pressed flat to the window.

You could see it until the machine swallowed your view. The last thing you saw before the scan began was Jack's mouth forming the same words again.

I'm here.

Jacks POV

The scans did not show everything. Jack hated that.

CT was supposed to make things visible. Blood where it shouldn't be. Air where it shouldn't be. Fracture lines. Swelling. Collapse. Damage with a name, a measurement, a plan. But trauma had a way of leaving the worst parts off imaging.

No intracranial bleed. No cervical fracture. No pneumothorax.

No solid organ injury. No obvious spinal injury. Words that should have felt like grace.

Jack listened to McKay read them out from the workstation and felt nothing clean enough to be relief. "Head CT is clear," McKay said. "C-spine clear. Chest, abdomen, pelvis without acute traumatic injury. Contusions, soft tissue trauma, lacerations. Possible mild concussion, definitely blast exposure."

"Definitely," Robby said quietly. Jack stood with his arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wall outside CT, eyes on the glass where she lay too still on the table. The scan was done. The machine had stopped. Staff were moving around her again, careful and gentle, preparing to bring her back out.

Her eyes were open. Fixed toward the control room. Toward him.

Every time he shifted, her gaze followed. He had become a vital sign. He did not know what to do with that.

"ENT?" Jack asked. "On the way," McKay said. "But unless there's obvious rupture, it's going to be monitoring, audiology when she's stable, steroids if they think it's indicated, outpatient follow-up depending on recovery."

Jack's jaw tightened. Depending on recovery. He hated that too.

Robby leaned beside him, lower voice. "She's alive." Jack did not answer. "Jack."

"I heard you." "Did you?" Jack looked at him.

Robby held his gaze, tired and soot-streaked and still there because apparently friendship meant refusing to leave even when the person beside you had become mostly sharp edges. "She's alive," Robby repeated. "That matters."

Jack looked back through the glass. She was watching him.

Her face was pale against the collar and the pillow, oxygen still in place, hair dusted with debris no one had cleaned out yet because there had been more important things. Her right arm was wrapped from wrist to elbow. Her left hand lay open on the sheet like she had only let go because the scanner had demanded it. Jack lifted his bare left hand and pressed it to the glass.

Her eyes dropped to it. Then back to his face. Even from this distance, he saw her swallow.

"Yeah," Jack said, voice rough. "It matters." The CT tech opened the door. "We're bringing her out."

Jack moved before anyone finished speaking. Robby caught his sleeve. Not to stop him.

Just once. A warning. "Slow," Robby said.

Jack looked down at the hand on his sleeve. Then at Robby. "I know."

"Do you?" "No." Robby's mouth twitched without humour. "Appreciate the honesty."

Jack stepped into the room as they unlocked the CT table and transferred her back to the stretcher. Her eyes found him immediately.

Panic flared before he even reached her. He lifted his hand. Palm open.

I'm here. Her breathing hitched, then eased by a fraction.

He moved into her line of sight, keeping his mouth clear, his face steady, his body between her and the busy room without blocking anyone working. "You did good," he said automatically.

Then he remembered. Sound was useless. He swallowed and shaped the words instead.

You did good. Her eyes searched his mouth. A tear slipped sideways.

She tried to speak. Jack shook his head. Don't.

Her brows drew together. Stubborn.

Even concussed, bruised, half-deaf, and held together with bandages, she still managed to look annoyed at being told not to talk. Something in his chest cracked so sharply he almost smiled.

Almost. "There she is," Robby murmured behind him. Jack didn't look back.

He mouthed, Don't argue. Her eyes narrowed faintly. Robby let out one quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

Jack felt it more than heard it. Good. Fine.

Let them have one terrible scrap of normal. They moved her from CT back toward the temporary resus space, but the speed changed now. No running. No shouted countdown. No blast corridor. No glass under the wheels.

Just movement. Controlled. Careful.

Alive. The hospital was still wrong around them. The ED remained partially evacuated. The trauma corridor was sealed. Police and bomb squad still occupied too much space. Staff spoke in lowered voices. The fire alarms had finally stopped screaming, leaving behind a silence that felt bruised.

But there was a path now. A path away from the blast. Jack walked beside her the whole way.

He kept his hand where she could see it. When they reached the observation bay McKay had cleared, the lights had been dimmed as much as possible. Someone had found warm blankets. Someone else had taped a handwritten note to the wall above the bed:

FACE HER WHEN SPEAKING. SHE CAN'T HEAR WELL. WRITE IF NEEDED. Lena, probably. Or Robby.

Or all of them. The thought hit him harder than it should have. They transferred her again.

One. Two. Three.

She winced. He saw it and hated every person involved, including himself, even though they were doing it right.

Once she was settled, McKay removed the cervical collar after confirming clearance, slow and careful. Her neck stayed stiff anyway, like her body didn't trust freedom yet. Jack understood that.

He was still standing like the blast might happen twice. "Neuro checks q fifteen for now," McKay said. "Keep oxygen. Pain control, but not too sedating until she's more awake. ENT when they arrive. Lac repair once she's stable enough."

"I know," Jack said. McKay gave him a look. "I'm not telling you because you don't know. I'm saying it so the room knows."

Jack exhaled once. "Right." Robby stood near the foot of the bed, marker board in hand. "I'll update the board."

Lena hovered at the curtain, not hovering, because Lena would have threatened anyone who used that word. "Mercer's in OR," she said. "Garcia says he made it upstairs alive."

The woman in the bed blinked. Her eyes moved to Jack. She had seen Lena's mouth move.

Not heard. Not understood. Jack leaned closer.

Slow. Clear. Mercer is alive.

Her eyes widened. He repeated it. Mercer is alive.

Her face crumpled. Her left hand lifted off the blanket. Weak.

Searching. Jack gave her his hand immediately. She gripped it like the words had knocked something loose inside her.

A sound came out of her. Small. Broken.

She couldn't hear it. Jack could. It nearly undid him.

"He's in surgery," Jack mouthed. "Garcia has him." She stared at his mouth. He slowed down.

Garcia has him. Her eyes closed. Tears slipped out.

Relief, maybe. Grief. Shock.

All of it. Then her eyes opened again and moved past him. Toward the curtain.

Toward the hallway. Toward the absence she had not stopped feeling. Vale.

Jack knew before her mouth shaped the name. She tried anyway. "Vale?"

It was barely audible. Hoarse. Bent wrong.

Robby looked away. Lena's face tightened. Jack squeezed her hand once.

He had known this was coming. He had not figured out how to survive it.

He moved closer, close enough that his face filled her world, because if she was going to read the truth off anyone, it needed to be him. Slowly, carefully, he mouthed:

Vale died. Her face went blank. Not because she didn't understand.

Because she did. He saw the exact moment the words reached her. Her hand went slack in his.

Then tightened so hard it must have hurt her injured arm to move. "No," she said.

The sound was too loud because she could not hear herself. Robby closed his eyes. Lena looked at the floor.

Jack did not look away from her. He shook his head once. Small.

Final. Her breath started to come too fast. The monitor noticed immediately.

Jack lifted his free hand. Look at me. She shook her head.

Pain flashed across her face. She didn't care. "No."

The word scraped out of her. Jack leaned closer. Look at me.

Her eyes were wild now. Wet. Furious.

Lost. "He said—" Her voice cracked, uncontrolled. "He said later." The room went very still.

Jack swallowed. Vale had said later. Of course he had.

Of course the son of a bitch had given her a place to put her fear and then carried the blast away from her body with his own. Jack's thumb moved over her knuckles.

"I know," he said. She couldn't hear it. He mouthed it again.

I know. She stared at his mouth. "He said I had to tell you."

Jack went still. Robby's head lifted. Lena looked up.

The room changed around that sentence. Jack felt it. He also felt the way her hand trembled in his.

"What?" he said, forgetting for half a second that she couldn't hear him. Her eyes searched his face.

She tried to swallow. Her voice came out uneven, too loud at first, then too soft. "I told him... if it went wrong..."

Jack stopped breathing. She was crying harder now, but she kept looking at him.

Like if she looked away, she would lose the words. "I told him to make sure you knew."

Robby moved quietly toward the curtain. Lena went with him.

McKay followed after one last glance at the monitor, pulling the curtain partially closed behind them. Not fully.

Enough. Enough to give them the dignity of pretending this was private. Jack barely registered it.

His whole world had become her mouth trying to form words she could not hear. He leaned closer. Careful.

Terrified. "What?" he asked again, slower this time. She read him.

Her face twisted. "I told him to make sure you knew that I love you." Jack's hand tightened around hers.

The room vanished. No monitors. No smoke.

No blast. No dead sergeant in the corridor. No command point.

No ring. Only that. Only her.

Her eyes searched his face with raw, aching fear. Like she had handed him something breakable and expected him not to want it.

Her voice shook. "I told him I always have." Jack closed his eyes.

Just for one second. The words went through him like the blast, but different. Not destruction.

Impact. A wall inside him giving way. When he opened his eyes, she looked scared.

Actually scared. Not of the pain. Not of the hearing.

Of him. Of silence. Of maybe being too late.

He moved before doubt could get a hand around him. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to her forehead. Gently.

Barely. A kiss and a promise and a thank God all folded into one. She shook beneath it.

Jack drew back enough that she could see his face. He had to speak carefully now. She needed the words.

She deserved the words. He mouthed them first, slow and unmistakable. I love you.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened. He said it out loud too, even if she couldn't hear it.

"I love you." Then again, because the first one had been stolen by injury and ringing and maybe the universe owed them repetition.

I love you. Her face broke. A silent sob moved through her.

Jack put one hand beside her head on the pillow, not touching where he shouldn't, but close enough to hold the space around her. "I should have told you," he said.

She couldn't hear. So he shaped it. I should have told you.

Tears slid into her hair. Her left hand clung to his. Jack looked down at their joined hands.

His bare ring finger. Her fingers wrapped around it like she had noticed the absence and chosen not to let go.

He lifted their hands carefully into her line of sight. Then mouthed: I took it off before tonight.

She stared. Her lips parted. He kept going before he could lose his nerve.

Not because I stopped loving her. Her eyes softened with pain. Understanding.

He swallowed. Because I started loving you. Her face crumpled all over again.

Jack's own eyes burned. He did not look away. Not now.

Not ever again if he could help it. "It scared the hell out of me," he said aloud. Then mouthed it slower.

It scared me. A tear slipped down his face before he could stop it. He ignored it.

She saw. Of course she saw. Her hand lifted a fraction like she wanted to touch his face.

Pain stopped her. Jack caught her fingers gently and pressed them against his cheek instead. Careful.

So careful. Her skin was cold. He closed his eyes against it for one second.

Then opened them because she needed his mouth. Later, he mouthed. She gave him a look through tears.

Even wrecked, concussed, half-deaf, she managed to make it clear she was tired of later. A broken laugh left him. Small.

Disbelieving. Real. "I know," he said.

He mouthed it too. I know. Then:

No more hiding. Her expression shifted. Fragile.

Hopeful in a way that scared him more than blood. He nodded once. No more hiding.

The monitor beeped steadily beside them. Her breathing slowed. Not normal.

Not easy. But less frantic.

Jack watched the numbers settle because that was what he knew how to do when emotion became too large to hold without data. Heart rate down.

Oxygen holding. Still alive. Still here.

Her eyelids fluttered. Exhaustion pulled at her hard now.

Shock. Pain. Concussion. The crash after adrenaline. All of it. Jack brushed his thumb once over the back of her hand.

Sleep, he mouthed. Her grip tightened. No.

He leaned closer. I'm staying. She stared at him.

He repeated it. I'm staying. Her eyes drifted toward his bare hand again.

Then back to his face. He knew the question. He answered it before she had to ask.

Still here when you wake up. Her mouth trembled. Then she tried to say something.

Too soft. Too broken. He leaned closer.

"What?" Her lips moved again. He caught it more from shape than sound.

"Promise?" Jack's chest ached. He pressed her hand to his cheek once more.

Then lowered it carefully back to the blanket. Promise, he mouthed.

And because she could not hear him, he said it aloud too. "I promise." Her eyes stayed on him for another second.

Then another. Fighting sleep like it was another instruction she had to disobey. Jack stayed exactly where he was.

Visible. Close. Bare hand wrapped around hers.

Finally, her eyes slipped closed. Her fingers loosened, but only slightly. Jack did not move.

Outside the curtain, The Pitt kept going. Mercer in OR. Vale gone.

Patients displaced. Staff shaken. The night cracked open and rearranged around everything that had happened.

Jack's POV

Jack had been forced out of rooms before. Not often. Not easily.

But it had happened. Medicine was not built around one person's refusal. It was handoffs and thresholds and sterile fields and operating room doors closing in your face because the job changed hands whether your body accepted that or not. Jack knew that. He had lived by it. He had taught residents not to mistake proximity for control.

He knew how to step back when stepping back was the only useful thing left. This was not that.

This was Lena's hand wrapped around his forearm while the trauma bay door closed between him and the woman standing inside with her hand buried in a patient's flank. This was glass where there should have been access.

This was Sergeant Vale taking Jack's place beside her. This was wrong. Every cell in his body knew it.

"Jack," Lena said. He did not look at her.

Through the glass, you were still standing exactly where he had left you. Pale under the trauma lights. One shoulder set too carefully. One hand braced over your own wrist. Your other hand inside Mr. Mercer's side, holding pressure on something Vale had not yet named aloud. Your eyes were on Vale now.

Good. That was good. That was what you needed to do.

Jack hated it so much he could barely breathe. "I'm out," he said. Lena's grip did not loosen. "Barely."

"I'm behind the line." "You are deciding whether lines are real." His jaw tightened.

Vale set his hard case down inside the room, every motion precise. He said something to you. Jack could see your mouth move when you answered, but the glass stole your voice. That might have been the worst part.

Not the blood. Not the device. Not the bomb squad tech between you and him.

The silence. Jack had spent months learning your voice without meaning to. He knew how it sounded across the department at three in the morning. He knew the clipped edge when a patient became combative, the quiet drop when a scared family member needed grounding, the dry bite when you were tired enough to become funny in self-defence.

Now you were speaking six feet away from him, and he heard nothing. His hand lifted toward the glass before he gave it permission.

Lena caught the movement. "Don't." He stopped with his fingers curled at his side. "I wasn't going in."

"You were going somewhere." He looked at her then. Bad idea.

Lena's face was calm in the specific, infuriating way charge nurses got when panic had been assessed and found clinically unhelpful. But her eyes were not untouched. She knew.

Of course she knew. Lena Handzo knew everything that happened on night shift eventually. She knew which nurse cried in the supply room after a bad paeds case and came out with dry eyes. She knew which resident had not eaten since noon. She knew which patients were going to turn mean before they opened their mouths. She knew which silences between coworkers were simply exhaustion and which ones were turning into something bigger.

Jack hated that she knew this one. "She's alone," he said. "She is with the bomb squad sergeant."

"That is not what I mean." "I know exactly what you mean," Lena said. "And I am telling you no anyway."

Through the glass, Vale angled a light near your arm. Jack stepped forward half an inch.

Lena's hand tightened immediately. The police officer by the door saw it and shifted his weight.

Jack's eyes cut to him. "Don't." The officer froze. Lena said, "Then don't make him."

Jack looked back through the glass. Vale looked up from inside the trauma bay.

His eyes found Jack's through the glass, and whatever he saw there made his expression flatten. He raised one hand.

Stop. Then he spoke, voice carrying through the cracked relay near the door. "Clear the corridor."

Garcia, who had been standing just outside the marked line with her arms locked across her chest, turned on him. "Excuse me?" Vale did not look at her. "Clear the corridor. Everyone outside the ED footprint."

The words hit like the first real blast. Not the room. Not the glass.

The corridor. Jack's entire body went cold. "No," he said.

Vale's gaze moved to him. "Dr. Abbott." "No."

Garcia stepped closer to the doorway, stopping before the line. "We are medical support." "And if this goes wrong," Vale said, voice level, "you become casualties."

Anesthesia's face went hard. "He is unstable." "Airway is secured enough for the moment. Blood is running. Monitor stays. You are outside the blast path."

"Glass won't protect us?" Shen asked quietly. Vale looked at him. The silence was answer enough.

Then Vale said, "No." The corridor changed.

Not visibly. Nothing moved. The lights stayed bright. The glass stayed whole. The monitor inside Trauma One kept beeping. But everyone understood something new.

The glass had never been safety. It had only been mercy.

A way to look at the person inside and pretend distance was not distance. Jack felt Lena's grip tighten before he moved.

"I'm not leaving the glass," he said. Vale stood inside the room. "You are." "I'm advising."

"You can advise from the command point." "I can't see her from the command point."

The words came out before he could make them professional. The corridor went still. Garcia looked away.

Shen's face tightened. Anesthesia stared at the floor. Lena's hand stayed on Jack's arm.

Vale did not soften. "That is not a tactical argument." Jack's eyes burned with fury. "She is my nurse."

"She is currently the person with her hand on an unstable device component," Vale said. "And if I have to worry about you breaching the corridor, I cannot keep my attention where it belongs." Jack heard it.

He did. That was the worst part.

He heard the logic. The clean line of it. Vale could not split his focus between the device and Jack's refusal to accept being useless. Jack knew that.

Knowing did nothing to help. Lena stepped in front of him. Not fully.

Just enough to force his eyes to hers. "Jack." He shook his head once. "No."

"She told you to leave the room." "That was the room." "Now I'm telling you to leave the corridor."

"I need to see her." Lena's face changed. Only for a second.

Then she said, softer, "I know." That nearly broke him. He looked over her shoulder.

Through the glass, you had turned your eyes toward him. Not your head. Not your body. Just your eyes, dragged by the argument you could not hear clearly but could probably feel. Vale said something sharply.

Your gaze snapped back to him. Good. Good.

Jack's throat tightened. "She'll look for me," he said. "Then don't make her," Lena said.

The words landed with surgical precision. He hated her for them. He loved her for them.

He couldn't move. Vale's voice came through again. "Clear the corridor now."

The police officer reached carefully for the door. Jack's body locked.

Lena must have felt the exact second he considered resisting, because her hand moved from his forearm to his chest. Flat.

Firm. Not enough to physically stop him. Enough to remind him who he would have to go through.

"Do not make me call security on you in front of your own staff," she said. His eyes snapped to hers.

Her voice dropped. "Do not make her hear that." That did it. Not all the way.

Enough. Jack stepped back. One step.

It felt like ripping something loose. Lena stayed with him.

Garcia moved first, furious and silent. Anesthesia followed, jaw tight. Shen looked once through the glass, then away. Princess stood near the wall, both hands pressed together as if she did not trust them apart, and then Lena pointed down the hall. "Princess. Go."

Princess swallowed. "Lena—" "Go." She went.

Ellis was already backing away with the tablet clutched to her chest, eyes wet above her mask. Hospital command moved because security physically guided him, which was probably the most useful thing he had done all morning. The corridor started to empty.

Jack did not turn his back on the glass. He walked backward until Lena said, "Don't be stupid." "I'm not."

"You're walking backward through an evacuated ED while emotionally concussed." He turned around. Barely.

Every step away from Trauma One was a violation. The nurses' station passed on his left. Abandoned.

A half-empty coffee cup sat beside a computer. A stack of labels had curled out of the printer and onto the floor. Blue gloves were scattered near the med room door. Someone had left a roll of tape on the counter, the strip half-pulled, waiting for a hand that was no longer there. The Pitt looked dead without people in it.

Not peaceful. Dead.

Jack's mind registered exits. Distance. Sightlines. Fire doors. Police placement. Security at the trauma corridor. Staff moving at the far end of the east hall. Patients out of the blast radius. Useful information.

None of it mattered more than the fact that he could no longer see you. When the trauma bay glass disappeared behind the corner, something in his chest went with it.

He stopped. Lena stopped beside him. "No," she said immediately.

"I can't see her." "I know." "No. Lena, I can't—"

"Yes," she said. "You can." The words were blunt enough to make him look at her.

She held his gaze. "Because she needs you to." His jaw worked.

"She told you why," Lena said. "She cannot think about you while her hand is on that device." Jack closed his eyes.

Your voice came back to him. I can't think about you. I have to think about my hand.

He had been angry for half a second when you said it. Not at you. At the truth.

At the fact that loving him, or whatever the hell sat between the two of you, had become another hazard in the room. He opened his eyes.

"Command point," Lena said. "Now." The command point had been built out of whatever the evacuation left behind.

A rolling computer cart. Two portable monitors. Lena's radio. A hospital command phone that kept ringing as if the building itself was panicking. A whiteboard dragged from the physician workroom and propped against the wall, already divided into ugly categories. Moved. Holding. Critical. Missing.

Jack hated the last one on principle. "Why is there a missing column?" he asked.

Lena did not look up from the roster. "Because if we don't make one, someone becomes missing quietly." Fair. Terrible.

Fair. Perlah stood beside her, checking names against printed patient stickers, pen moving fast.

"Curtain Three and daughter are in outpatient corridor," she said. "Still asking about the sandwich." "Of course she is," Lena said.

"Bay Five is in east hall on two litres." Jack looked up. "He stays on the oxygen."

Princess, standing by the portable oxygen tanks, said, "I told him that." "And?"

"He said nearby oxygen counts spiritually." "It doesn't," Jack said. "That's what I said."

A nurse wheeled an elderly woman past the command point, blanket tucked around her shoulders, portable oxygen tank clipped to the side of the chair. The woman's eyes moved from the police officers to the emptied nurses' station, frightened and confused. "Where's my daughter?" she asked.

Lena's face changed instantly. Not softer exactly. Focused differently. "She's with Perlah," Lena said, stepping into the woman's line of sight. "You're going to see her in the east hall. We're just moving everyone somewhere quieter."

"Is there a fire?" "No," Lena said. "No fire." Not a lie.

Not the truth either. The woman nodded because Lena sounded like someone who could be believed.

Jack watched the wheelchair roll away and felt the wrongness of it settle heavier under his ribs. The ED was not supposed to empty.

It was supposed to receive. That was the whole brutal promise of it.

You came in bleeding, scared, high, feverish, angry, dying, and The Pitt took you anyway. Now The Pitt was sending everyone away because danger had come in under someone's skin and settled beneath your hand.

McKay came in behind the command point, phone to her ear and another chart tucked under her arm. "No, I don't care if PACU says they're full," she said. "They are full of people who are alive. They can be more full."

She hung up and looked at Lena. "Septic Twelve?" Perlah answered before Lena could. "East hall, monitor attached, antibiotics running. Shen wrote the orders before he got pulled back."

Jack said, "Repeat pressure?" "Last systolic ninety-two," Perlah said. "Still febrile." "Fluids?"

"Second litre running." "Good." A child started crying near the outpatient corridor.

Not loudly. That made it worse.

A little boy with a splinted wrist sat in a wheelchair, his mother crouched in front of him, trying to keep her own face calm and failing by degrees. Princess moved before anyone asked.

She grabbed a warm blanket from the portable stack and knelt beside him. "Hey. You want to know a secret?" The boy sniffed. "What?"

"This blanket is stolen from the good warmer." His crying paused, suspicious. "There's a good warmer?" "Absolutely."

"There is not," Jack said automatically. Princess did not look back. "Do not ruin paediatric morale, Abbott."

The boy blinked. Then, somehow, laughed once. A tiny, wet sound.

Jack looked away. The radio on the command table crackled. Every head in the command point turned.

Vale's voice came through. "Trauma One to command. Corridor clear?"

Lena grabbed the radio. "Corridor clear. ED footprint evacuated except essential command and staged patients outside perimeter." "Copy," Vale said. "No one enters trauma corridor unless I request."

Jack reached for the radio. Lena moved it away without even looking at him. "No."

His eyes flashed. "I need to speak to him." "You need to ask me to speak to him."

"I am not a child." "Then stop reaching like one."

Garcia, still on the phone nearby, muttered, "I picked a hell of a night to answer pages." Jack ignored her.

Lena pressed the radio button. "Vale, Dr. Abbott is at command. He is requesting medical status." Requesting.

Jack almost hated her more for making it sound civilized. Static. Then Vale's voice.

"Patient remains alive. Blood running. Airway support stable. Nurse's hand position unchanged. I am beginning visual assessment." Nurse's hand position unchanged.

Jack breathed for the first time in what felt like minutes. Not enough. But some.

Lena looked at him. He looked away. "Thank you," she said into the radio.

"Updates only when status changes," Vale replied. "I need quiet." The radio went silent. Jack stared at it.

Quiet. Vale needed quiet. You were in there with quiet.

No Jack. No ED. No chaos to hide in.

Just Vale and the device and the patient and your own breathing. Jack's hands curled into fists.

A new set of footsteps came down the outer hall. Fast. Not running.

Almost. Jack turned before the figure reached the line.

Robby came around the corner in a scrub jacket, hair sleep-flattened on one side, ID badge clipped crooked. He looked like he had been pulled out of the shallow graveyard of pre-shift sleep and thrown directly into disaster. McKay was already there, still half on the phone with someone upstairs, but she looked up sharply when she saw him.

Security stopped Robby at the perimeter. "I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch," Robby said. "Emergency attending. I was called in."

Security looked to Lena. Lena nodded once. "Command point only. No trauma corridor."

Robby stepped through, eyes scanning. The empty ED. The police.

The staff. Jack. Then the command radio.

His face changed. "What happened?" Jack did not answer quickly enough.

Robby came closer. "Jack." "Blast injury," Jack said. His voice sounded scraped raw. "Foreign body in left flank. Brother identified it as part of the device. Possible internal trigger. Her hand is stabilizing it and tamponading hemorrhage. Vale has the room."

Robby stared at him. Not blank. Never blank.

Robby's face always did too much, which was one of the reasons Jack found him unbearable and necessary in equal measure. "Her hand," Robby said.

"Yes." "Inside the wound?" "Yes."

"And you're out here." Jack's eyes cut to him. Robby understood the mistake immediately.

Lena said, "She told him to leave." Robby's expression shifted. "Oh."

Jack looked toward the trauma corridor. He could not see it from here. Could not see you.

His voice dropped. "And then Vale cleared the entire corridor." Robby's mouth tightened. "Good."

Jack turned on him. "Good?" "Yes," Robby said, not backing down. "Good. Terrible. Necessary. Pick your adjective after she's out."

Jack stared at him. Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You being able to see her is not worth more than her having Vale focused." Jack hated him. For half a second.

Then the hate collapsed under the weight of the truth. "She said she couldn't think about me," Jack said.

Robby's face softened in the worst possible way. "Then don't make her," he said. Jack looked away.

The radio sat silent on the command table. Silent. Silent.

Silent. It took everything in him not to pick it up. Robby moved to his side.

Not touching. Just there. Insurance.

Friendship. A witness. "You breathing?" Robby asked.

"Yes." "No, you're standing upright. Different thing." Jack gave him a look.

Robby ignored it. "Do it anyway." "I have seen this before." "I know."

"No, you don't." Robby's face went still. Jack regretted it immediately.

But the words were out, and his restraint was too frayed to pull them back cleanly. Robby's voice, when he answered, was quiet. "No. I don't. But I know you."

That was worse. Jack closed his eyes once. A controlled blink.

Nothing more. Behind them, McKay had fully taken over command with the sort of brisk authority that made the administrator look relieved to be overruled. Garcia was still on the phone. Lena was coordinating staff locations. Perlah was checking names against the roster. Princess stood beside the paeds patient, making a warm blanket sound like contraband.

The Pitt was functioning. Jack had built enough of the outside world for it to keep functioning. You were still inside.

The radio crackled. Everyone went still. Vale's voice came through.

"Visual confirms component housing. I am placing field markers. No movement from nurse. Patient remains alive." Jack's breath left him.

Robby's hand landed briefly on his shoulder. This time Jack did not tell him to move it.

Lena grabbed the radio. "Copy. Need anything?" "Negative," Vale said. "Maintain perimeter." Static.

Silence. Jack stared at the radio. Then toward the corridor he could not enter.

Reader's POV

Inside Trauma One, the quiet was too big. That was the first thing you noticed once they were all gone. Not just Jack.

Everyone. No Garcia outside the glass. No anesthesia arguing from the threshold.

No Shen at the airway. No Princess by the blood cooler.

No Lena's voice cutting through the hall close enough to feel like part of the room. The corridor beyond the trauma bay doors had emptied completely. Even the shadows seemed farther away.

The Pitt was gone. Not dead, you told yourself. Evacuated.

Safe. Farther from you. Farther from the device.

That was good. It did not feel good.

Vale stood in front of you now, the only person left in the room who could tell you what to do. But he was not working alone.

You realized that in the first thirty seconds after the corridor cleared. His radio kept murmuring.

Low voices. Short updates. Words that sounded official and calm and impossible to attach to the fact that your hand was still inside Mr. Mercer's flank. "Perimeter set."

"Secondary team holding." "Medical command at outer line." "Equipment staged."

Vale answered each one without taking his eyes off the field around your arm. "Hold perimeter."

"No one enters trauma corridor." "I'll call what I need." "Stand by."

His calm was not like Jack's. You had thought that before, but now, without Jack visible through the glass, the difference became everything.

Jack's calm pulled you toward him. Vale's pinned the room down. "I know you can't see him now," Vale said.

Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt. You hated him for knowing.

You hated everyone who could apparently read your face today. "He's outside the perimeter," Vale continued. "That is where he should be."

You swallowed. Your hand did not move. "My job is not thinking about him," you said.

Vale nodded once. "Exactly." "That's a terrible job." "I imagine so."

His honesty was rude. Useful, but rude.

He crouched beside his hard case and opened it again. "Your job is your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. My voice. Nothing else." You breathed in once.

Carefully. "My hand," you said. "Yes."

"Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes." "Your voice."

"Good." Mr. Mercer lay under the bright trauma lights, supported by tubing and machinery you were trying not to think too hard about. The monitor tracked him in glowing numbers you did not want to understand too deeply.

Blood still ran. The pump clicked in small, steady intervals. Your right hand remained buried inside his flank.

The foreign body rested against your palm. Hard. Smooth-edged.

Wrong. Vale's radio crackled again. A man's voice came through. "Vale, do you need the blanket package?"

Vale looked at you, then at the wound, then at the angle of your shoulders. "Affirmative," he said. "No entry past threshold. Slide it in."

Your stomach tightened. "Blanket package?" "Protection," Vale said.

That did not help as much as he probably thought it should. "For me?" "For you."

Your mouth went dry. "That sounds bad." "It means I'm reducing risk where I can." "That still sounds bad."

"It's better than not reducing risk." You hated that answer. Mostly because it was true.

The trauma bay door opened only far enough for a gloved hand to push a sealed bundle across the floor. Whoever was outside did not step in. You saw the edge of dark gear, boots, a shield angled near the doorway, and then the door closed again. Vale retrieved the bundle himself.

Slowly. Never crossing near your hand without telling you.

"I am moving behind you," he said. "I am not touching you yet." Your breath caught. "Yet?"

"I need to place protective gear. Because of your arm position, we can't put it on normally." "Okay."

"You will feel weight across your chest and shoulders. I will work around your right arm. You do not help me." "I don't help."

"Correct." "You're enjoying how often I have to say that." "I am enjoying that you're still saying it."

That made something almost like a laugh catch behind your ribs. Vale opened the bundle.

A heavy protective vest came out first, black and stiff, not like the soft lead aprons from radiology or the flimsy plastic gowns everyone pretended helped with fluids. This looked like it belonged to another world entirely. Then a thick protective blanket.

Clear eye protection. Something for your ears. Your stomach turned.

Vale noticed. "Look at my face," he said. You did.

"Not the gear. My face." "Your face is not reassuring." "Good. Reassuring would be dishonest."

"You and Jack would get along terribly." "Probably." He lifted the protective glasses first.

"These go on your face. I'll place them. You do not lean in." "I don't lean." "Good."

The glasses slid carefully into place. Then the ear protection.

"I need one hand free to put these on properly," he said. "I don't have one. So this will be imperfect." "Great."

"It will still help." "Better."

He placed them carefully, one side at a time, adjusting around your hair without jostling your head. The room muffled slightly. Not silent. Never silent. But the monitor became duller. The pump softer. Your own breathing louder. You hated that.

You also understood why he did it. Then came the vest. Vale held it open in front of you.

"I'm going to bring this around your left side first," he said. "Then across your chest. Your right arm stays exactly where it is. If anything feels like it is pulling your shoulder, you say stop." "What if saying stop makes me move?"

"Use one word." "Stop?" "Good choice."

His mouth barely moved. Yours almost did too.

He worked the vest around you with awful care. It was heavy. Not unbearable, but solid enough that your body noticed it immediately. The weight settled over your chest and left shoulder, then across part of your torso. He did not try to force it over your right shoulder.

Couldn't. Your right arm was still angled down into Mr. Mercer's wound, locked in place by blood, pressure, and terror.

Vale adjusted the vest as much as he could without touching your trapped arm. "Any pull?" "No."

"Any change in your hand?" You listened to your body. To the pressure under your palm.

To the shape beneath it. "No." "Good."

He secured what he could, then reached for the protective blanket. "This is going over part of your lower body and side," he said. "It will feel heavy. It is not permission to lean."

"Nothing is permission to lean. I'm sensing a theme." "You're doing great with themes."

He placed the blanket slowly, creating a barrier around what he could protect without trapping you further or interfering with the wound. The weight pressed against your hip and thigh. Your knees wanted to shift under it. They didn't.

The radio crackled. Another voice came through, lower than the first. "Vale, confirm subject is protected as much as feasible?"

Vale glanced over you. "Protected as much as feasible. Right arm exposed and engaged. No full vest seal possible." "Copy. We are holding at secondary line."

Secondary line. That meant there were more of them outside. More people waiting.

More people who knew exactly what this could become. Vale crouched again. "Still with me?"

You breathed in. "Yes." "Any change under your hand?"

"No." "Pressure?" "Same."

"Shape?" "Same." "Pain?"

You considered lying. That seemed stupid when the only two people in the room were you and a man trained to notice tiny changes that could kill everyone.

"Not pain," you said. "Awareness." Vale nodded. "Shoulder?" "Mostly."

"Wrist?" "Some." "Fingers?"

"Fine." "Good. Tell me if that changes." "Can I move if it changes?"

"No." "Then that feels like a cruel question." "It tells me how much time I have."

The answer settled coldly. Time. That was all anyone had been buying since Mr. Mercer came in.

Time with blood. Time with oxygen. Time with your hand.

Time with Jack outside the perimeter. Vale angled the light toward the wound.

"I'm going to look," he said. "I'm not touching you. I'm not touching the object. You do not help me." "You're looking. Not touching. I don't help."

"Good." The light came on. Thin and white.

It slid over your glove, over blood-wet skin, over the torn wound edge. You kept your eyes on Vale's shoulder because looking down felt like falling. The smell was worse without people in the room.

Blood. Smoke. Antiseptic.

Burned fabric. Fear, maybe, though that was not a smell. It only felt like one. Your stomach rolled.

Vale did not look up. "Let the nausea pass." "You say that like it's polite."

"It will pass faster if you don't chase it." "I'm not chasing it." "You're arguing with it."

"That sounds like me." Vale's mouth barely moved. "So I've gathered." It almost helped.

Almost. He examined the wound for what felt like a lifetime, then lifted his radio with one hand. "Vale to secondary."

A crackle. "Secondary."

"I have partial visual. Component housing appears consistent with brother's statement. Nurse's hand is stabilizing from medial side. No visible independent movement. I'm placing markers and support. No remote tools in the field yet." "Copy. Recommend field stabilization before extraction attempt."

"I agree." You did not know what half of that meant. You understood enough.

"Extraction attempt," you said. Vale lowered the radio slightly. "Not yet."

"But eventually." "Eventually." "My hand is what you're extracting?"

"No," he said. "Your hand is what I am removing. The device is what I am stabilizing." "That distinction does not make me feel better."

"It should make you feel informed." "Rude." "Alive," he said again.

You breathed carefully. Small. Measured.

Vale placed a small marker near the wound edge. The bed shifted by almost nothing. Your whole body wanted to flinch.

"Hold," Vale said. You held. The object stayed where it was.

The monitor kept beeping. Nothing happened. "Good."

You hated how much you needed that word. He placed another marker. Then another.

Every movement announced. Every motion slow enough to make time feel serrated. His radio murmured between steps.

"Marker one placed." "Copy." "Marker two placed."

"Copy." "No field shift." "Copy."

It became a rhythm. A terrible one. But a rhythm.

"I am placing support near your forearm," Vale said. You breathed in. "It will not take your weight."

You breathed out. "It is a reference. Not permission to relax." "Nothing about me is relaxed right now."

"Good." "Rude." "Alive."

You could not argue with that. Your knees had started to ache from standing locked in place. You were aware of every joint now. Every muscle. Every place your body wanted to make a reasonable adjustment and was absolutely forbidden from doing so.

Vale looked at your face. "Knees?" You stared at him. "What?" "You're locking them."

"Probably." "Unlock them." "No."

"That wasn't a request." "I'm not moving." "Your knees are not your hand."

"They are attached to me." "Micro-movement only. Torso stays fixed. Arm stays fixed. I count it." Your mouth went dry.

"No." Vale's expression did not change. "If you faint, your hand moves." That shut you up.

He let the silence sit for one second. Then he said, "On three. Hips and knees only. A fraction. You do not shift your shoulder. You do not adjust your hand."

You stared at him. He stared back. There was no Jack through the glass now. No familiar face to pull your eyes to.

Only Vale. "My hand stays," you whispered. "Yes."

"My shoulder stays." "Yes." "Just knees."

"Correct." You wanted Jack. The thought hit so hard you almost lost your breath.

You wanted his voice. His eyes. His dry little correction. His infuriating certainty. You wanted him to tell you that you could do this in the specific way that made you believe him even when everything was impossible. Vale saw something move through your face.

His voice lowered slightly. "He left because you told him to." Your eyes burned.

"Don't." "He listened because you needed him to." A tear slipped down your cheek.

You could not wipe it away. Vale continued, steady and mercilessly useful. "Now you listen because he needs you to."

Your throat closed. Then you nodded internally. Not with your head.

Never with your head. "Okay." "On three," Vale said. "One. Two. Three."

You unlocked your knees by the smallest possible fraction. Nothing shifted under your palm. Nothing changed.

The foreign body stayed where it was. You breathed once. Then again.

The black dots at the edges of your vision eased back. Vale nodded. "Better." "I hate that you were right."

"People usually do." "Jack especially would." "I gathered that too."

The sound that tried to leave you was almost a laugh. It helped. Then the monitor changed.

Not much. Enough.

A different pitch in the alarm. A number sliding lower in the corner of the screen. The pulse still too fast, the oxygen decent enough for the moment, the pressure dipping again in a way that made your stomach go cold before your fear could catch up. Your eyes flicked to the monitor.

Not your head. Just your eyes. You could see enough from where you stood.

Too much, actually. "His pressure's dropping," you said. Vale looked up from the support near your forearm.

He glanced at the monitor, but there was no instant interpretation in his face. Not like Jack. Not like Shen. Not like Garcia. Vale knew blast radius and device housing and what movement could do. He did not know the particular dread of a blood pressure that kept sliding no matter how much blood you poured into someone. "What number?" Vale asked.

You swallowed. "Fifty-six systolic. Pulse still one-forties. Sat's holding around ninety-one, but he's not perfusing." Vale reached for his radio immediately.

"Trauma One to command." Static. Then Lena's voice answered. "Command."

Vale kept his eyes on you as he spoke. "Patient status change. Nurse reports systolic pressure down to fifty-six, pulse in the one-forties, oxygen saturation holding around ninety-one. She reports blood is still running and no major increase in external bleeding around her hand. I need medical lead." A pause.

Then Jack's voice came through the radio. Controlled. Too controlled.

"Abbott." Your eyes closed before you could stop them. Not fully.

Just a blink too long. Vale's gaze sharpened. "Eyes open," he said quietly.

You opened them. Jack's voice came through again, thinner through static. "Can she see the monitor?" Vale looked at you.

You nodded internally. Not with your head. Never with your head.

"She can see enough," Vale said. "She's watching without moving." There was a fraction of silence.

Then Jack said, "Ask her if there's any visible increase in bleeding." Vale repeated it to you, even though you had heard him. "Visible increase in bleeding?"

You kept your eyes on the wound edge as much as you could without dropping your head. "No. Same seep around my wrist. No surge." Vale relayed it. "No visible surge. Same seep around her wrist."

Jack absorbed that quickly. You could hear it in the brief silence. "Likely continued internal loss," he said. "He needs OR, but he can't move until the device is secured."

Vale looked at you as Jack spoke. You did not look at the radio.

You would not look at the radio like it was Jack's face. You would not.

Jack continued, more controlled now. "Blood continues. Do not let her adjust pressure to chase the number. If there's no visible hemorrhage change, you keep working the device. Her hand stays exactly where it is." Vale answered, "Understood."

Jack's voice came again. "Can she maintain?" Vale's eyes stayed on yours. He did not ask you out loud immediately.

Maybe because he already knew the answer would be yes whether it was true or not. Maybe because he understood that Jack would know that too.

Finally, Vale said, "Can you maintain?" Your shoulder had begun to burn in earnest now. Not shaking yet.

But aware. So aware it felt like your whole arm had become one long warning. "Yes," you said.

Vale watched your face for half a second. Then pressed the radio. "She says yes."

The silence on the other end was small. Brutal. Jack knew.

Of course he knew. Then his voice returned, rougher by a thread. "Tell her she's doing exactly what she needs to do."

Vale looked at you. "Dr. Abbott says you're doing exactly what you need to do." Your mouth trembled.

"That is manipulative." Vale's mouth twitched. "Take it up with him later." Later.

The word went through you like oxygen. Later. You held onto it.

Vale clicked the radio off before Jack could say anything else. Cruel man. Probably wise.

He turned back to the wound. "The brother described a pressure-sensitive internal component. Your hand is likely preventing movement inside the housing." Likely.

There it was again. The worst word. His radio crackled before you could answer.

"Secondary to Vale. Support recommendation ready." Vale lifted the radio. "Go." You heard only pieces.

Not the kind of pieces that could teach you anything useful. Just enough to know there were other people thinking through the geometry of your survival from far away.

"Maintain current pressure." "External stabilization." "Controlled hand removal."

"Containment transfer." Vale listened without looking away from the wound. "Copy," he said. "I'm building support now."

Your breathing went shallow. "Hand removal," you said. Vale set the radio down.

"Not yet." "But soon?" "Soon is a dangerous word."

"Of course it is." "I'm going to tell you what you need to know." You stared at him.

Vale held your gaze. "We are going to build support. Then I am going to guide your hand out in one controlled motion while I stabilize the object. You will not rush. You will not pull. You will not stop halfway unless I tell you."

Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. "I can't." "You can."

"You don't know that." "No," Vale said. "But Dr. Abbott does." That was unfair.

It worked anyway. Your eyes stung. "My hand," you whispered.

"Your hand," Vale said. "Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes."

"Your voice." "Yes." "And later."

Vale paused. Then nodded once. "And later."

Jacks POV

The radio went quiet. That was the worst part.

Not the alarms. Not the evacuation. Not the clipped voices of police and hospital command trying to make a disaster fit inside procedures that had clearly been written by people who had never stood ten feet from one. The quiet.

Jack stared at the radio on the command table like he could force it to speak by hating it enough. It sat between Lena's roster sheets and a half-dead portable monitor, black plastic, dust in the speaker grille, one corner scuffed white from too many drops. Ordinary. Hospital-grade. Ugly.

It was the only thing connecting him to Trauma One now. To Vale. To Mr. Mercer.

To you. And it was silent.

Lena had moved two feet away to argue with security about staff accountability. McKay had taken over the command board with the unnerving efficiency of someone who enjoyed making chaos feel personally ashamed of itself. Garcia was on her third phone call with OR, one hand pressed to her forehead, voice sharp enough to cut through concrete. Robby stood beside Jack without touching him.

That was deliberate. Jack knew Robby well enough to know the difference between accidental proximity and triage.

Robby was triaging him. Quietly. Carefully.

Annoyingly. "I can feel you doing it," Jack said. Robby looked at him. "Doing what?"

"Assessing me." "I'm standing here." "You're hovering."

"I learned from the best." Jack's eyes did not leave the radio. "Pick a worse time to be funny." "I'm not being funny."

That made Jack look at him. Robby's face had settled into something serious and tired, the kind of expression that usually came after bad news had found a room before anyone was ready for it.

Jack hated it. He looked away first. The radio stayed quiet.

Across the command point, one of the bomb squad officers stood near the police perimeter, speaking low into his shoulder mic. He was younger than Vale, broader, with a hard case at his feet and an expression Jack did not like. Too calm.

Too distant. Too outside the room. Jack knew that was unfair.

He didn't care. The officer said something into the mic that Jack couldn't fully catch. Then he heard:

"Extraction window depends on subject compliance." Subject. Not your name.

Not nurse. Subject. Jack moved before he made a decision.

Robby's head snapped toward him. "Jack." Jack ignored him.

He crossed the command point in three strides, cutting between a portable oxygen tank and the edge of McKay's board. The bomb squad officer looked up just in time.

"Do not call her that." The officer blinked. "Excuse me?"

Jack stopped close enough that Lena's head lifted across the room. Robby was already moving behind him.

Jack's voice stayed low. That was the only mercy he had left in him. "She is not a subject."

The officer's expression tightened. "Dr. Abbott, that's standard—" "I don't care what it is."

"Jack," Robby said from behind him. Jack did not turn.

The officer straightened slightly. "She is inside an active hazard area. We use operational language for clarity." "She has a name."

"I understand that." "No," Jack said. "You don't." The command point went quieter.

Not silent. Never silent. There were still patients staged beyond the line, still phones, still radios, still the low machine hum of a hospital forced to keep functioning around a hole blown through its centre. But people noticed.

Of course they did. Jack heard it happening. McKay stopped speaking mid-sentence.

Garcia lowered her phone. Princess looked over from the portable oxygen tanks, eyes wide and wet.

Lena said his name once. "Jack." The bomb squad officer kept his voice controlled. "I'm not trying to disrespect your nurse."

"My nurse?" Jack repeated. The officer realized too late that those were the wrong words too.

Robby stepped in then, hand closing around Jack's upper arm. "Enough." Jack looked at him.

Robby's face was close now. Calm. Firm. No room. "Move," Robby said. Jack's eyes flashed. "Get your hand off me."

"No." The word landed flat between them. For a second, Jack genuinely thought about shaking him off.

Then Robby's grip tightened. Not hard. Just enough to tell him he would make this ugly if Jack made him.

"Move," Robby repeated. "Now." Jack held his stare. Robby did not blink.

Behind them, Lena's voice cut in, low and dangerous. "Abbott." That did it. Not because Jack was calm.

Because he was outnumbered by people who loved him enough to humiliate him if it kept him from doing something stupid. He stepped back.

Robby did not let go. He guided him away from the bomb squad officer, past the command board, past the abandoned coffee, past the rolling cart with the radio sitting on top like a loaded weapon.

Jack stopped near the supply alcove, far enough that the command point could pretend not to listen if it tried very hard. Robby positioned himself directly in front of him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Robby said. Jack's laugh came out short and ugly. "I'm correcting terminology."

"No. You're picking a fight with the people keeping her alive." Jack's jaw clenched.

Robby lowered his voice. "Look at me." "Don't." "Look at me."

Jack did. Robby's face was pale, but his eyes were steady. Good attending eyes.

Friend eyes. The worst kind. "I know you love her," Robby said.

Everything in Jack went still. The command point blurred at the edges.

For one second, there was no radio. No police perimeter. No evacuation. No bomb squad. No patient bleeding inside the room Jack had been forced to leave. Only Robby's sentence.

Blunt. Quiet. Irreversible.

Jack's voice came out rough. "This isn't the time." "It is exactly the time if you're going to start swinging at bomb squad over vocabulary."

"I wasn't swinging." "You were close enough that I started calculating bail." Jack looked away.

Robby stepped with him, blocking the escape. "No," Robby said. "You don't get to disappear into angry and call it useful. Not right now."

Jack's eyes snapped back. "Useful?" "Yes. Useful." Robby jabbed one finger toward the command point. "Vale needs quiet. Lena needs a command structure. Garcia needs a surgical plan. She needs you not making her the centre of a testosterone-sponsored incident in the hallway."

Jack flinched at that. Robby saw. Of course he did.

His voice softened by one degree, which somehow made it worse. "She told you she couldn't think about you." Jack's throat tightened.

"Don't make her," Robby said. Jack looked past him, toward the corridor that led back to Trauma One.

He could not see it from here. That was the wound. That was the thing his body kept forgetting and remembering.

"I can't see her," he said. "I know." "You don't."

Robby's face shifted. Jack knew he was being cruel. He could feel it.

He still could not stop. "You don't know what this looks like," Jack said. "You don't know how fast it happens. You don't know what a room sounds like after. You don't know—"

"No," Robby said. "I don't." That stopped him harder than an argument would have. Robby held his gaze.

"I don't know that," Robby said. "I'm not going to stand here and pretend I do. I haven't seen what you've seen." Jack's breath scraped.

"But I know you," Robby continued. "And I know when you're scared enough to start making everything around you an enemy because at least enemies give you something to fight." Jack's mouth opened.

Nothing came out. Robby's voice stayed low. "You are not in the army right now." Jack's whole body tightened.

Robby did not back off. "You are not back there," he said. "You are here. In Pittsburgh. In The Pitt. With Lena ready to throw you into a supply closet if you make her. With Garcia trying to keep an OR alive. With a bomb squad sergeant doing the only job in the building you cannot do."

Jack looked away, jaw working. "And with her," Robby said, quieter, "still alive inside that room." Still alive.

The words hit like a hand around his throat. Jack closed his eyes. Just once.

The image came anyway. Not you. For a second, not you.

A different room. A different kind of light. Dust in the air so thick it turned morning brown. Someone shouting for a medic. Someone else not shouting at all. Heat. Pressure. The smell of burned wiring and blood and concrete. A hand in his.

Then not. He opened his eyes before the memory could finish. Robby was watching him.

Not pushing. Not pitying. There.

Jack hated how badly he needed him. "I know how this can go," Jack said. His voice was quieter now.

More dangerous because it was honest. "I know."

"No, Robby." Jack shook his head once. "I know how fast a body stops being a person. I know what blast does. I know what gets left when everyone says there was nothing else to do." Robby swallowed.

Jack's chest felt too tight. "I have seen it too many times." The radio crackled somewhere behind them.

Both of them turned. But it was only static. No update.

No voice. No you. Jack's hands curled.

Robby watched the movement, then looked back at his face. "Jack," he said.

Jack shook his head. "I can't lose another person I love." The words came out before he could stop them. Not loud.

Not dramatic. Just there. Between them.

Robby went still. Jack heard what he had said a second after he said it. Another person.

I love. The command point seemed to move farther away.

Phones. Radios. Staff. Patients. All of it faded under the weight of those four words. Person I love.

Robby's voice, when it came, was very soft. "Yeah." That was all.

No surprise. No performance. Just yeah.

Jack looked at him. Robby's eyes were tired and sad and too kind. "You knew," Jack said.

Robby's mouth shifted faintly. "Everybody with a pulse knew." Jack huffed once. It almost hurt.

"Not helpful." "No," Robby said. "But true." Jack dragged a hand over his face. His fingers caught briefly on nothing.

On absence. His left hand lowered. Robby's gaze dropped.

Not obviously. But enough. Jack saw the moment he noticed.

Or maybe not noticed. Acknowledged. His wedding ring was gone.

It had been gone for weeks. Longer, maybe.

The skin where it used to sit still looked faintly marked to Jack, though probably no one else would have seen it unless they knew exactly what absence looked like. Robby did.

Of course Robby did. "I noticed," Robby said. Jack stared at him.

Robby's eyes lifted back to his. "You stopped wearing it a while ago." Jack's jaw tightened. "That's not—"

"I'm not making it into something." "Sounds like you are." "I'm saying I noticed."

Jack looked down at his hand. No ring. No metal.

No easy explanation sitting there for the world to read. For years, the ring had been armour. Grief made visible. Boundary made respectable. A small, gold reason no one had to ask why Jack Abbott lived like a man who had locked certain doors and thrown away the keys.

Taking it off had not felt like moving on. He hated that phrase.

Moving on sounded like leaving someone behind at a bus stop. It had not been that. It had been quieter.

One morning after shift, sitting on the edge of his bed, unable to stop thinking about the way you had laughed at something stupid in the med room. The way guilt had not arrived first that time. The way warmth had. He had taken the ring off because wearing it had started to feel less like love and more like hiding.

Then he had sat there for twenty minutes with it in his palm. Like it might accuse him. It hadn't.

That had almost been worse. Robby's voice was careful. "I didn't say anything because it wasn't mine to say."

Jack's throat worked. "I didn't know if anyone noticed." Robby gave him a look.

Jack almost laughed again. This time it hurt less. "Right," Jack muttered. "Stupid."

"Deeply." Jack looked back toward the corridor. "She doesn't know."

"That you took it off?" Jack nodded once. "Maybe she does," Robby said.

Jack's eyes cut back. Robby shrugged. "She's a nurse. She notices things for a living. Also, you are not subtle."

"I am extremely subtle." "You nearly committed a felony because a bomb tech said 'subject.'" Jack glared at him.

Robby lifted both hands slightly. "Subtle as mist." Despite himself, despite the radio, despite the corridor and the patient and the terror chewing the inside of his chest apart, Jack's mouth moved.

Barely. Then it was gone. Robby saw it anyway.

His expression softened again. "There you are." "Don't." "Okay."

A beat. Then Robby said, "Listen to me." Jack exhaled. "You keep saying that."

"Because you keep acting like you're going to do something dumb." "I'm standing here."

"You are one radio update away from becoming a problem." Jack did not argue. That was answer enough.

Robby stepped closer. "She needs you alive," Robby said. "She needs you outside the perimeter. She needs you making medical decisions that don't come from panic. She needs you to not turn your fear into another thing Vale has to manage."

Jack looked away. Robby's voice gentled, but did not soften enough to let him escape.

"And when she comes out," he said, "she's going to need you to be the person she can fall apart with. Not the person everyone had to restrain." When.

Not if. Jack shut his eyes again. This time, he held the word.

When. When she comes out.

When she hears him say the thing he should have said before a bomb squad sergeant and an evacuated ED and her hand on a device made cowards of every careful delay. When he can touch her.

When he can tell her that he took the ring off not because love had ended, but because it had changed rooms. When.

He opened his eyes. Robby was still there. Annoyingly.

Thankfully. Jack's voice came out low. "I don't know how to do this." Robby nodded. "I know."

"I'm better in the room." "Most of us are."

"No." Jack shook his head. "I mean I am better when there is blood and a job and something to fix." Robby's mouth twisted. "Yeah. I noticed."

Jack stared at the command table. At the radio. At Lena's pen moving over the roster.

At the little boy with the splinted wrist wrapped in the allegedly stolen blanket. At the elderly woman in the east hall clutching her oxygen tubing while Perlah crouched in front of her and promised her daughter was nearby.

At The Pitt, emptied but still alive. Then at the corridor he could not enter. "What do I do?" Jack asked.

The question cost him more than he wanted it to. Robby did not make him regret it.

"You stand here," Robby said. "You listen. You answer when Vale calls. You let Lena run the evacuation. You let Garcia run the OR. You let me handle the board. And you do not pick another fight with bomb squad unless they actually endanger her." Jack swallowed.

"And breathe," Robby added. Jack gave him a look. Robby shrugged. "You're bad at it."

"I'm a physician." "Physicians are the worst patients." "I'm not a patient."

"Not yet." Jack's eyes narrowed. Robby held up a hand. "Too soon?"

"Deeply." "Fair." The radio crackled again.

Every person at the command point froze. Jack turned so fast his hip nearly clipped the rolling cart.

Lena grabbed the radio. "Command." Static.

Vale's voice came through, clipped and calm. "Trauma One. Field support placed. Nurse remains stable. No device movement observed."

Jack's breath left him so hard Robby's hand twitched like he wanted to steady him. Vale continued.

"Patient pressure declining. Nurse identified change from monitor. No visible increase in external bleeding. Requesting medical recommendation before proceeding to controlled removal plan." Lena looked at Jack.

So did everyone else. For one second, Jack heard Robby's voice again. Get your act together.

He stepped forward. Not toward the corridor. Toward the radio.

Lena let him take it this time. Jack pressed the button. His voice came out steady.

Not calm. Steady.

"Abbott. Continue blood as running. Do not alter her pressure to chase the blood pressure. If there's no visible external increase, assume internal loss. He needs OR, but not until Vale clears transport. Her hand stays exactly where it is until Vale has stabilization." A pause.

Then Vale: "Copy." Jack closed his eyes briefly. Then pressed the button again.

"And tell her," he said, voice rougher despite every effort, "she is doing exactly what she needs to do." Static.

A second. Two. Then Vale answered.

"I'll tell her." The radio went quiet. Jack lowered it slowly.

Robby stood beside him. Lena watched him from the other side of the table. No one spoke.

Jack looked down at his bare left hand. Then toward the corridor. Still unable to see you.

Still unable to reach you. Still here. Still useful.

Barely. For now.

Readers POV

Vale told you what Jack said. Not immediately. First, he finished listening to the radio.

First, he looked at the monitor. First, he looked at your hand, at the wound, at the small field supports he had built around your forearm like the most terrible scaffolding in the world.

Then he looked at you. "Dr. Abbott says you are doing exactly what you need to do." For a second, the room disappeared.

Not completely. Never completely.

The monitor still beeped. The blood pump still clicked. Mr. Mercer still breathed with the help of machinery. Your right hand still stayed buried inside his flank, palm braced against the foreign body that everyone was now careful not to describe too much. But Jack's voice existed in the sentence Vale had carried to you.

Not the sound of it. The weight. You swallowed.

"That's manipulative." Vale's expression did not change. "Take it up with him later."

Later. The word moved through you like air. Later was a room that did not have blood on the floor.

Later was Jack close enough to hear. Later was your hand free.

Later was a thing you could not afford to believe in too hard, but you held it anyway. Small. Careful.

Like everything else. Vale set the radio back onto the sheet beside his case. "We're moving to the next step."

Your mouth went dry. "Extraction?" "Preparation for extraction."

"That feels like something people say before extraction." "It is." You tried to breathe.

The protective gear Vale had placed around you shifted very slightly with your chest. The vest was heavy across your left side, awkward where it could not close properly because of the angle of your right arm. The blanket pressed along your hip and thigh. The glasses sat on your face, too clean for the room. The ear protection muffled the edges of sound, which made your own breathing enormous. You hated all of it.

You were grateful for all of it. Vale's radio murmured again.

A voice from outside. "Secondary to Vale. Field support confirmed?" Vale pressed the button. "Partial support placed. Nurse remains primary stabilizer. No visible device movement. Preparing controlled extraction and handoff."

Controlled extraction and handoff. Your stomach turned.

Vale must have seen it, because he looked up before the radio answered. "Do not make that phrase bigger than it is."

"It's pretty big already." "It is a sequence." "It's my hand."

"Yes," he said. "And that is why we do it as a sequence." The voice on the radio returned. "Copy. Maintain communication. Perimeter holding. Medical command standing by."

Medical command. Jack. You did not look toward the radio.

You had learned that lesson. Barely.

Vale shifted his weight, still crouched near the bed. "I am going to tell you the whole sequence once. Then I will give it to you in pieces. You do not move during the explanation." "My hand stays."

"Correct." "My pressure stays." "Correct."

"I don't anticipate." "Correct." He paused.

"Good. Now listen." You listened. There was nowhere else to go.

"I have support around your forearm. It is not bearing your weight. It is there to limit accidental drift. I am going to establish external stabilization around the object. I will tell you before every contact. When I have it, I will ask you to release pressure by degrees." Your heart slammed hard.

"Release pressure." "By degrees," Vale repeated. "Not all at once. Not pulling. Not lifting. Not deciding. I will count. You will follow the count. If I say stop, you stop immediately."

"What if I can't?" "You can." "I'm serious."

"So am I." The calm of him should have been offensive. Maybe it was.

Maybe you needed it anyway. Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "Your body wants to make this one big movement because it is scared. We are not going to let it. We are going to make it small. Pressure first. Angle second. Extraction third. Handoff last. You only live in the step I give you."

Your throat tightened. "That sounds like Jack." "Then he gives good instructions."

"He'd be unbearable if he heard you say that." "Then don't tell him." The almost-laugh hurt your chest.

You held it carefully. The monitor alarm gave a short, angry chirp. Your eyes flicked to it.

Pulse still too fast. Pressure still too low. Sat holding.

For now. "His pressure's still down," you said. Vale glanced, then back to you. "Is it worse?"

You looked without moving your head. "No. Same range." "Then it is not your step."

You hated that. You understood it. "Okay."

Vale lifted the radio again. "Vale to secondary. Beginning stabilization. Nurse is alert and able to follow commands. Patient pressure remains low but no acute monitor change." "Copy. All units holding."

All units. There were people outside you could not see. People holding a perimeter. People moving patients. People waiting for either disaster or miracle.

And Jack. Somewhere outside the emptied ED, Jack was waiting with a radio and bare hands. Your eyes burned.

Vale saw. "Not now," he said. "I know."

"Do you?" "No." His mouth twitched once. "Honest."

"Efficient." He nodded like he accepted the answer. Then his face settled.

Something in the room changed with it. This was no longer preparation. This was the thing.

"I am going to touch the outer wound edge," Vale said. "Not your hand. Not the object." Your breath caught. "Okay."

"Say it." "You're touching the wound edge. Not my hand. Not the object." "Good."

His gloved fingers moved into the edge of your vision. Slow. Unbearably slow.

He touched near the wound. Not you. Not the thing under your palm.

The contact was still close enough that your entire body tried to go rigid. "Hold," Vale said. You held.

"Breathe." You breathed. "Again."

You breathed again. "Good."

The radio murmured low, but Vale did not answer it. His attention narrowed to the wound, to the supports, to your arm. "I am placing stabilization on the lateral side," he said.

You stared at him. "Not the object yet," he added. "Beside it." "Beside it," you repeated.

He placed something you could not see and did not want to see. Your hand stayed in place. Pressure unchanged.

Palm braced against the hard, smooth edge inside Mr. Mercer's flank. Your fingers were starting to feel strange now.

Not numb. Not exactly. But distant, like they belonged to someone who had been holding on for too long.

"Fingers," Vale said. You swallowed. "Weird." "How?"

"Not numb. Just... far away." "Can you feel the shape?" "Yes."

"Can you feel pressure?" "Yes." "Pain?"

"Some." "Good." "Good?"

"Pain means you can still feel enough to follow instructions." You shut your eyes for a fraction of a second.

"Eyes," Vale said. You opened them. "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing." "Tell everyone to stop being terrifying." "Later."

There it was again. Later. You breathed.

Vale placed another support. Then another. Each time, he announced it.

Each time, you repeated back enough to prove you understood. Each time, nothing happened. The room did not explode.

Mr. Mercer did not crash. Your hand did not move. The world continued in tiny, impossible increments.

After what felt like hours and was probably less than three minutes, Vale sat back slightly. His face remained composed.

But you saw something change. A decision settling. "Okay," he said.

The word did not feel okay. Your stomach turned cold. Vale lifted the radio. "Vale to command."

Static. Lena answered. "Command."

"I have preliminary stabilization. Preparing controlled extraction and handoff. Medical standby." A silence.

Then Jack's voice. "Abbott." Your lungs forgot their job.

Vale did not look away from you. "Dr. Abbott, I need you to listen. Do not interrupt unless I ask for medical input." A beat.

Then Jack said, "Understood." It was the least Jack-sounding thing he had ever said.

Vale continued. "Nurse remains alert. Hand position unchanged. I am going to guide pressure release and angle. Due to position, she will have to draw the component out and hand it to me. Patient will need immediate medical entry once I call safe enough for movement." The radio stayed silent for half a second.

That was all. Half a second. But you knew Jack well enough to hear everything he was swallowing inside it.

Then his voice came through. Low. Controlled.

Strained nearly past recognition. "Garcia and anesthesia are ready." "Good."

Another pause. Then Jack asked, "Can she hear me?" Vale looked at you.

Your mouth went dry. "Yes," Vale said. Static.

For a second, nothing. Then Jack's voice softened through the radio in a way that made the whole room tilt.

"Don't listen to me right now," Jack said. Your eyes filled instantly. Vale watched your face.

Jack continued, rougher now. "Listen to Vale. That's your job." You breathed in. It shook.

"I'm trying," you whispered, too quietly for the radio. Vale heard. He did not relay it.

Maybe mercy existed after all. Jack's voice came again. "You can do this."

That was worse. That was better. Then the radio clicked silent from command's end.

Either Jack had let go. Or someone had taken it from him. You did not ask.

Vale set his radio down. "Now me," he said. You nodded internally.

Not with your head. "My hand," you said. "Your hand."

"Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes." "Your voice."

"Yes." "And later." Vale paused for only a second.

"And later." His eyes moved over your face, then to your shoulder, then to the wound. "Your breathing changed," he said.

You swallowed. "I'm aware." "You were steadier a minute ago." "That feels rude to point out."

"It's useful to point out." "Useful to who?" "To both of us."

He placed another support near your forearm, pausing before his hand entered your peripheral vision. "I'm touching the support," he said. "Not you."

"Okay." "You were thinking about Dr. Abbott." Your heart kicked.

You looked at him. Or tried to. Not your head. Just your eyes.

Vale's face stayed maddeningly calm. "That is wildly inappropriate timing." "It's relevant."

"It is absolutely not relevant." "You stopped hyperventilating." "I did not hyperventilate."

"You were close." "I was emotionally breathing." "That's not a thing."

"It is in my line of work." Vale's mouth twitched. Barely.

Then his eyes returned to the wound. "Tell me about him." Your throat closed.

"What?" "Dr. Abbott," Vale said. "Tell me about him." "No."

"That wasn't a request." You stared at him. "You want me to talk about Jack while my hand is inside a patient and there's a bomb under my palm?"

"I want you steady," Vale said. "You are steadier when you think about him. So yes." Your eyes burned. "That's cruel."

"It's practical." "That's worse." "I know."

He adjusted the edge of the protective blanket near your hip, slow enough that your body did not startle. "Start small," Vale said.

"I can't." "You can." "Everyone keeps saying that."

"Then a lot of people are correct." You breathed out. It shook.

Vale looked up. "Small," he repeated. "One thing." Your mouth trembled.

The monitor beeped. Mr. Mercer breathed with the help of machinery.

Somewhere far beyond the emptied trauma corridor, Jack was outside the perimeter, unable to see you, maybe listening to a radio like it was the only thing in the world. You focused on Vale's face.

Not the wound. Not the device. Not the blood drying tacky beneath your glove.

"His pen," you said. Vale paused. "His pen?" "He has this black pen he acts like is government property."

Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "Good. Keep going." "It writes better than the hospital ones." "That matters?"

"At three in the morning? Deeply." Vale's mouth moved again, not quite a smile.

"And he pretends not to know I steal it." "Does he know?" "He knows everything."

Your breathing eased by a fraction. You noticed it. So did Vale.

Of course he did. "He gives it to me anyway," you said. "Why?"

"Because he's an idiot." Vale's eyebrows lifted. "Because he trusts me," you corrected, voice softer.

Vale held your gaze for one beat. Then nodded. "Good."

Your arm still hurt. Your hand was still inside Mr. Mercer's flank. Nothing about the room was better.

But the panic had shifted shape. Not gone. Never gone. But less wild at the edges. Vale reached for the radio clipped near his shoulder.

"Secondary, hold," he said. "I'm maintaining nurse focus before the next step." A voice crackled back. "Copy. Perimeter holding."

Vale looked back at you. "Keep going." "I'm going to run out of things."

"No, you're not." That was the problem. You weren't.

There were too many things. Jack's hand under your bruised wrist. Jack's voice cutting through a room.

Jack standing too close at the nurses' station because neither of you had been brave enough to either step away or step closer. Jack taking the terrible truth and making it smaller.

Jack outside because you had told him to go. Your eyes filled. Vale's voice lowered. "One more."

You shook your head internally. "Tell me one more thing." Your voice came out barely there.

"He makes me feel safe." Vale went still. Not frozen.

Not startled. Just still enough that you knew he understood the size of what you had said.

You kept your eyes on him because if you looked anywhere else, there would be no holding it back. "That's stupid, isn't it?" you whispered. "Considering."

"No," Vale said. The word was immediate. Firm.

Not comforting. Certain. "No," he repeated. "It is not stupid." Your mouth trembled.

Vale's hand settled near the support at your wrist, not touching you yet. "You are steadier now," he said. "We use that."

"Use Jack?" "Use what works." That made a broken sound leave you.

Almost a laugh. Almost a sob. "God, he would hate that."

"Then survive and tell him." There. Later again.

A place to put the fear. Vale's face shifted back into command. "Now we move to extraction."

Your breath caught. "No." "Yes."

"I was enjoying talking about pens." "I know." "Vale."

His eyes held yours. "Keep talking about him," he said. "But follow my count." Your throat tightened.

"How am I supposed to do both?" "Badly, if necessary." "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be. It was an instruction." He lifted his hand. "I am going to place my hand over yours."

Your whole body went cold. "No." "Yes."

"You said—" "I know what I said. This is the step. I will match your position first. You will feel contact over your glove and wrist. You do not respond to the contact."

Your breathing tried to go fast again. Vale cut it off. "Tell me about his hand."

You blinked. "What?" "Dr. Abbott's hand," Vale said. "Earlier. You looked at your wrist when I said contact."

Your throat closed. That was worse than the pen. Much worse.

"That's not fair." "No," Vale said. "It's useful." The room narrowed.

Mr. Mercer breathing. The monitor. Vale's hand hovering above yours.

Jack's hand around your wrist at the nurses' station, careful and warm, thumb resting beneath the red mark like touching you was something he had to make himself do gently. Vale's gloved hand moved into your peripheral vision.

Slow. "Tell me," he said. You swallowed.

"He checked my wrist earlier." "Why?" "Patient grabbed me."

Vale's hand settled lightly over the back of your right hand and wrist where they disappeared into the wound. Your body screamed.

Your hand did not move. Vale's voice stayed even. "Pressure unchanged." You breathed.

"Shape unchanged." You breathed again. "Keep talking."

"It was nothing," you whispered. Vale's eyes flicked to yours. "Was it?" "No."

The answer came out before you could make it smaller. Your eyes burned.

"He didn't make it a thing," you said. "That's what he does. He notices everything, but he lets you keep your dignity." Vale matched the angle of your hand.

Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there.

"And that matters?" "Yes." "Why?"

Your mouth trembled. "Because everyone sees too much in this place," you said. "But Jack... Jack sees it and doesn't use it against you."

Vale's face remained still, but his eyes stayed on yours. "Good," he said. "First count." Your breath caught.

"I am going to ask you to decrease pressure by the smallest amount you can imagine," he said. "While you do, tell me where his thumb was." Your throat tightened.

"Vale." "One step," he said. "One detail." The monitor beeped.

Mr. Mercer breathed. Somewhere outside the perimeter, Jack existed. Alive.

Waiting. Bare hand where the ring used to be, though you did not know that yet. Vale began the count.

"One." Your whole body went silent. "Two."

You thought of Jack's face angled down toward your wrist. "Three." You decreased pressure.

Barely. A surrender smaller than breath. "Under the bruise," you whispered.

Vale's hand stayed over yours. The object did not move. The room did not end.

"Stop," Vale said. You stopped. "Hold there."

You held. Vale checked the markers. "No shift."

A sob slipped out of you. Vale's voice stayed steady. "Good. Again."

"I can't." "You can. Tell me what he did when he let go." You dragged in air.

"What?" "When he let go." You wanted to laugh.

You wanted to scream. You did neither. Vale counted.

"One." Your fingers burned. "Two."

Your palm stayed aligned beneath his hand. "Three." Another fraction of pressure released.

You whispered, "He did it slowly." Vale checked the field. "No shift. Hold."

You held. Tears slid under the protective glasses. Vale's mouth moved by almost nothing.

"Why did that matter?" Your breath came out uneven. "Because he didn't want to."

The words were barely there. Small. Embarrassing.

True. Vale watched you for half a second. Then nodded once.

"Good." The word nearly undid you. Your hand stayed steady.

Vale's hand remained over yours. The foreign body stayed beneath your palm. Less pressure now.

Not gone. Not free. But less.

Enough that the world felt like it had tilted forward. Vale spoke into his radio without looking away.

"Secondary, pressure reduction initiated. No visible shift. Preparing controlled extraction." A voice came back. "Copy. Maintain current sequence."

Controlled extraction. Your mouth went dry again. "What does that mean?"

Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "It means your hand is the only thing with the correct angle." "No."

"Yes." "No, Vale." "Listen to me."

"I can't pull it out." "You can." "No, I can't."

"You can," Vale said again, calm and absolute. "Because you are already holding it. I cannot safely get around your hand without shifting the component. I can stabilize the field. I can receive it. But you are the one who has to draw it out." Your ears filled with static.

Not the radio. Your own blood. The room seemed to move farther away.

"I can't." "You can." "You don't know that."

"No," Vale said. "But you know the angle. Your hand knows it." "That is not comforting." "It is true."

Your breath came too fast. Vale's eyes sharpened. "Do not leave me now."

"I'm not." "You are. Come back." "I don't know how."

"Tell me what Dr. Abbott said when he looked at your wrist." The question hit you sideways.

You blinked hard behind the protective glasses. "What?" "Earlier. What did he say?"

Your mouth trembled. "He told me to tell Shen if Twelve got agitated again." Vale held your gaze.

"And what did he mean?" You swallowed. "He meant he was worried."

"Good. Hold onto that." "I don't want to hold onto that. I want him here." "He is not here."

The bluntness hurt. Vale did not apologize.

"He is alive outside the perimeter because you told him to go," he said. "Now keep him there by doing this right." A sob got caught in your throat.

Your hand stayed steady. "Okay," you whispered. Vale nodded once.

"I'm going to tell you the sequence. You do not move while I explain." "My hand stays." "Yes. For now."

For now. You hated that.

Vale continued. "On my count, you will release pressure another fraction. Then you will change angle exactly with my hand. Then, when I tell you, you will draw the object out along that angle. Slow. No pulling. No jerking. No stopping halfway unless I say stop." Your vision narrowed.

"And then?" "You hand it to me." You stared at him.

The words made no sense. They were simple. They were impossible.

"I hand you the bomb." "You hand me the component," Vale said. "Do not make it sound polite."

"You hand me the component," he repeated. "I will take it. You will let go only when I say I have it." Your breathing broke apart.

The monitor beeped faster. Or maybe that was your pulse. Vale's voice stayed low. "You have done every step so far."

"This is different." "Yes." That was not what you wanted him to say.

He knew that. He said it anyway. The room held for one terrible second.

Then Mr. Mercer's pressure dipped again. Your eyes caught the number. Forty-eight.

Vale saw your face. "Number?" "Forty-eight," you whispered.

His jaw tightened for the first time. Only slightly. Enough.

Time narrowed. "Okay," Vale said. "We finish." Your lips parted.

No sound came out. Vale's hand remained over yours.

"I'm going to take more position now," he said. "You are going to let me guide. Not loose. Not limp. Guided." "Vale—"

"I know." "No, I need—" The sentence broke.

Because suddenly there was no later. No pen. No nurses' station.

No Jack almost smiling at three in the morning. Only this step and the terrifying possibility that it might be the last.

Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "What do you need?" The question undid you.

Not because it was gentle. Because it was practical. Because he was asking like there might be an answer.

Your mouth trembled. "If this goes wrong..." Vale went very still.

"No." "Please." "No messages."

You understood immediately why Jack had stopped Mr. Mercer earlier. You understood it with your whole body.

Messages were surrender. Messages made death feel invited. But fear was bigger than dignity now.

"If this goes wrong," you said, tears running hot under the protective glasses, "make sure Jack knows..." Your throat closed.

Vale's expression changed. Not much. Enough.

"Tell him yourself." "I might not get to." "You don't know that."

"Neither do you." The room held. The monitor beeped too fast.

Mr. Mercer breathed because machines helped him. Your hand stayed against the object. Vale did not speak.

You forced the words out before courage could fail. "Make sure Jack knows I love him." Vale's face stilled completely.

The sentence seemed to exist outside your body now. Huge. Terrible.

True. You had not meant to say it like that. Not here.

Not to Vale. Not with Jack outside the perimeter and a radio silent somewhere beyond the room. But there it was.

The thing you had carried through glances and coffee and bruised wrists and almost-smiles at three in the morning. The thing you had refused to name because naming it made it real and real things could be lost. Too late.

It was real now. Your voice shook. "Tell him I've always loved him."

Vale's jaw tightened. Just once. Then his face became calm again.

Not cold. Steady. "I'll make sure he knows," he said.

It should have comforted you. It didn't. Not exactly.

It made the fear real in a way that nearly broke you. Vale saw that too.

"But I'm not delivering that message today," he said. Your breath caught. "What?"

"You are." A sob broke out of you. "Vale—"

"No." His hand tightened slightly over yours. "You do not get to give me his heart like it's evidence because you're scared." That undid you.

Completely. A sound left you that was almost a laugh and almost grief. "That is incredibly mean."

"Yes." "I'm confessing my love in a bomb room." "You're delaying my count."

A laugh came out of you. Wet. Broken.

Completely inappropriate. Vale's mouth almost moved. Almost.

Then he said, "Dr. Abbott can hear it from you when your hand is free." "When?" "When."

You cried again. But your hand stayed steady. Vale waited one breath.

Two. Then he said, "Ready?" "No."

"Correct answer. We're doing it anyway." Your lungs shook. "My hand."

"Your hand." "Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes."

"Your voice." "Yes." "And later."

Vale held your gaze. "And later." Then his voice changed.

Sharper. Command.

"On my count. Pressure release and angle together. I have your position. You follow my hand. You do not stop unless I say stop." Your whole body went cold.

"Okay." "Say it." "I follow your hand. I don't stop unless you say stop."

"Good." The monitor alarmed again. Vale did not look away.

"One." You felt his hand guide yours. "Two."

Your fingers loosened by a degree. "Three." You moved.

Slow. Not pulling. Not jerking.

Not escaping. Following. Vale's hand over yours.

The wound releasing around your glove by awful fractions. The foreign body shifting from something pinned under your palm to something held between your fingers with the most careful grip of your life.

Your body screamed to yank free. You did not. "Stop," Vale said.

You stopped. Halfway. Your hand still partly inside.

The object partly drawn out. The worst possible place. Your breath came in ragged gasps.

Vale's eyes checked the markers. The wound. The object.

The monitor. "No shift." You sobbed.

"Good," he said. "Final count." "I can't." "You are."

"I can't." "You are." "My fingers—"

"Follow my hand." "Vale—" "Look at me."

You did. He was the whole world now. Not Jack.

Not later. Not love. This.

Vale's face. Vale's hand. Vale's count. "Final count," he said. "One." Your hand followed.

"Two." The wound released another fraction of your glove. "Three."

The object came free. For one impossible second, you were holding it. Not under your palm.

Not hidden inside Mr. Mercer's body. In your hand. Small enough to hold.

Heavy enough to end everything. Your mind tried to understand that and failed. Vale's hand was already there.

Open. Steady. "Do not look at it," he said.

Too late. You had already seen enough. Metal.

Blood. Wrongness. "Eyes on me," Vale said.

You snapped back to him. "Hand it to me." Your arm moved.

Slowly. So slowly it felt like time had become thick around your wrist. Your fingers did not tighten.

Did not loosen. Did not shake. Vale's hand came beneath yours.

"Not yet," he said. You froze with the object suspended between you. A sob tore through your throat.

"Vale." "Not yet." Your shoulder screamed.

Your fingers burned. The monitor shrieked. Mr. Mercer's blood slicked your glove.

Vale adjusted his grip by a fraction. "Now," he said. You released it.

Vale took the object. Fully. Cleanly.

No drop. No shift. No end.

For one impossible second, nothing happened. No blast. No sound.

No light. Only your empty hand hanging in the space where the object had been. Covered in blood.

Shaking now. Finally shaking. Vale did not move immediately.

He held the component exactly where it was, both hands steady, his eyes locked on the containment setup beside him. "Hand clear," he said, not into the radio.

To you. To the room. To himself, maybe.

Your breath came out broken. "My hand is clear," you whispered. "Yes," Vale said. "Keep it that way."

His eyes flicked once to the sealed containment case at his side. His squad would be waiting beyond the corridor. Watching. Ready. They would not need him to explain every second. Not while he had the thing in his hands. He lowered the component into the containment cradle with excruciating care.

Once. Slow. Exact.

Then his left hand lifted just enough to activate the case mechanism. A soft click. A lock.

The smallest sound in the world. His radio crackled once from the floor, voices layered under static.

"Vale, confirm status." Vale did not answer. He had both hands on the containment case now.

His attention had narrowed completely. To the case. To the route.

To every inch between Trauma One and wherever his team planned to take it. Your hand was out. Empty.

Free. You stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

Like it had come back from somewhere it should not have survived. Mr. Mercer was still breathing.

The monitor was still screaming. The blood pump was still clicking. The room had not ended.

You had not ended. Then Jack's voice broke through the radio lying on the floor. Raw.

Uncontrolled. "Is she clear?" Vale's eyes flicked toward the radio.

Only once. He did not reach for it. Did not answer.

Couldn't. Not now. Not with the containment case in his hands and the component inside it.

Your eyes filled instantly. You wanted to answer. You wanted to tell Jack you were clear.

You wanted to tell him your hand was free. You wanted to tell him you loved him yourself, because Vale had refused to be your courier and maybe, impossibly, he had been right.

But your throat would not work. The radio crackled again. "Vale, confirm."

Then Lena's voice, tighter. "Trauma One, status?" Vale still did not answer. He looked at you instead.

"Stay where you are," he said. Your mouth trembled. "Vale—"

"Do not follow me. Do not move toward the door. Medical will come when the route is clear." "Where are you going?"

"Out." "With it?" "With it."

Your stomach dropped. He lifted the containment case carefully. Not fast.

Never fast. But with controlled urgency, the kind that changed the pressure in the room. Every movement had purpose now.

Every breath looked measured. The case was sealed, but no one in the room pretended sealed meant safe.

Vale backed away from the bed first. One step. Pause.

Another. He did not turn his back on the field until he had cleared the edge of the trauma bay table. Only then did he angle toward the doors.

The radio kept murmuring from the floor. Static. Questions.

Command trying not to sound like command was afraid. Jack's voice cut through once more. Your name.

Not a question this time. A fracture. You closed your eyes for half a second.

Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Open them." You did.

"Stay standing," he said. "I'm trying." "You're succeeding."

"Feels different," you whispered. "It usually does." He reached the trauma bay doors.

The corridor beyond was empty. Bright. Too quiet.

For one terrible second, Vale stood in the threshold with the containment case held steady in both hands. Then he stepped through.

The door swung wider behind him. You saw the evacuated corridor beyond him.

Saw one bomb squad officer far down the hall, shield raised but not close. Saw another at the corner, hand lifted in a signal you did not understand.

Vale kept moving. One step into the corridor. Then another.

Farther from you. Farther from Mr. Mercer. Farther from the bed.

Not far enough. The radio on the floor hissed. Someone said, "Hold perimeter."

Then the world went white. There was no sound at first. That was the strangest part.

No roar. No bang. Just light.

Pressure. The whole room hitting you at once.

The force punched through the trauma bay like a hand through glass. The door blew inward. The windows shattered. The monitor tore sideways. Something slammed into the wall hard enough to break apart. Heat and air and noise arrived together, too big for your body to understand. You were thrown backward.

Not falling. Thrown. Your feet left the floor.

Your shoulder struck something first. Then your back. Then the ground.

The air left your lungs in one hard, silent burst. For a second, you could not tell if you were still in your body.

The ceiling lights flickered above you. Or maybe they were sparks. Or maybe your eyes were not working right.

Sound came back wrong. Muffled. Distant.

Like you were underwater. The monitor was screaming, but it sounded far away. The fire alarm flashed without meaning. Somewhere, glass was still falling. Somewhere, someone was shouting.

You could not hear the words. Your ears rang with one long, high note that swallowed everything else. You tried to move.

Pain answered from everywhere. Your right hand curled against the floor. Empty.

Free. Still free. That mattered.

You didn't know why yet. Only that it mattered. Your mouth opened.

You tried to say Jack's name. Nothing came out. Or maybe it did.

You couldn't hear it. Smoke drifted across the trauma lights. The room tilted.

Darkness crowded the edges of your vision. The last thing you saw was the trauma bay door hanging half-open in its frame.

Beyond it, shapes moved in the white haze. Running. Shouting.

Readers POV

At two forty-three in the morning, The Pitt was not quiet. It was never quiet. It just changed volume depending on the hour. By midnight, the department had been loud in the obvious ways: stretchers rattling through ambulance doors, family members asking for updates every seven minutes, monitors chirping over each other, somebody crying in the waiting room because the vending machine had eaten their card. By two forty-three, it had gone into a different kind of noise. The tired kind.

The kind made of phones ringing too long, printers jamming, half-finished orders, low voices behind curtains, wheels squeaking over linoleum, nurses saying, "I'll be right there," in the exact tone that meant they had already said it five times.

You stood at the nurses' station with trauma shears clipped to your scrub pocket, two labels stuck to your wrist, and a computer frozen on the medication record. You tapped the mouse. Nothing. You tapped it harder. Still nothing. Jack stood beside you, looking down at the screen.

"Threatening it won't help."

You didn't look up. "I'm not threatening it."

"You're staring at it like you know where its children go to school."

"I do. They're all in radiology, refusing to upload images."

His mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. That was usually all anyone got from him at this hour. You reached for the keyboard and hit enter again. The screen stayed frozen.

"Brilliant," you muttered. "Love a machine with boundaries."

Jack leaned one forearm against the counter, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Try logging out."

"If I log out, I may never get back in."

"That sounds dramatic."

"This hospital once locked me out because I entered my password too emotionally."

"That explains several things."

You turned your head and gave him a look. Jack looked back, perfectly bland. The fluorescent light cut shadows under his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a smear of dried betadine near one cuff. He looked tired in that clean, contained way he had, like exhaustion had asked for permission before settling on him. Infuriating. You clicked the mouse again. The system gave one weak blink and unfroze.

You lifted both hands. "See? It responds to fear."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Disturbing management style."

"Says the man who makes residents apologize to CT."

"They should."

"They absolutely should," you said, and reached for the med scanner.

Across the station, Perlah was on the phone with lab, using her calmest voice, which meant someone was in danger. Princess stood at the counter with a tray of specimens, labelling each one with the focus of a woman who had entered a temporary spiritual agreement with order. A call bell went off. Then another.

From Curtain Three, a woman called, "Excuse me? My father still hasn't gotten his sandwich."

Princess closed her eyes for half a second.

You looked toward the curtain. "He's NPO."

"She says bread doesn't count if it's hospital bread," Princess said.

Jack glanced toward Curtain Three. "Creative."

"Medically useless, but creative."

Perlah hung up the phone and said, "Lab says they never got the green top from Bay Six."

Princess held up a bag without looking. "That green top?"

Perlah stared at it. Princess stared back.

You whispered, "Nobody move. It might be a trap."

Jack took the specimen bag from Princess and checked the label. "Bay Six."

Princess pointed toward the tube station. "It was waiting for the printer."

"The printer doesn't process labs."

"It had an attitude. I was letting it calm down."

Perlah came over and snatched the bag. "I'll walk it down before this place invents a new failure point."

She left with the grim purpose of someone going into battle.

Jack watched her go. "She's handling the night well."

"She threatened to divorce the tube system ten minutes ago."

"Healthy boundaries."

You scanned the medication and signed it off before the computer changed its mind. "You always this supportive of workplace conflict?"

"Only when it's justified."

"That's every night."

"Then yes."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack looked at you. Only for a second. But there it was again. That almost-warmth. That almost-softening. The look that made you forget, briefly and stupidly, that you were at work. You looked away first. Safer. The problem with Jack was that most people saw the sharp edges and stopped there. The dry comments. The clinical stare. The way he could flatten a room with one sentence and no raised voice. All of that was real. But it was not all of him. You knew that now.

You knew because he remembered which patients made you clench your jaw. Because he put coffee near your charting hand on bad nights and pretended he had just "overestimated his own caffeine needs." Because he stepped in when a family member got too loud, not to take over, but to stand beside you while you handled it yourself.

Because he had a way of seeing too much and saying almost nothing. Tonight, he had seen Curtain Twelve. You had known he had. The patient had been septic, febrile, frightened, and strong enough to grab your wrist when you leaned over to adjust his line. It had lasted maybe three seconds before you got him to let go. Princess had been there. Shen had been called. The man had apologized afterward, confused and shaking. It was over. It should have been over. But Jack's eyes had dropped to your wrist three times since. You kept pulling your sleeve down without meaning to. Jack noticed that too. Of course he did.

You tried to ignore it by moving. That usually worked in the ED. There was always something else to do, somewhere else to put your hands, another task to fold yourself into until whatever awkward, tender thing had started to rise between you sank back down again.

You checked on Bay Five, who insisted his breathing was "fine now" while still requiring oxygen. Ellis adjusted his orders and gave him the kind of look that made him reconsider lying to women in scrubs. Shen finally got cardiology to answer by using Jack's name like an institutional threat. Princess found two missing saline flushes in a linen cart and declared it "evidence of collapse."

Normal. Annoying. Alive. By three ten, you were back at the station, rewriting a discharge instruction because the printer had decided to cut off everything after return immediately if— which felt medically bold. You reached for the tape dispenser and winced before you could stop yourself. It was small. Barely anything. The kind of automatic reaction you would have ignored on any other night, from any other bruise. Your wrist had twisted awkwardly when Twelve grabbed you earlier, and the movement pulled at the sore place just enough to make your fingers pause. You recovered quickly. Not quickly enough. Jack was three feet away, signing a chart. His pen stopped moving.

You looked at the papers very hard and pretended not to notice him noticing. That was usually the safest method with Jack. If you gave him an opening, he would walk through it with that quiet, terrible focus of his, the one that made patients confess symptoms they had planned to take to the grave and made residents suddenly remember protocols they had been ignoring. You reached for the tape again with your other hand. Jack said nothing. Which meant he was absolutely going to say something. You could feel him beside you, still and silent, while the department kept moving around both of you.

Princess passed behind the station with a stack of clean blankets and paused long enough to look between your wrist and Jack's face.

"Nope," she said under her breath, and kept walking.

You shot her a warning look. She ignored it with professional ease.

Perlah leaned around the corner from the desk phone. "Radiology says the portable chest from Four is 'in process.'"

You latched onto that like a life raft. "It's been in process for forty minutes."

Jack's gaze did not leave your wrist. "Did they define process?"

Princess, already halfway down the hall, called back, "They defined it as 'in process.'"

"That's circular," Jack said.

"That's radiology," you answered.

It almost worked. For about three seconds, the conversation went back to normal. You wrote another line. The printer coughed. Someone laughed down the hall. Shen's voice rose from Bay Six, calm but deeply tired. Then your sleeve slipped back as you reached for the discharge packet. The red mark showed again. Jack set his pen down. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you heard it. You looked at him. He looked at your wrist.

And then, quiet enough that it did not belong to the station, he said, "Let me see."

You glanced toward Curtain Three, toward Princess disappearing down the hall, toward Perlah still half on the phone. Nobody was watching directly. Everyone was probably listening a little, because this was The Pitt and walls were a myth, but no one was making it obvious. You could have told him no. Not because you wanted to. Because saying yes felt like letting him stand somewhere closer than either of you usually admitted he already did. But Jack did not reach for you. He just waited. A request. Not an order. That was worse, somehow. You turned your wrist over. Jack took your hand carefully. Not dramatically. Not like you were fragile.

Like he was trying very hard not to make you feel watched. His fingers settled around your palm first, warm and steady. Then his thumb shifted the edge of your sleeve back just enough to see the faint red mark circling the skin. It barely hurt. You had seen worse bruises from IV pumps and supply carts and the med room drawer that stuck every time someone needed something fast. Jack's jaw tightened anyway. You watched his face instead of your wrist. That was safer, and somehow not safer at all.

He did not look angry exactly. Not in the easy way. It was quieter than that. Controlled. Focused down into something small enough to survive at the nurses' station. If he had been another man, he might have made noise about it. Asked too many questions. Turned concern into a spectacle. Jack didn't. He just looked. That made it harder to breathe. His thumb did not press the mark. It rested just beneath it. Warm. Steady.

A point of contact small enough that anyone walking past could miss it, but you couldn't. You felt it all the way up your arm, under your ribs, in the place where your heart had gotten embarrassingly used to making bad decisions around him.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Quiet. Still not quite doctor. Not quite anything else either.

"No," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

You amended, because Jack had a gift for making lies feel useless, "Not much."

His gaze held yours for a beat. Long enough that the sounds around you seemed to thin out — not disappear, exactly, because The Pitt never allowed anything that generous, but fade to the edge of awareness. The phone ringing. The printer grinding. Princess saying something down the hall. Shen's voice from Bay Six, calm and deeply tired. All of it kept going. You and Jack didn't. His thumb moved once. Not over the bruise. Just beneath it. A slow, careful sweep against your pulse. You wondered if he could feel it jump. You knew he could. That was the problem with him.

He noticed everything and let you pretend he hadn't. Jack's eyes dropped to where his thumb rested against your skin. His expression stayed almost unreadable, but something in his face had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. Not clinical. Not anymore. There was no reason for him to keep holding your wrist. He had already seen the bruise. Already assessed the mark. Already confirmed you were not hiding anything worse under your sleeve. He should have let go. You should have pulled away. Neither of you did. Your fingers shifted once against his palm. Barely. An accident, maybe. Except Jack looked at them. Then back at you.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. His thumb stilled. For one dangerous second, you thought he was going to say something. Not a joke. Not a clipped instruction. Something real enough to make the station lights feel too bright. But Jack was Jack. And the room was full of patients and nurses and unfinished charts and every reason in the world not to cross whatever line the two of you kept walking up to and pretending was just part of the floor. So he said nothing.

He only turned your wrist a fraction more, checking the mark from the other angle with a care so quiet it almost hurt worse than words.

"You should ice it," he said at last.

There it was. A safe sentence. A clinical sentence. You almost smiled because it sounded so much like him and so little like what was actually happening.

"I'll add it to my glamorous post-shift plans."

His eyes lifted again. "You have plans?"

The question was too casual. You heard what sat under it anyway.

You shrugged lightly, because you were not brave enough to do anything else. "Sleep. Maybe laundry. Maybe staring at a wall until my soul comes back."

"Ambitious."

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm devastated."

His hand was still around your wrist. His thumb was still against your pulse. You looked down at it, then back at him. Jack noticed. Of course he did. This time, his expression changed before he could stop it. Not much. A flicker of restraint. The faintest tightening around his eyes. Like letting go had become a choice instead of a reflex. Like he knew exactly how long he had been touching you. Like he knew you knew too. Your mouth went dry.

"Jack," you said.

Not warning. Not question. Just his name. His fingers flexed once around your hand. Then, slowly, he released you. Not all at once. His thumb left your pulse first. Then his fingers loosened from your palm. Then your hand was yours again, and somehow that felt colder than it should have. You tucked it against your side before you could do something stupid, like reach for him again.

"Thanks," you said, because you had to say something.

Jack nodded once.

His voice was even when he answered, but quieter than before. "Tell Shen if Twelve gets agitated again."

"I will."

His expression told you he did not fully believe that. Your expression told him you knew. Neither of you pushed it. That was the thing between you lately. Everything unspoken, and somehow all of it too loud. For a second longer, Jack stayed where he was. Close enough that his sleeve nearly brushed yours. Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes and the line his mouth made when he was keeping too much behind it. Then Princess's voice carried from down the hall.

"Radiology says the portable chest from Four is still 'in process.'"

The station exhaled around you. The moment broke. Not cleanly. Not completely. Just enough for both of you to pretend it had.

You frowned toward Princess. "That's what they said ten minutes ago."

"They have committed to the bit."

Jack reached for the chart you had been about to grab and handed it to you. "Bay Five needs reassessment before he negotiates another cigarette."

You took the chart. "He offered me three dollars and half a pack of gum earlier."

"Was the gum sealed?"

"No."

"Then no deal."

You smiled. This time, Jack almost did too. The station settled back into motion.

You checked on Bay Five again, adjusted his nasal cannula when he tried to claim oxygen worked better if it was "nearby," and reminded him that lungs were not spiritual. Ellis laughed into her chart. Shen finally walked past with a face that suggested cardiology had answered the phone and made him regret wanting that.

By three twenty, you were back at the station again, rewriting the discharge paper because the printer had cut off the final line a second time. Jack came up beside you with a chart in one hand and his good pen in the other. You looked at the pen. He looked at you.

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask."

"You looked."

"I admire quality stationery."

"You steal quality stationery."

"I prefer redistribute."

Jack handed you a different pen from the cup. You clicked it. It didn't work. You clicked it again. Nothing. You held it up. Jack looked at it, then sighed and gave you his.

You accepted it with great dignity. "That was very brave."

"It was a lapse in judgment."

"Still counts."

"Give it back."

"When I'm done."

"You've said that before."

"And yet here we are."

His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned closer to read the discharge paper. It was not necessary. The font was large enough. Neither of you moved away.

"You misspelled dizziness," he said.

You looked down. You had.

"You saw nothing."

"I saw malpractice."

"It's three in the morning."

"Dizziness still has two z's at three in the morning."

"Does it?"

"Usually."

You corrected it. Jack stayed there, close and quiet, his attention ostensibly on the paperwork. Your attention was on the warmth of him beside you. On the place where his hand had held your wrist. On how he had not said what he was thinking, and how somehow that made it worse. Then the ambulance radio crackled. The whole station shifted before the words even came through. Everyone heard the tone first. The clipped urgency. The incoming.

"Medic Seven to Mercy, inbound with trauma alert."

Jack straightened. You felt the change in him instantly. The warmth, the almost-smile, the quiet station version of him vanished behind something stiller. Sharper. The radio continued.

"Adult male, early twenties. Blast injury from unknown device. Penetrating abdominal trauma, burns to torso and upper extremities. Hypotensive en route. Altered mental status. ETA four minutes."

For a breath, nobody spoke. Blast injury. Unknown device. You looked at Jack. His face had closed. Not panic. Never panic. Something older than that. Something trained into the bones. You knew pieces of his army history the way most people knew pieces of Jack — incompletely, carefully, mostly through what he did not say. But you knew enough to recognize when certain words landed badly. This one landed. Then he moved.

"Trauma One," Jack called, voice cutting clean through the station. "Now."

The department snapped with him. Princess was already reaching for the blood cooler.

Perlah grabbed the phone. "Surgery and anesthesia?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Tell them penetrating abdominal blast injury, unstable, possible retained foreign body. Shen, airway side. Ellis, monitors and access."

Shen came out of the physician workroom, expression gone alert. "Unknown device?"

"Unknown," Jack said.

Just that. But it changed the air. You stripped off your old gloves and moved to the trauma sink. Jack turned toward you.

"Left side," he said.

Not a question. Not quite an order either. He trusted you there.

You nodded. "Already there."

His eyes held yours for half a second. Whatever had passed between you at the station was still there, pushed down beneath the incoming trauma, beneath protocol, beneath the part of both of you that knew how to work when the room got loud. Then Jack looked toward the ambulance doors. The sirens were close now. Growing louder. You pulled on fresh gloves, your wrist still warm where his hand had been. And waited for the doors to open. The ambulance doors opened hard enough to rattle the frame. Noise came with them.

Wheels over linoleum. Monitor alarms. A paramedic's voice cutting through the department. Rainwater hitting the floor from jackets and boots. The metallic smell that always seemed to arrive before the stretcher did. Blood. Smoke. Burned fabric. You had half a second to see Jack's face. Still. Not blank. Jack was never blank. There was always something moving under the surface with him, even when he didn't let it reach daylight. But this was different. The words from the radio had followed him into the trauma bay. Blast injury. Unknown device. For one breath, he looked like a man hearing something from a long way away.

Then the stretcher crossed the threshold, and Jack was back.

"Trauma One," he said. "Straight in."

The paramedics moved fast. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell beneath the soot and blood and the harsh white light of the bay. His clothes had already been cut open in places, most of his shirt peeled away, the edges of it blackened and wet. Burns marked his chest and shoulder in angry red patches. His left arm was wrapped above the elbow with a tourniquet, blood dark around the torn sleeve below it. But his abdomen was worse. No. Not abdomen. Side.

Left flank, low and ragged, half-covered by an EMS dressing that had already soaked through. Blood had spread beneath the padding and down onto the sheet in dark, fast streaks. You moved to the patient's left side without needing Jack to point. That was where he put you. That was where he trusted you. Shen took airway. Ellis moved to the monitor. Princess came in with the blood cooler and set it where you could reach. Perlah stood at the threshold with the phone pressed to one ear, already calling surgery. The lead paramedic started report before the stretcher stopped moving.

"Twenty-three-year-old male, Evan Mercer. Found in a garage after reported device failure. Fire was still securing the scene when we left. Burns to torso and upper extremities, penetrating injury to left flank and abdomen, altered en route. Pressure eighty over palp, pulse one-forty, respirations shallow. One eighteen in the right AC, fluids running. Tourniquet left upper arm placed at zero-two-fifty-eight."

Jack listened without interrupting, eyes moving over the patient, over the lines, over the tourniquet, over the soaked dressing at his side.

"What kind of device?" he asked.

The paramedic shook his head. "Unknown. Fire said homemade. We weren't given details."

"Any concern he brought anything active in with him?"

"Not that they told us. They cleared him for transport once they got him away from the workbench. They told us not to pull any debris, minimize movement, get him here."

"Did anything shift during transport?"

"Not that we saw. Dressing stayed in place. Bleeding got worse in the last three minutes."

That mattered. You saw Jack file it away. The patient moaned beneath the oxygen mask. His eyes opened and rolled toward the lights.

"Mr. Mercer," Shen said, leaning in. "You're at Mercy. Stay with us."

The patient jerked weakly against the straps.

Jack stepped closer. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Dr. Abbott. You're in the emergency department. We're going to take care of you."

The patient's mouth moved beneath the mask. Nothing came out.

"On my count," Jack said. "Ready? One, two, three."

Everyone moved. The transfer was brutal and clean. The patient slid from stretcher to trauma bed in one coordinated pull. The monitor shrieked as leads were switched over. Ellis called out numbers while Princess snapped open blood tubing.

"Pressure seventy-eight systolic," Ellis said. "Pulse one-forty-six. Sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather."

"Shen?" Jack asked.

"Airway's not great," Shen said. "He's tiring. Burns near the neck, no obvious soot in the mouth. Voice weak."

Jack said, "Prepare for intubation. I want anesthesia in here."

Perlah called from the door, "Anesthesia's coming. Surgery too."

"Good. Two large-bore IVs if we can get them. Blood now. TXA. Burn dressings after hemorrhage control."

You cut away enough of the remaining fabric to expose the dressing EMS had placed. The gauze was soaked through. Not just stained. Saturated. Blood welled at the edges with each shallow, frantic breath the patient took.

"Dressing's saturated," you said.

Jack was there immediately. "Active bleed?"

"Looks like it."

"Hold pressure. Don't pull anything. Don't remove anything embedded."

That was standard. Normal. Trauma nursing, not surgery. Control the bleeding. Maintain pressure. Don't go hunting. Don't extract anything. Keep the patient alive long enough for the people with scalpels and better lighting. You placed both gloved hands over the dressing and leaned in with firm, even pressure. The gauze gave beneath your palms. Warmth pushed up between your fingers. Mr. Mercer bucked against the bed.

Shen caught his shoulder. "Easy. Easy."

Mr. Mercer's eyes went wide. He tried to speak around the mask.

"No—"

Jack looked at him. "Mr. Mercer, stay still."

"No," he gasped. "Don't— don't touch—"

"You're bleeding," Jack said. "She's holding pressure."

Mr. Mercer shook his head weakly, panic cutting through shock. "Don't move it."

Your hands stayed where they were. Pressure over dressing. Nothing more. But the blood kept coming. Too much. It slid hot under your palms, slicking the gauze until the pressure dressing no longer felt like pressure at all. It shifted beneath you, unstable and soaked, and the patient's pressure dropped on the monitor with a sharper alarm.

"Sixty-eight systolic," Ellis said.

Garcia entered then, gown half tied, hair pulled back, already gloving as she crossed the room. "What do we have?"

"Blast injury," Jack said. "Unstable. Penetrating left flank and abdomen. Active hemorrhage. Possible retained foreign body. Dressing's saturated."

Garcia stepped to the opposite side of the bed and looked down. Her face sharpened.

"That dressing isn't doing anything," she said. "We need direct pressure at the source."

Jack looked at the wound. Then at you. A single beat. A decision neither of you had time to make gently.

"Can you maintain pressure if we open the dressing?" he asked.

"Yes," you said.

Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Garcia's eyes flicked to Jack. "We don't pull anything."

"We don't pull anything," Jack said. "We expose only what we need to control hemorrhage."

Anesthesia came in behind Garcia, mask hanging around his neck, respiratory at his shoulder.

"I hear airway and hypotension," anesthesia said.

"You heard correctly," Shen said. "He's tiring."

Jack didn't look away from the wound. "Prepare for intubation. Hold until I say."

Anesthesia's hand paused, but he nodded. "Understood."

Jack looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

"Slow," he said. "Only the dressing. Hands steady."

Garcia cut the outer wrap. You kept pressure until the last second. Then the dressing opened beneath your hands. Blood surged. Dark. Fast. Immediate.

"Pressure," Jack said.

You moved before the word finished. Not exploring. Not searching. Just following the bleed. Your right hand pressed deep into the torn opening at his side, fingers sinking past slick tissue and ruined fabric, down to the place where the bleeding seemed to pulse hardest. Your left hand braced over your own wrist to hold the pressure steady. The heat of it swallowed your glove. Mr. Mercer screamed.

Shen leaned close. "Mr. Mercer, stay with me."

"Pressure?" Jack asked.

You swallowed hard.

"Better," you said. "Not controlled."

Garcia leaned just close enough to see without touching. "You're tamponading something."

"I can feel resistance," you said.

"Debris?"

"I don't know."

You did not move your hand. You did not lift. You did not go deeper. You just held. That was the job. Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Let surgery get there. Mr. Mercer's hand jerked toward his side.

Ellis caught it gently but firmly. "No, Mr. Mercer. Don't grab."

His eyes fixed on you. On your arm. On where your hand disappeared into the wound in his side.

"No," he gasped.

Jack leaned over him. "Mr. Mercer."

"No. No, no, no."

"Listen to me," Jack said. "You're bleeding. She's stopping the bleed."

Mr. Mercer shook his head. Tears mixed with soot at the corners of his eyes.

"Don't move it."

The room tightened. You felt your own breathing change. Jack saw.

"What?" he asked.

You kept your eyes on him because looking at your hand suddenly felt impossible.

"There's something against my palm."

Garcia went still.

Jack's voice stayed controlled. "Describe it."

Your mouth had gone dry.

"Hard," you said. "Smooth edge. Not loose."

Anesthesia's hand stopped above the medication tray. Shen looked from the patient to Jack. The monitors kept beeping. Nobody else moved. Jack's face did not change. That scared you more than if it had.

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, voice low and controlled, "the foreign body in your flank — what is it?"

Mr. Mercer stared at him. His breathing hitched hard.

"I don't know."

"Mr. Mercer."

"My brother said not to pull it."

The words dropped into the trauma bay one at a time. You felt each one. Jack's eyes moved back to yours. Still calm. Too calm.

"What exactly did your brother say?" he asked.

Mr. Mercer's eyes filled.

"He said if part of it got stuck, don't pull. Don't let it shift."

Garcia's face changed. Anesthesia looked at Jack. Shen did not move. Princess stood by the blood cooler, suddenly pale above her mask. Mr. Mercer sobbed once, weak and terrified.

"He said it could still go."

The room lost all its air. Could still go. Your hand stayed inside his side. Pressed against blood and torn tissue and the hard, wrong shape beneath your palm. For one strange, awful second, your mind did not give you fear. It gave you details. The heat of the wound. The pressure of your left hand bracing your right. The ache already starting in your shoulders. The slick pull of blood around your wrist. The blood warmer humming. Jack's face. God, Jack's face. He looked down at where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then at the wound. Then back at you. The old stillness was there again. Not panic. Training. Memory. Calculation.

Something awful and familiar moving behind his eyes.

Garcia spoke first, very quietly. "Jack."

"I know," he said.

Anesthesia's voice was low and tight. "Is he saying there's an active explosive component inside the wound?"

"No one says that yet," Jack replied.

His voice was calm. Too calm. He lifted one hand slightly, palm down. A signal to the room. Hold. Stay. Do not react. Then he looked at you. Only you.

"Do not move your hand," Jack said.

Your throat locked. Your whole body wanted to nod. His voice sharpened immediately, not loud, but absolute.

"Don't nod. Don't shift. Don't do anything with your body except breathe."

You froze. Everything in you went still. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's side. Exactly where it was. Jack's eyes stayed on yours.

"Just keep looking at me."

So you did. The rest of the room blurred around the edges. Your right hand was buried in the wound. Your left hand braced over your own wrist. Your palms were warm with blood. Something beneath your hand might have been a piece of metal. Might have been nothing. Might have been everything. But Jack was in front of you, eyes steady, voice low and certain.

"Good," he said. "Exactly like that."

Your breath came too fast. You tried to slow it. Failed. Jack saw that too.

"Breathe with me," he said.

You didn't want to. Not because you didn't trust him. Because breathing felt like movement. Because your ribs moving felt dangerous. Because every tiny part of your body suddenly seemed capable of betrayal. Jack understood before you said it.

"You can breathe," he said. "Slow. Small. Nothing else moves."

You followed him. In. Out. Small. Careful. Your eyes stayed on his. Behind him, the room remained frozen in pieces. Garcia's hands were lifted away from the field. Anesthesia stood still near the airway cart. Shen held his position at the patient's head. Ellis had one hand hovering above the monitor controls but did not touch them. Princess stood near the blood cooler, face pale above her mask. Perlah was at the threshold with the phone still in her hand, eyes wide and fixed on you. Jack did not look away from you.

"Perlah," he said, voice still quiet.

Perlah startled, then caught herself. "Yeah."

"Call security. Quietly. Possible explosive hazard in Trauma One. No overhead page yet. Then get hospital command. Tell them we need police bomb squad."

Perlah swallowed. "Okay."

"Slowly," Jack said.

She moved. One step back. Then another. The room watched her leave like even the air had become tripwire.

Garcia's eyes stayed on your arm. "If she's tamponading the bleed and stabilizing the object, we cannot move her hand."

"She's not moving," Jack said.

"I know."

"She's not moving," Jack repeated.

The words landed harder the second time. Not harsh. Final. You were grateful for it. Terrified by it too. Because he was right. You could not move. Not your hand. Not your wrist. Not the fingers pressed against the hard edge inside Mr. Mercer's side. Not the wrist Jack had touched ten minutes ago when the world had been annoying and alive and ordinary.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then prepare. Don't proceed until security and command are in the loop."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer was crying now, silent tears cutting through soot on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. We didn't think it would—"

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, still watching you. "You're going to stay very still. You're going to let Dr. Shen help you breathe. You're not going to reach for the wound. Do you understand?"

The patient gave the smallest nod.

Jack's eyes flicked to him. "No nodding. Say yes."

"Yes," Mr. Mercer whispered.

"Good."

A sound left you before you could swallow it. Barely a sound. Almost nothing. Jack's attention snapped back.

"You're okay," he said.

You couldn't answer. He corrected immediately.

"You are doing okay," he said. "That's different."

That nearly broke you. Because it was different. Because you were not okay. But you were doing it. You were standing there with your hand inside a patient's side, not moving because Jack told you not to move, because a terrified patient said the thing beneath your palm might still go off, because the ED had suddenly become the centre of a blast radius and you were holding the middle of it against a stranger's body. You kept looking at Jack. He kept looking back. Security arrived at the trauma bay doors. Two officers. Both trying to look calmer than they felt.

Perlah stood behind them, phone still pressed to her ear. Jack did not turn fully away from you.

"Possible explosive hazard in patient wound," he said. "Restrict access to Trauma One. Quietly clear adjacent bays and the immediate hallway. Get hospital command here now. We need police bomb squad. No overhead announcement until command decides. Nobody runs."

One guard swallowed. "You want the ED evacuated?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "We don't know enough, and moving everyone at once creates more risk. Immediate area first. Then command makes the call."

The guard nodded and moved. The second stayed at the door.

"No one enters without my permission unless they are security, hospital command, or bomb squad," Jack said.

"Understood."

The door area cleared. The room felt smaller. Your hand did not move. Your arm was already beginning to burn. Not badly. Not yet. But enough to remind you that muscles were stupid, disloyal things. Jack saw your eyes flicker.

"Stay with me," he said.

"I'm here," you managed.

"I know."

His voice softened by half a degree. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for you.

"Keep looking at me."

So you did. The monitor alarmed louder.

Ellis read the number, voice strained but steady. "Pressure sixty-eight systolic."

Garcia cursed under her breath.

Anesthesia said, "Jack, we're running out of airway."

Jack's eyes stayed on you for one heartbeat longer. Then he looked at the room.

"Okay," he said, voice low and absolute. "Nobody moves unless I tell you."

He looked back at your arm. At the wound. At the thing beneath your hand. Then at you.

"Nobody moves."

Nobody moved. For three seconds, maybe four, the trauma bay held itself in an impossible stillness. The monitors did not care. They kept screaming. Mr. Mercer's pulse raced across the screen in sharp green spikes. His oxygen saturation hovered too low. His pressure sat in the kind of range that made everyone in the room want to do something with their hands. But nobody did. Not without Jack. Not with your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank, braced against a foreign body that might be harmless debris, might be unstable metal, might be the thing everyone in the room was suddenly trying very hard not to imagine.

You kept your eyes on Jack. That was the only instruction you could follow without thinking. Just keep looking at me. So you did. His face was steady. Pale under the trauma lights, yes. Sharper than before, yes. But steady. You hated him a little for that. You needed him for it more.

"Okay," Jack said, voice low. "We're going to slow this down."

Garcia's eyes flicked to the monitor. "He doesn't have much slow left."

"I know."

"Pressure's still dropping," Ellis said from the monitor. Her voice was tight, but controlled. "Sixty-four systolic."

Jack nodded once, like he had already built that number into the room.

"Blood keeps running," he said. "No one crosses her side of the bed."

Princess stood near the blood cooler, frozen with one hand hovering uselessly in the air.

Jack looked at her. "Princess."

She blinked. "Yeah."

"Blood tubing. Can you reach the pump without crossing behind her?"

Princess looked. Calculated.

Nodded once. "Yes."

"Slowly."

Princess moved like the floor might object. One step. Pause. Another. She reached the pump, adjusted what she needed, and backed away with the kind of care usually reserved for live wires and sleeping infants.

"Blood's running," she said.

"Good."

The word had weight in Jack's mouth. Not praise exactly. More like a rope thrown across the room. Everyone took it.

Shen stayed at the head of the bed, jaw tight, one hand supporting the oxygen mask. "He's tiring."

Mr. Mercer's breaths had turned shallow. Fast. Wet at the edges. Anesthesia stood beside Shen, meds ready but untouched, body held in the miserable restraint of someone trained to act and forced to wait.

"Jack," anesthesia said, "if he arrests, we lose every option."

"If you intubate and he bucks or we shift his torso, we may lose the room."

The words were quiet. No drama. That made them worse. Your fingers wanted to tighten. You did not let them. Jack's eyes moved back to yours instantly.

"Don't change pressure," he said.

"I'm not."

Your voice sounded thin.

His softened by a fraction. "Good."

Garcia watched your arm disappear into the wound. "How's your hold?"

You took a careful breath. Small. Jack's eyes stayed on you.

"Stable," you said. "I think."

"Bleeding?"

You did not look down. You couldn't. Jack looked for you.

"No major change," he said. "She's tamponading enough to buy us time."

"Not much," Garcia said.

"No," Jack said. "Not much."

That was the thing about him. He did not dress bad news up. He did not hand you false comfort and ask you to swallow it because it was easier for him. If Jack said something, he meant it. If he didn't know, he didn't pretend. Right now, that should have scared you. Instead, it made the floor feel a little more solid. You kept your hand still. Kept your palm exactly where it was. The foreign body stayed pressed against the heel of your hand, hard and wrong beneath slick heat and torn tissue. Security had begun moving outside the bay.

You could hear it in fragments through the glass and open doorway. Low voices. Footsteps. A stretcher wheel squeaking away from the adjacent trauma room.

Someone asking, "Why are we moving him?"

A security officer answering too calmly, "Maintenance issue in the trauma corridor. We're moving you somewhere quieter."

Maintenance issue. You almost laughed. The sound got nowhere near your mouth.

Perlah appeared at the threshold, phone still in hand, face pale above her mask. "Security is clearing the immediate hall. Hospital command's been notified."

"How long for police?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says units are close. Bomb squad is being requested through city."

"Estimate?"

"Not yet."

"Get one."

Perlah nodded and stepped back carefully, like even the doorway had become dangerous. A minute later, Lena Handzo appeared behind security. Night-shift charge. She did not enter the room. She stopped exactly where the security officer told her to stop, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes taking in everything with brutal, efficient speed. The patient. Garcia. Anesthesia. Shen. Jack. Your arm. Her face did not change. That was how you knew she understood.

"Abbott," Lena said.

"Lena."

"Perlah says possible explosive hazard."

"Possible," Jack said. "Foreign body in the left flank. Patient reports it may be part of the device. Her hand is controlling hemorrhage and stabilizing it. She cannot move."

Lena's eyes came to yours. No panic. No pity. Only command. Only: I see you. Stay steady.

Then she looked back at Jack. "Adjacent bays are clearing. Security has both ends of the corridor. I'm moving ambulatory patients first, quiet and slow."

"Good."

"Waiting room?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "If the waiting room hears bomb, we get stampede risk."

"Agreed."

The administrator beside her — hospital command, suit jacket over a dress shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragged from a sleep room or office couch — looked like he wanted to say something. Lena beat him to it.

"We stage evacuation," she said. "Immediate corridor first. Then the department in zones once police gives us routes. Nobody runs. Nobody says explosive in front of patients."

The administrator swallowed. "Hospital policy requires—"

"Hospital policy doesn't move sixty patients safely in thirty seconds," Lena said, not looking at him. "Give us three minutes and a plan."

Jack gave the smallest nod. You saw it. So did Lena. For a second, the two of them spoke the language of people who kept departments alive when the building tried to eat itself. Then Jack looked back at you.

"Stay in this room," he said.

You blinked once. Not too hard.

"What?"

"Not the hallway. Not the department. This room."

You realized your thoughts had started to follow the noise outside. The stretchers. The patients. The people being moved because of what was under your hand. You brought your focus back to him.

"Okay."

His gaze held yours. "Better."

The room narrowed again. Jack's face. Jack's voice. Your hand. The foreign body beneath your palm. Mr. Mercer made a small, broken sound beneath the oxygen mask.

"Am I going to die?"

The question hit the room differently than the alarms. You felt it under your hand. Not movement. Not pressure. Just the human awfulness of him being awake enough to ask. Jack's face changed as he looked down at the patient. Focused differently.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "right now you are alive. We are going to keep working from there."

Mr. Mercer's eyes rolled toward him. "I'm sorry."

"Save your energy."

"I didn't—" His breath hitched. "We didn't mean—"

"Mr. Mercer."

Jack's voice cut cleanly through the panic. The patient went quiet.

"You are going to breathe slowly," Jack said. "You are going to listen to Shen. You are not going to reach for your flank. You are not going to help. You are not going to apologize. Do you understand?"

Tears tracked through the soot on Mr. Mercer's face.

"Yes."

"Good."

Jack looked at Shen.

Shen nodded once and leaned closer to the patient. "Follow me. Small breaths. In. Out. That's it."

Your own breath tried to follow. Jack caught it. Of course he did.

"One breath at a time," he said to you.

You gave the smallest nod before you remembered. Your stomach dropped. Jack's eyes sharpened. Nothing happened. Your hand had not moved.

His voice stayed level. "You caught it."

Your mouth trembled once. You locked it down. Outside the bay, Lena had already started moving the department around you. You could hear her in pieces.

"Not that way. Use the east hall."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"No, do not say Code Black in front of the waiting room."

"Perlah, you're with security. Princess stays until Abbott releases her."

"Clear Trauma Two first. Then Curtain One through Four. Quiet."

Her voice stayed low. Firm. Unhurried. Exactly what the hallway needed. Exactly what you needed not to hear too much of. Because if you thought about the whole department, you would come apart. Jack seemed to know that before you did.

"Small room," he said.

You stared at him.

"What?"

He kept his voice quiet, pitched for you and no one else. "Make it small."

You swallowed. "The room?"

"Smaller."

Your fingers stayed locked in place. "How?"

"My face. Your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. That's all."

That was almost funny. Almost.

"You make crisis sound like a mindfulness exercise," you whispered.

"I make crisis sound survivable."

You breathed once. Careful. Small.

"Okay," you said.

Jack nodded. "Good."

The administrator's voice carried from the doorway, lower now but still strained. "Do we need to evacuate the entire ED?"

Jack did not turn fully away from you. "Prepare for it. Don't initiate full movement until police arrive unless threat changes. Immediate zone first. Critical patients only if they can be moved safely. Everyone else stays calm."

"Can the patient be moved?" the administrator asked.

Garcia answered before Jack could.

"No."

No hesitation.

The administrator blinked. "No?"

Garcia's eyes were cold. "He's hypotensive, bleeding, airway unstable, and there is a possible explosive foreign body in his flank being manually stabilized by a nurse who cannot move. So no."

The administrator went quiet. Good.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then support ventilation. Prepare for intubation. Do not proceed until police and bomb squad are in the loop unless he crashes."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

The room moved in millimetres. Not inches. Millimetres. Shen shifted the seal on the mask with exquisite care. Respiratory adjusted tubing. Anesthesia watched Mr. Mercer's chest rise just enough. You did not look away from Jack. You could hear everything. You could feel too much. The patient's blood warm around your glove. The pressure of the foreign body beneath your palm. The careful brace of your other hand around your own wrist. Your arm had begun to notice the position. Not pain yet. Not really.

Just a growing awareness in your shoulder, a low pull through muscle and tendon that said this was not something a body was meant to hold forever. Not forever, you told yourself. Eight minutes. Or twelve. Or however long it took for someone who knew what they were doing to walk through the doors and tell you how to survive this. Jack's eyes flicked once to your shoulder. Then back to your face. He didn't ask if you were fine. Maybe he had learned. Maybe he knew better than to give you the opportunity to lie.

"Still with me?" he asked.

You breathed in carefully.

"Yeah."

"Good."

That was all. No speech. No softening that would make the room look too closely at either of you. Just the word. Good. You held onto it.

Lena reappeared at the doorway. "Police are coming through the ambulance bay. Bomb squad is being routed now."

"How long?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says at least twelve minutes."

Twelve. You tried not to count it. Twelve minutes sounded short until you were not allowed to move.

Garcia glanced at your arm. "How long has she been holding that position?"

Ellis looked at the clock. "Since zero-three twenty-three."

Only minutes. It felt longer.

Garcia's face tightened. "We need a plan before fatigue becomes part of the problem."

"It's already part of the problem," anesthesia said.

"Not yet," Jack said.

He looked at you when he said it. Not pretending. Not comforting. Assessing. You understood the difference. He wasn't telling them you could do this forever. He was telling them you were steady now. For some reason, that helped more than if he had told them you were okay.

Lena's gaze moved from Jack to you, then back again. "I'm opening the evacuation plan for the full ED. Quietly. We'll move by zones if police confirms route."

"Do it," Jack said.

"And Abbott?"

He looked at her.

"When the bomb squad gets here, this becomes their scene."

Jack's face did not change.

"I know."

Lena studied him for one second. Maybe two. Like she heard what he did not say. Then she nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Mercer's eyes fluttered again.

Shen's voice stayed calm near his ear. "Stay awake if you can, Mr. Mercer."

"I'm tired," the patient whispered.

"I know."

"I'm cold."

Princess looked at Jack. Jack nodded once.

"Blanket from the warmer," he said. "No crossing her side. No touching the wound. Lay it from the legs up."

Princess moved with awful care. A warm blanket unfolded over Mr. Mercer's lower legs, then his hips, stopping well away from your arm and the injury. Normal nursing care in the least normal room in the world. Mr. Mercer cried harder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

You wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. You couldn't trust your voice. Jack did it for you.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "save your strength."

"Tell my mom—"

"No," Jack said.

The word was sharp enough that the room looked at him. Even you. Jack's eyes stayed on Mr. Mercer now.

"You are not giving messages right now," he said. "You are breathing. That is your job."

Mr. Mercer's mouth trembled.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep doing your job."

Then Jack looked back at you. Like there had not been a knife hidden in that sentence. Like he had not just stopped a dying man from doing the exact thing you would later need to do. Your throat tightened again. You did not know why that hurt. Only that it did.

Lena's voice came from the door. "Bomb squad ETA eight minutes."

Eight. Jack's gaze stayed on yours.

"Don't count backwards," he said.

You gave the smallest breath of a laugh, barely enough to move air.

"Bossy."

"Efficient."

Then he looked back to the room. "We use the time. We do not stare at the clock."

Garcia watched the bleeding. Shen watched the airway. Lena moved the hospital around the blast radius. Jack stayed in front of you. You watched him. And under your palm, the foreign body stayed exactly where it was. Eight minutes did not pass cleanly. Time in the trauma bay stopped behaving like time. It became numbers instead. Pulse one-fifty-two. Pressure sixty-two. Sat eighty-eight with assisted breaths. Blood running. Second unit ready. Police on site. Bomb squad inbound. Your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank. The foreign body under your palm. Jack in front of you. That was the shape of the room. Everything else moved around it.

Outside the trauma bay, The Pitt was being quietly dismantled piece by piece. Not evacuated all at once. Not at first. That would have been chaos. A stampede in a department full of chest pain, intoxication, fever, fractures, elderly patients with walkers, children with frightened parents, nurses pushing stretchers, doctors trying to decide who could move and who absolutely could not. So Lena moved it like she moved everything else. In zones. With a low voice and no patience for panic. You could hear her beyond the glass, firm and clipped and too calm.

"Curtain One through Four, east corridor."

"No, not that way. East corridor."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"Do not say bomb in front of patients."

"Safety relocation. That's the phrase."

"Who is with Bay Six?"

"Then find out."

Security stood at both ends of the trauma corridor. Police had come in through the ambulance bay and were keeping everyone back. Hospital command hovered near the doors with the anxious uselessness of someone discovering that a laminated emergency policy was not the same thing as an emergency. Inside Trauma One, no one wasted motion.

Princess had backed away from the blood cooler after setting up the second unit. Ellis stayed at the monitor, face pale, voice steady. Shen held airway support with the tight focus of a man trying to keep a dying patient alive without letting the patient move. Anesthesia stood beside him, ready for the moment the risk of not intubating outweighed the risk of movement. Garcia watched the wound. Jack watched everything. Not just you. That would have been easier and worse.

He watched the patient's pressure. The blood pump. Shen's hands. Anesthesia's medications. Garcia's body language. The doorway. The hall. Lena. Security. The place where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. And you. Always back to you. A check. A question. A promise he had no right to make. You had stopped trying to name what sat between you. There was no room for it now. No room for the memory of his thumb under your bruised wrist. No room for the almosts and maybes and silences that had been building for weeks. Except, somehow, that was all there was room for.

"Sat's holding at eighty-eight," Ellis said.

"Holding is generous," anesthesia muttered.

"It's the word I have," Ellis said.

Jack did not look away from the monitor. "Keep assisting. No intubation unless he loses respiratory drive completely."

Anesthesia's mouth tightened. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer made a thin sound beneath the mask.

Shen leaned closer. "Stay with me, Mr. Mercer. Small breaths."

The patient's eyes fluttered. "My brother?"

Jack's face changed by less than a breath.

"Police are speaking with him," he said.

That was new. Your eyes moved to Jack before you could stop them. His gaze caught yours. Yes, his face said. They had found the brother. They knew more than they were saying. A cold line opened down your back. Before you could ask, Lena appeared at the threshold again, one hand over the phone tucked against her ear.

"Police have the brother," she said. "Bomb squad is two minutes out. They're getting information from him now."

Jack's jaw flexed.

"Is he stable enough to talk?"

"Panicked, but talking," Lena said.

Garcia's eyes stayed on the wound. "If there's information we can use, we need it."

Lena nodded once. "They're relaying to bomb squad, not us."

Anesthesia looked up. "Why not us?"

"Because if it's what we think it is," Jack said, voice low, "they'll want the room cleared before they say it out loud."

The silence after that was worse than the alarms. You stared at him. He did not look away. The hallway behind Lena had changed again. There were fewer voices now, but more movement farther away. Bigger movement. Stretchers. Wheelchairs. Orders passed between staff. The wide machinery of a hospital trying to shift its own weight without collapsing. A security officer approached Lena from the side.

"Immediate trauma corridor is clear," he said. "Police are expanding perimeter. They want the whole ED evacuated."

Lena's face did not change. But the air did. The whole ED. Not adjacent rooms. Not the trauma corridor. Everything.

Waiting room. Curtains. Bays. Hall beds. Psych holds. Boarders who had been waiting upstairs for beds that did not exist. The old woman in Curtain Two who needed oxygen. The kid with the broken wrist. The man in Bay Five who thought oxygen worked if it was "nearby." The septic patient in Twelve. People who had come to The Pitt because something was wrong and now had to be moved because something worse had followed someone else inside.

Your stomach turned. Your hand did not move. Jack saw the change in your face.

"Don't take it," he said.

You could barely hear yourself. "They're evacuating the whole ED."

"Yes."

"Because of—"

"No," he said.

The word cut through the thought before it could finish forming. Your eyes burned.

"Jack—"

"No. Because of the device. Because of the risk. Because that's protocol. Not because of you."

Your throat worked. You wanted to believe him. You mostly did. It didn't help as much as you needed it to.

Lena looked toward hospital command. "We evacuate by acuity and mobility. Ambulatory to the east hall and outpatient corridor. Stretcher patients to radiology holding if police clears it. Criticals go to pre-op and PACU overflow. Psych stays with security escort. Anyone on oxygen gets portable tanks before movement."

The administrator blinked. "Can we move patients into PACU without—"

"Yes," Lena said.

He opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it. Good man.

"Call upstairs," Lena continued. "Tell them ED is unloading into every available monitored space. I do not care whose census sheet gets ugly."

Security spoke into his radio, then nodded. "Police cleared east hall and outpatient corridor. Ambulance bay is locked down. Incoming ambulances diverted."

"Not critical trauma," Jack said, still watching the monitor.

Lena's eyes flicked to him.

"If a critical trauma is ten minutes out, they can't circle the city," Jack said. "Robby or McKay can make that call outside. But no one comes through this corridor."

Lena nodded. "I'll route command through Robby."

"Robby's here?"

"Just arrived."

Something moved across Jack's face. Not relief. Not exactly. Robby meant backup. Robby also meant someone who could look Jack in the eye and say no. You saw Jack understand both things. He said nothing. The ambulance bay doors beyond the hall opened again, and a new kind of quiet entered with the people who came through. Bomb squad. You knew it before anyone said it.

Maybe it was the way the police officer near the door straightened. Maybe it was the way Lena shifted aside without being told. Maybe it was the shape of the two responders who stopped behind the marked line, one with a hard case, the other speaking low into a radio. The lead tech was a man in dark gear, hair cropped close, face composed in a way that did not belong to hospitals. Calm like roads blocked at midnight. Calm like wires and blast radius and choices made very slowly.

"I'm Sergeant Vale," he said. "Bomb squad. Nobody changes position."

Jack answered immediately. "No one has."

Vale's eyes moved across the trauma bay. Patient. Wound. Your arm. Garcia. Shen. Anesthesia. Ellis. Princess. Jack. Then back to you. He did not ask if you were okay. You were grateful.

"We spoke to the brother on the way in," Vale said.

The words changed the room again.

Jack's voice stayed level. "What did he say?"

Vale did not answer. Not yet. His eyes moved to the number of people in the bay.

"I'll brief essential personnel only."

Jack's expression hardened. "My trauma team is essential."

"Not all of them," Vale said.

Garcia stepped forward half an inch, then stopped herself. "This patient is unstable."

"I understand."

"With respect, Sergeant, if he bleeds out or loses his airway while you're clearing the room, the device won't matter."

Vale's gaze stayed level. "With respect, if that device functions the way the brother described, nobody in this room gets to use the airway."

Silence. No one breathed right for a second. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's flank. You felt heat. Blood. The hard, smooth edge pressed beneath your palm. For the first time since this began, the foreign body stopped being unknown. Not to them. Not to the bomb squad. They knew. And they were not saying it in front of everyone. That scared you more than the guessing had.

Jack looked at Vale. "Who stays?"

Vale answered without hesitation. "The nurse with her hand in the wound. Me. One medical lead outside the immediate radius to advise. Everyone else leaves until assessment is complete."

"No," Jack said.

Flat. Instant. Lena closed her eyes for half a second in the doorway. Like she had been waiting for that and hated being right.

Vale looked at Jack. "This is not negotiable."

"I'm the attending."

"You can advise from outside."

"The patient is unstable."

"And the device is unstable."

"You don't know that until you assess it."

"We know enough," Vale said. "That is why I'm clearing the room before I give details."

Garcia's mouth tightened. "I need to be able to control hemorrhage."

"You cannot operate around a live device."

"I'm aware."

"Then you are outside until I tell you otherwise."

Garcia looked furious. She also looked like she knew Vale was right.

Anesthesia spoke next, low and tense. "If he crashes while we're outside—"

"I'll call you back if I need you," Vale said.

"If you need us, it may be too late."

Vale's eyes flicked briefly to Mr. Mercer. "I know."

That was the first human thing in his voice. Not softness. Not comfort. Just the truth. Jack did not move. His shoulders had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. You had seen him calm all night. You had seen him controlled. This was different. This was refusal settling into his bones.

"I was in the army for years," Jack said, voice low. "I've seen devices in bodies. I've seen what happens when people move wrong."

The room seemed to hear everything under that. Blast trauma. Blood in places blood should not be. Rooms that did not stay rooms. Vale's expression changed by the smallest degree. Not softened. Understood, maybe.

"Then you know why you can't stay," Vale said.

Jack's eyes stayed on him. "Then you know why I won't leave."

Not her. He did not say that. He did not need to. Everyone heard it anyway. Then Mr. Mercer's monitor alarmed again, high and shrill. Ellis flinched but did not touch anything.

"Pressure fifty-eight," she said.

Garcia looked at Jack. "He needs more blood."

Princess shifted automatically toward the cooler.

Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Stop."

Princess froze. The blood pump clicked steadily.

Jack's eyes cut to Vale. "You cannot freeze all care."

"I can freeze movement until I know what's safe."

"He dies if we do nothing."

"He may detonate if you do anything."

The sentence landed like a physical thing. You heard someone inhale. Maybe you. Jack's face turned hard enough to frighten you.

"Then tell me what it is."

Vale looked at the room again. At all the people. Too many.

"No."

Jack took one step toward him. Small. Controlled. A movement with no wasted motion. Vale did not flinch. Lena stepped into the doorway. Not into the room. Just enough.

"Jack."

He did not look at her.

"Not now," he said.

"Yes," Lena said. "Now."

His jaw tightened.

"Abbott," Vale said, "you have ten seconds to step out before I have security remove you."

Jack almost laughed. There was no humour in it.

"Good luck."

Lena moved then. She crossed the threshold carefully, hands visible, her eyes locked on Jack rather than the bed. She did not come near you. Did not come near Mr. Mercer. She stayed on Jack's side of the room, outside the path Vale had claimed.

"Lena," Jack warned.

"No," she said.

One word. Charge nurse voice. Not loud. Immovable. Jack finally looked at her.

"You need to leave," Lena said.

"I'm not leaving."

"You are."

"I am the attending physician responsible for that patient."

"You are a body in a blast radius."

His eyes flashed. "Don't."

"I will not let you dress this up as medical necessity if it isn't."

The room went still around that. You felt the words hit him. Because they were true. Because everyone knew they were true. Because you knew they were true too. Jack looked at you then. For one breath, everything else dropped away. Not the patient. Not the bomb. Not the blood. Just the noise around it. Jack looked at you like if he held you there with his eyes hard enough, he could make the next five minutes survivable. You wanted to let him. You wanted to be selfish. You wanted to say, Stay.

Instead, you heard yourself say, "Jack."

His face changed. That soft version of your voice had always done something to him. You had seen it before in smaller rooms, over smaller wounds. Not like this. Never like this.

"Don't," he said.

You swallowed. Your hand did not move.

"I need you to go."

His eyes sharpened with something almost like betrayal.

"No."

"Yes."

"You don't get to ask me that."

"I'm not asking."

Lena went very still. Jack stared at you. You forced yourself to keep looking at him because if you looked anywhere else, you would break apart. Your voice shook once and then steadied.

"You told me to keep the room small."

His throat moved. You kept going.

"I can't do that if you're arguing with the bomb squad."

His mouth pressed into a hard line.

"That's unfair," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You're using my own instructions against me."

"Yes."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Still, your hand did not move.

"I need you outside," you said. "Where I know you're not standing next to me if this goes wrong."

Jack's eyes flashed. "Do not say that."

"Jack."

"No."

"If you stay, I'll be thinking about you."

The words came out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too late to take back. His face went still. You breathed in carefully. Small. Shallow.

"I can't think about you," you said. "I have to think about my hand."

For a second, no one moved. Then Jack closed his eyes. Just once. A blink too long. When he opened them, something had changed. Not acceptance. Never that. Understanding. The terrible kind. Outside the room, the ED evacuation widened again. You heard Lena's radio crackle from her shoulder.

"All units, full ED evacuation is active. Repeat, full ED evacuation active. Move by zone. Maintain east corridor. No patient traffic through trauma."

Full ED evacuation active. The words made your stomach turn cold. Jack heard them too. So did everyone.

Vale glanced once toward Lena. "Now, Dr. Abbott."

Jack looked at your arm. At the wound. At the place where your hand disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then back at your face.

"You listen to Sergeant Vale," he said.

You almost nodded. Caught yourself.

"Okay."

"You do exactly what he says."

"Okay."

"You do not improvise."

Your mouth trembled. "That's rich, coming from you."

For the first time since Vale arrived, Jack's mouth almost moved. Almost. Then it vanished.

"I'll be right outside."

You wanted to say that wasn't enough. You wanted to say it was too far.

Instead, you whispered, "I know."

Lena stepped closer to him.

"Jack," she said softly.

He did not move. She put one hand on his arm. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just contact. A reminder that he had a body and it needed to leave the room. Jack looked at her hand like he might argue with that too. Then he let her pull. Only Lena could have made it look like she wasn't dragging him. Only Jack could have made being dragged look like a tactical retreat. He stepped back once. Then again. Every inch looked carved out of him. At the doorway, he stopped. Vale's patience had clearly reached its edge, but he held. Jack turned his head. Not fully.

Just enough to look at you one more time. You held his gaze. There was so much in his face now that it hurt to see it. Fear. Fury. Helplessness. Something else too. Something neither of you had said, but which had been living between you so long it almost had a pulse. You did not say it. Not yet. Not with him there. Not when it might make him step back into the room. So you gave him the only thing you could. You kept your hand still. Jack saw. His face broke for half a second. Then Lena pulled him across the threshold.

The security officer closed the trauma bay door behind him. The sound was soft. Final. For a moment, Jack stood on the other side of the glass like he had forgotten how to exist there. Lena stayed beside him, her hand still wrapped around his forearm. Not because she could hold him if he truly decided to go back in. Because she would try. Behind him, the hallway was no longer The Pitt as you knew it. It was evacuation. Security. Police. Stretchers disappearing around corners.

Staff moving patients away from the room where you stood with your hand inside a man's body and the centre of the disaster under your palm. Jack did not look at any of it. He looked only at you. Vale stepped closer. Not blocking him completely. But enough that your world had to change shape.

"Okay," he said, voice calm in a different way than Jack's. "Now I can tell you what we're dealing with."

Your stomach turned cold. Outside the glass, Jack went utterly still. Vale set the hard case down with careful precision.

"Look at me," he said.

Can't wait to read the rest, read the entire story here now.

You hurry into the emergency department as fast as possible, juggling four trays of baked goods stacked as high as your head. The scent of cinnamon and sugar fills the air, hitting the nurse’s station before your coworkers even spot you struggling to maneuver in the busy space. 

Princess rushes over, and you can see her grin even through the stack of dessert. “I could marry you,” she says, grabbing two of the trays and falling into step beside you. 

You hear Dana sigh with exaggerated resignation, and it’s not long before she’s at your side. “What did you do now?”

You bite your bottom lip, hiding a smile. “I might have made cinnamon rolls, and the recipe might have gotten a little bit out of hand.” 

Whitaker’s head lifts the second he hears the words cinnamon rolls fall from your lips, and you don’t miss the way he and Victoria both stand up from their charting immediately. They hurry over, and the man looks like he’s in awe as he asks, “Are they for us?”

“Who else would they be for?” You question, heading toward the staff lounge to display the treats. “I can’t eat forty-eight cinnamon rolls by myself.”

“You made forty-eight cinnamon rolls?” Emma gasps, her hand squeezing your shoulder gently. You’d fallen into an easy friendship with the girl in the past three weeks of working at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The first day you’d spent in the unit was full of anxiety, and you’d been grateful to see someone like Emma, so close in age to you, fitting in the emergency room seamlessly, despite her chipper nature. It had made you relax, particularly when she’d complimented the pink ribbon you’d tied in a bow around your ponytail before work. 

“Yeah…” you breathe, “I probably went overboard, but I wanted everyone to be able to have some. I had a lot of extra ingredients for the cream cheese frosting anyway, so I thought I might as well go big.”

You stop in front of the table in the center of the lounge and gently place the trays of cinnamon rolls down, careful not to jostle them. Dana stacks the extra boxes off to the side and chuckles when she finds the tiny sheet of ingredients, running her thumb along one of the little sketches of vines you’d decorated the edges with. “You made labels?”

Nodding, you reply, “I don’t want people to eat it if they’re allergic. Or not eat it because they’re scared they might be.”

She clicks her tongue, but her smile is fond when she murmurs, “Never change, kid.”

The emergency department is busy. Busy enough that you’ve had to readjust the ponytails securing your braids three times by eleven. Busy enough that you barely have time to use the restroom. Busy enough that you don’t notice Mel King walking up to you, holding a cinnamon roll in her hand, a beaming smile on her face as she says, “They’re shaped like flowers!”

You giggle, watching as she takes her first bite. 

You’d brought baked goods to work a few times, and it warmed your heart to watch your coworkers find joy in them. Sure, you enjoyed baking and would do it either way, but it was nice to know that the things you were making could at least have a tiny impact on the people around you, especially when work could be overwhelming and exhausting.

The rest of the morning passes by in a whirlwind: triage, trauma, and charting biting at your heels when you dare pause for a break. You haven’t found time to check in on the cinnamon rolls in the staff lounge, but you can’t help but feel satisfied each time one of your coworkers passes you and mutters something about the dessert.

By five, the mood in the department shifts, as if you’ve entered the silent but deadly eye of a hurricane. Perlah appears at your elbow as you stock a supply cart while talking to Earl about sandwiches, her face stern. She doesn’t bother with a greeting, instead opting to pull you towards bay eleven. 

“We need an extra set of hands in here,” she mutters under her breath, her stride fast and focused. “Robby’s in there with ortho. You need to stay on top of this one. Keep sharp. Listen to what the surgeon is asking for, take notes on the chart, yeah?”

You don’t have time to look at the chart on the tablet she thrusts into your hands before she pushes the door open, tugging you gently into the heavy atmosphere of the medical bay.

You stare at the man in front of you, circling the hospital room like a predator watching its prey. He’s huge, surely several inches over six feet, and you don’t miss the strength in his arms as he crosses them over his chest, the dark blue fabric of his scrubs stretching to accommodate the muscle. 

Everyone is silent, and you join them in the quiet, instead deciding to ponder the reason Perlah had pulled you into the room when you hadn’t had anything to do with this case. 

Truthfully, it didn’t seem like a second nurse was needed, but it was only your third week on the job, and you weren’t going to make any waves by questioning the nurses who had been working at the hospital for nearly as long as you’d been alive.

The man, Dr. Park, as Perlah had muttered quietly to you when the surgeon had turned his back on the two of you, spoke confidently to Robby, your attending nodding in agreement. You only caught pieces of his words: surgery tomorrow, not urgent, something that sounds like “send her upstairs.”

The room seems to breathe when he exits, a soft chatter picking up again, but your eyes stay trained on him. You hesitate, looking towards the hallway that leads upstairs, to the staff lounge, then back to the man walking down the corridor. 

Dr. Park is nearly out of your sight as he begins to round the corner, but you seem to surprise him when you murmur, “Hi!”

He turns on his heels, looks at you, eyes trained on your face in a way that is entirely too intimidating to keep your voice steady while you say, “I’m sorry to interrupt you in the middle of the workday.” 

He’s so still. Eerily still and serious, as if he doesn’t move unless there is a purpose. You shift your weight, uncomfortably aware of the stark contrast between the two of you. 

You’re in your hospital-issued dark-grey scrubs, but your undershirt is a lavender that matches the shade of your stethoscope. Your hair is pulled into braids, the bottoms secured with a tiny white ribbon, and despite your enjoyment of the outfit, you can’t help but feel a bit childish when the gaze of the orthopedic surgeon falls upon you.

Still, you give a soft smile. “I just wanted to let you know that there are cinnamon rolls in the staff lounge if you want any!” He is silent, and it does nothing to help your nerves. He’s so close, so large, so handsome. 

It makes you feel sick. 

“I made them yesterday night, and...and there is an ingredient sheet too, in case you’re allergic to anything and want to check. I don’t want anyone to get sick, of course. Though I realize that we’re in a hospital and if you’re going to have anaphylaxis you might as well have it here, and-”

It takes Park interrupting you for the rambling to stop. “I don’t really eat dessert.”

He’s not loud. He isn’t cruel; he’s just…flat in tone. He speaks so matter-of-factly that it sounds like he’s telling you the sky is blue. “I’ll have to pass.”

“Oh, okay,” you nod, swallowing. Your smile falters when you murmur, “No worries.”

He gives you a tiny nod, and you scramble to add, “You can take some for your team, if you’d like?”

God, you feel like a bumbling idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you?

His eyes flick briefly toward the staff break room before falling back on you. “Have a good evening, nurse…” he looks down at your ID badge and adds your name with a tentative twitch of his lips

“You too, Dr. Park.” 

He doesn’t look back when he leaves. The doors to the stairs close behind him, and you feel like your tennis shoes are stuck to the ground. 

“Oof,” Whitaker mutters, appearing next to you out of thin air. 

“What?” You breathe, looking up at him. He looks exhausted, though you can’t blame him. It has been a long day, and with only two hours left in the shift, everyone seems to be dragging their feet, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the night shift.

He nudges your shoulder, and you frown, chewing on your bottom lip. “You okay? You look sad.”

“Do I actually?” You mumble, walking back to central with the resident doctor at your side. Your hands fiddle absentmindedly with the ends of your stethoscope. 

“You absolutely look sad.” Dennis shrugs, pressing his lips together in a familiar expression that brings the corners of your lips up just a hair.

“I just thought he’d like a cinnamon roll.” You scratch the back of your neck at how ridiculous you feel. “I wasn't trying to be weird or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He assures.

Dana walks over, throwing her arm around your shoulder and tugging you into her side. It feels motherly, and you thank the universe for her, for her being the one to lead you through this stage of your life. The job, the department, all of it. “What happened to my girl?”

Whitaker points towards the doors of bay eleven, the patient being tended to by Frank and Perlah as they prep her to be transported to the orthopedic rooms. “Park.”

The charge nurse groans, giving your arm a tight squeeze that calms your dejectedness more than it should. “What did he do now?”

“He doesn’t eat dessert apparently,” you grumble, rolling your eyes at the thought of it. Who doesn’t eat sweets? Surely one can live a balanced life and still indulge.

“That’s it?”

“He said it kind of…” Dennis searches, his hands waving around like you noticed he so often did. “Shark-ish.”

“Nobody warned you, did they, sugar?” Dana sighs, reaching over the desk to grab her water.

“About what?” It seems like every day in the emergency department comes with new information to be learned. You expected it, sure; starting your first nursing job was bound to bring new experiences, but not to this extent.

“Dr. Brendon Park. Park the Shark.” Whitaker answers, “Known to be terrifying.”

“He wasn’t terrifying,” you chuckle. Eerily composed, yes, but terrifying wouldn’t be the word that would come to your mind. “He was really serious, though.”

“He denies the existence of joy in the hospital,” Dennis responds. Dana laughs into her water, and you let their teasing be a balm to the disappointment of meeting the surgeon.

Lying back in bed, you sigh, finally feeling relaxed after your twelve-hour shift. You were off tomorrow, with plans to sleep in and maybe go shopping for a new book as a treat – if you successfully manage to clean your apartment first, that is – and you felt giddy at the idea of being free.

You’re musing over that potentially being the ultimate experience of adulthood when your phone buzzes, notifying you of a text message. You click on it, eyes furrowing as you read the words. How the hell did Park the Shark manage to get your phone number, and why was he messaging you at nine-thirty at night?

“Hey neighbor.”

You turn to your left and see your next-door neighbor.

Brendon Park.

He was stupidly handsome and such a nice guy.

You always see him at different times of the day because he’s a surgeon down the road at ptmc. It’s also a nice perk to live next door to a doctor, which he insisted you knock if you ever need him day or night.

“Hey Bren, going out or just getting back?”

He smiles as he leans against his door “Just getting back. A long nap is calling my name. Hopefully I’m up by lunch. Where are you and Meesh headed?”

Meesh, a nickname for Misha, is a 4 year old golden retriever. He’s also your service dog of almost three years now.

You had been diagnosed with POTS as a teenager and over the years it had gotten a little more intense. This had led to you passing out while out by yourself one day and had hit your head. Luckily a passerby called EMS and you were taken to the hospital and treated.

It happened more frequently after that and your parents decided a service dog was non-negotiable since you lived alone. 

You’ve lived next to Brendon for about a year now and even though he’s a doctor, you’ve never told him of your condition. You just didn’t want to seem incapable or weak around him.

Obviously he knew you had some sort of medical condition as you had Misha but he’d never ask unless you were to bring it up first.

“We’re headed to the new farmer’s market downtown. I’ve heard good things and I've been dying to check it out.” you laugh

“Oooo there's a jam stand there that sells raspberry peach jam, here–” he pulls $40 from his wallet “Could you grab me two jars? I’ve not been able to go with my schedule lately.”

You shake your head with a smile “Bren, I’ll get them. You don’t have to pay me.”

He raises an eyebrow and holds the money out.

“Uh uh, take this and keep the rest for the troubles.” 

You tap your chin dramatically “How about I’ll take it when I bring the jams back, fair deal?”

He tilts his head with a chuckle.

“You drive a hard bargain woman but okay, when you get back.”

You wave to him as you walk Meesh to the elevator.

Brendon watches you go even after the elevator doors close.

He bites his lip at the thought of seeing you again later.

Shaking his head he finally unlocks his door and walks in.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

After a whole day in the hot Pittsburgh heat, you’re finally making your way back to the apartment building.

You hold your tote bag on your shoulder, the two jars of jam securely tucked in it.

As you walk towards the elevator you notice a sign on the doors

‘Elevators out of service until tomorrow.”

“Fuck” you say quietly.

Guess you’ll be taking the stairs.

You’re on the sixth floor so it’s not terrible but the trek up there still won’t be easy.

After a few minutes you realize the air conditioning isn’t great in the stairwell and you’re starting to sweat a lot.

You end up stopping on the fourth floor to sit down for a few minutes.

You’re pretty out of breath and start to feel a little dizzy.

Just two more floors.

When you go to stand up Meesh is at your side and is trying to lay on your lap, keeping you sitting.

You then realize he’s alerting you to your fast heart rate. A potential episode starting. 

Normally this is when you’d stay seated and rest a bit but you don’t. Gently you pet him while trying to catch your breath.

“I-It’s okay Meesh. Just t-two more and I’ll sit w-when we’re upstairs.”

You knew better than to ignore him and not immediately take it easy but you were almost home.

Meesh whines a little as he desperately tries to get you to stay sitting but you get up anyway and continue up the stairs.

Finally you’re only a set of stairs away from the sixth floor door. As you go to take a step, it feels like the ground is shifting. Your movements feel sluggish as you take another step.

Shit. I need to sit right now.

Your hands shake as you try to grab your phone from your purse. Meesh is back at your side nudging you and again trying to get you to sit.

Without looking you take another step but the dizziness throws you off balance, sending you tumbling down the few stairs to the platform below.

Your bag hits the ground, scattering all your belongings somewhere you can’t see.

“M-Meeshhh” you try to call for him. He looks torn to find something to help and staying to help comfort you. 

Then in a split second he’s racing up the stairs to the hallway door. The inside of the door is one you push to open from both sides. 

Luckily, in training Meesh, he had been taught how to open a few different types of door handles for retrieving water, medicines, and other things.

It doesn’t take long for him to figure this one out and as soon as it starts to open he’s squeezing through the opening and runs to your apartment door.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon’s enjoying his post-shift nap when a noise pulls him from his sleep.

He looks up from the couch and listens quietly.

There’s a scratching sound.

Are there rats in the walls?

He goes to lay back down when he hears whining.

“What the f—“

Then there’s a loud bark that sounds close by.

He then moves from the couch and towards the front door.

Cracking it open he sees golden fur by your door.

Brendon opens the door wider and sees Meesh scratching at your door.

“Hey Meesh!” he stays where he is since he’s well aware to not touch working dogs.

Speaking of working, where were you?

He walks out further and doesn’t see you but he notices Meesh’s frantic behavior.

“Where’s your mommy buddy?”

Meesh runs to Brendon and frantically paws at Brendon and then runs down to the door leading to the stairwell.

Brendon’s eyebrows furrow as he observes the dog's behavior.

Then it hits him.

Shit.

In a training seminar he was taught that if a service dog is alone, to follow them. That some dogs were trained to find help if the handler was injured or suffering a medical emergency.

You could be in trouble.

He immediately runs to where Meesh is and pushes the door open.

Peering down the stairs, his heart stops.

You’re at the bottom of the stairs on your side looking like you passed out. Your stuff is everywhere and Meesh is trying to comfort you and lay on your chest.

“Sweetheart, hey!” He yells as he makes his way to you quickly.

He notices your labored breathing and that your eyes are barely open.

“Hey sweet girl, what happened? Are you okay?” 

He gently feels around your head and takes note of a bump on the side where you likely hit your head.

“B-Bren?” you slur out a little

His hand engulfs your face as he looks you over.

“It’s okay sweetheart, we’re gonna head to ptmc right now.”

You shake your head as you try to sit up.

“Sorry baby you can’t get up. Just stay still.”

“No Bren,” you mumble “no ambulance.”

He grabs your attention, looking into your eyes.

“Hey, hey I know but you’re hurt. So either the ambulance takes you or I do.”

You squint your eyes at the pounding headache and try to curl into him “Take me please.”

——

Brendon had quickly gotten his keys and then grabbed you and Meesh, making his way to ptmc.

He wished he had a picture of Dana’s face when he had come in with you in his arms and a dog glued to your side.

The three of you were a sight to see amongst his friends and colleagues.

Quickly Robby had been called down to your room to assess you. 

Brendon stayed glued to your side with your hand in his as they evaluated you, taking in all the information Robby talked about.

You had POTS?

Fuck, he wish you would’ve told him so he could’ve helped better.

—--

About an hour later you were more coherent and able to register where you were.

“Bren?” you whisper as you see him to the side of you.

Your voice gets his attention and he looks over, his hand immediately stroking the side of your face gently.

“Hey sweetheart, you feelin better?”

You take a mental inventory of how you’re feeling.

“Yeah,” you nod “what hap—Meesh! Where is h-“

Brendon hushes you softly “He’s right here.”

He motions towards the dog that’s been attached to him and head in his lap since you guys arrived.

You nod shaky as you try to calm your racing heart.

“You had an episode, POTS. Guess you already knew but they think it was likely brought on by the heat and the exertion from climbing the stairs.”

You start to recall the events in your head.

“Yeah I-I remember it. Meesh alerted to the symptoms but I just wanted to make it to the apartment first. I should’ve listened to him. I’m sorry to drag you into all of this.”

Brendon squeezes your hand “Hey it’s okay. I’m glad I was home to help. But I’m gonna give you my number and next time the elevator is out or you don’t feel good, you use it and call me. I don’t care if I’m asleep or not home. You call me and I’ll come get you, okay?”

You shake your head “Bren, I can’t d-“

“Promise me sweetheart?” his face pleading with you.

You contemplate it and then nod, squeezing his hand.

“Okay, I promise “

He brings your hand to his mouth and places a kiss there.

“Perfect.”

You look around “Where’s my bag?”

Brendo turns and takes it off the back of his chair.

“I gathered what I saw on the stairs earlier but if something’s missing, tell me and I’ll go back and look for it baby.”

Rummaging through the bag you pull out what you were looking for, holding them out to him.

“You really got them?” his grin gets wider as he carefully takes the jars of raspberry peach jam from you.

“How could I forget?” you smile back.

He leans forward and kisses your forehead.

“You’re something else, sweetheart.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“awn- c’mon, sweetheart.” his eyes dragged over you body, taking in the very few millimeters of space that you created between you two before pulling you back down onto cock making you gasp for air.

your fingers folding inwards, clawing into the flesh of jack’s chest as he buries himself further inside your pussy making your insides choke around his length, involuntarily twitching and squeezing as your spine arches forward — pressing yourself against him.

jack feigns a frown, biting back an uncontrollable smile because he just thinks that you look so fucking adorable beneath him right now.

eyes glossed over with lashes clumping together from those thick tears fall down your cheeks, and the little sniffles you take every other second to not snot yourself as you cry from an indescribable amount of pleasure. you can’t even moan jack’s name without it turning into an incoherent mess. “j—j .. ja-nnghn.”

“that’s it, my sweet girl.” jack coos, a gentle rasps scratching at his throat as he brings one of the hands locked behind you knees to your face. gently cradling the side of your head as his thumb brushes away any stray tears. “so damn sensitive, all for me.” he watches you nuzzle into his palm, and it makes his cock twitch as he lets out a gravelly groan before grinding his hips deeper into you — a direct target against the spot that makes your bladder feel instantly full.

“i can’t, i can’t, mmff— you c-can’t!” you yelp, pleading as you shake your head feeling the throb of your clit want to burst. “shh.. yes you can, darlin’.” he shushes, ducking down to press his forehead against yours.

his eyes on yours, convincing you that it’s possible as his thrusts never stop bullying into that sweet spot. he has no intention of stopping, even with your begging. “please, ja—mphck!” a moan rips through your throat as jack delivers the cruelest, toe curling stroke that makes you go completely mute as your eyes roll back to your skull.

your body quivers under his, mouth open with no words coming out as you take each and every thrust he feeds your abused pussy.

“look at you, baby— you’re doin’ it right now.” he hums satisfyingly, watching you choke to find inaudible words as his groan lingers. “i know, sweetheart i know— jj knows it’s a lot for you, yeah.” he whispers, lips grazing against yours, “it’ll all be over soon, okay baby?” he assures, as his hips tell the complete opposite. “just keep singin’ my name would’ya’.”

it wasn’t something you could control, you just felt teary when you got sleepy. it was one of jack’s favourite things about you.

you were lying in bed, cuddled up to jack’s side after a long shift. he knew the feeling of exhaustion and guilt after a particularly harsh shift all too well.

“you okay, baby?” he muttered as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

you sighed and pressed your head into his shoulder in response. “i’m fine. i just want you right now.”

jack blinked and shifted in surprise as he felt you begin to grind against his good leg. “what? sweetheart, you should sleep. we can do whatever else you want when you’re not so tired.” he gently tried to coax, only to be met with a whine and a sloppy kiss to his jaw.

“no, i need you now. i’ll sleep after.” you promised, fingers curling tightly against his sleep shirt as you rocked your hips back and forth in a steady pattern.

he didn’t protest. he knew once you set your mind on something that you wouldn’t stop until you got it.

jack dipped his head down to meet your lips, his hands reaching to guide your hips.

you moaned against his mouth as your clit throbbed, the friction was almost overwhelming when you were tired.

unfortunately for you, the way jack was holding and kissing you so intimately and letting you use his body to get yourself off, made you feel emotional. the pleasure and love that came from the way jack licked into your mouth made you tear up. you felt unbelievably silly when you realised it.

you pulled away with a gasp, quickly burying your head into his chest while you rutted against him.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart? too much?” jack cooed, gently running his fingers through your hair. “are you almost there?”

you barely registered his words as the tears fell down your cheek, soaking his shirt. you whimpered against his chest, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

jack immediately pulled your head from his chest, his eyes widening as he saw your wet cheeks and glistening eyes.

before he could even process it, a groan escaped his throat as his hips jerked forward, head falling back as he squeezed your waist.

“w- what? jack- did you just cum?” you asked in confusion, pressing a kiss to his cheek and wiping away your tears.

“shit, baby. i’m so sorry.” he panted as he met your eyes again, frowning at the fact that just happened. “i can’t remember the last time i- i came in my pants like that.”

you shook your head as he apologised, moving to lace your hand with his. “did me crying make you..?” you asked quietly, watching his face for a reaction.

jack nodded sheepishly, pulling you close to his body. “you just- you looked so pretty.”

“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,” 

“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER. 

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.

“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”

“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”

“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.

“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.

“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.

“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?” 

“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”

“Still a 10,” Judith moans.

“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.

“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”

“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”

“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”

Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.

“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”

“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.

“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,” 

“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”

“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.

“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel. 

“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”

“Not true.” Jack says curtly.

“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”

“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.

“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”

“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”

“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,” 

“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”

“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans. 

“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”

“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”

“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”

“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”

“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”

“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”

You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.

“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”

“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.

“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.

“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.” 

“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside. 

“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.

“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.

“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”

“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.

“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.

“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale. 

“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.

“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.

“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”

“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.

“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.

“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”

“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.

“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”

But Jack looks at you.

“Let’s do it,” you say. 

“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.

“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.

“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”

“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.

“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.

“Exactly,” Jack nods.

“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.

“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.

“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.

“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.

“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.

“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?” 

“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?” 

“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.

“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”

“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.

“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.

“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.” 

“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!

“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”

“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”

“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.

“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.

“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.

“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.

“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.” 

“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly. 

“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.” 

Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.

“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.

“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”

“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.

“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.

“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.

“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements. 

“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”

“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask. 

“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”

“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.

“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious. 

“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.  

“Hold compressions.” Jack says.

“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief. 

“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor. 

“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”

“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?

“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.

“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”

“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.

  “Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.

“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.

“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.

“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.

“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.

“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”

“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”

“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.

“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.

“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.

“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”

“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”

“I was,” you sigh.

“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.

“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”

“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.

“I love you so much,” you echo.

“Fuck kids,” Jack says.

“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”

“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.

“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan. 

“You got me,” he rasps. 

“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”

“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you. 

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.

“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.

“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.

“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”

“We have Ellis!” Jack says.

“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”

“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.

“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.

“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.

“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.

“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.

“What?” You smile.

“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.

“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”

“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.

“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.

“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.

"Dr. Robinavitch." The vaguely familiar woman greets Robby.

"Nurse Hastings." Robby greets back, his expression lifting in the presence of the woman, "You can call me Robby."

"You can call me Noelle." The woman smiles back at him.

You watch them in confusion. There was something clearly going on between them, that brief interaction they had put them in their own little bubble before they looked back at you. There was something you were explicitly missing —oh.

They were flirting.

It was subtle sure, if you weren't so close to overhear them then you probably wouldn't have noticed it but it wasn't just their voices. Noelle's cheeks flushed slightly and Robby's eyes crinkled in the way they do when people look at something they love and it felt like you were intruding on something intimate and private.

Your heart twists at the realisation. For the past five years, ever since you arrived at the PMTC to begin your residency, you had been in love with Robby. It had started as a mere crush like it always did and it wasn't a unique story in the slightest, you simply fell in love with your boss and when you spend twelve hours a day with them, it was easy to do so. You had debated on whether to tell him or not, and initially you had been scared of rejection and then the prospect of having to suffer working under someone who outright rejected you for next five years or go through the hassle of finding somewhere else in the country to complete your residency. 

Deep down you were looking for an excuse, a solid reason to not tell him that you loved him and you found it in the employee handbook. Relationships between senior members of staff were not permitted with junior ones. You were a first year resident and he was the chief of emergency medicine, it would never work and even if you attempted something and the hospital found out, it would be you getting the boot. You loved working as a doctor, you loved your colleagues and you loved Pittsburgh and you weren't willing to give any of it up just because you had a crush on your boss.

So you buried it deep and tried to forget about it. You dated around and even had a couple of short-term boyfriends over the years in an attempt to get over him and you thought it worked until right now. As you watched him flirt with Noelle, you realised you hadn't stopped loving him at all.

They turn back to your unimpressed face, your eyes flicking between the both of them, "Uh, you could just tell me what the hell’s going on here."

"This is Noelle." Robby motions towards the woman next to him, "She’s our, um…"

"Bed control manager." You cut in, "No, we met."

"Case manager." They both correct you before Noelle continues on, "And this guy won’t be staying."

"Oh, he needs surgery." You tell her, looking back over at the man just feet away.

"Which his insurance will pay for at Westbridge Memorial, not here." She tells you.

You look over at Robby in disbelief, "Wait, so we have to transfer?"

"If… if he’s stable." Noelle clarifies, prompting Robby for the answer she wants. 

"I believe that he is." Robby admits after a moment, "Look on the bright side. We’re gonna free up a bed, discharge a patient."

You raise your brows in surprise at his words. You had never heard him say that before. Sure getting a bed free was always a problem but whenever Gloria harped about it to him, Robby always fought back but maybe this new girlfriend of his is making him softer.

It sparks irritation and anger in you. You didn't take it personally, you knew it was Noelle's job but you hated all of it. Patients are brought in with traumatic injuries only to get transferred out because their insurance doesn't cover you.

"Until the next patient brought in by EMT's also has insurance that doesn't cover us and we have a carousel of patients we can't treat." You snark back, unable to help yourself.

"He will get great care at Westbridge." Noelle fiddles with her tablet before she turns to Robby, "Don’t you agree, Robby?"

Robby nods along, "I’m sure that he will."

"What am I missing?" You ask, watching them have another moment, speaking before you think. You quickly added another question to save yourself, "Is there something else happening with Allen Billings that I don’t know about?

"Not medically." Robby shakes his head.

"This is just a simple insurance transfer." Noelle adds.

"Mm, yeah, okay." You scoff, turning to Robby, "In that case, you can tell him. I have other patients to treat."

Robby eyebrows raise to his hairline, "Excuse me?"

You know you're pushing your luck now. You may be a good doctor but you were still a resident and he was still the chief of the department and your boss.

"Well it's just a simple insurance transfer," You parrot their words back at them, "I'm sure he'll understand. Especially if you tell him to look at the brightside and see how it frees a bed for a new patient."

With that your spin around and disappear around the corner, leaving them to watch you leave in stunned silence.

"What’s that about?" Noelle asks, slightly shocked at your behaviour.

"Nothing." Robby dismisses her question as they begin to walk towards the charge station.

"Didn’t feel like nothing." Noelle doesn't let the topic drop, "She's got a…personality."

"She's young, passionate, not yet broken by the politics of healthcare." Robby spills, "She has a very heightened sense of empathy."

"Meaning?" Noelle prods.

"Meaning she’s good at picking up on stuff."

Noelle's voice drops in volume as she picks up on what Robby was saying, "You didn’t say anything, did you?"

"Nope." Robby shakes his head, "I subscribe to the Falstaff advice. Discretion is the better part of valor."

You were meant to be catching up on your reports, taking advantage of the brief spare time you had between patients when your attention was pulled away by the sight of Robby and Noelle together. Robby was just with Dana moments ago, getting updates when Noelle walked in and now he was kneeling by her side, under the guise of doing up his shoelace as he spoke to her.

A wave of jealousy washed over you at the sight of them. Watching them interact during the morning had sent you into a foul mood and your attempts to pull yourself out of it were flushed away whenever they flirted with each other.

Thankfully you were given an out when a new patient popped up on the board with your name attached to it. You brush past them as head to the patient, paying them no mind and not realising they're both watching you as you leave.

"I've got a question," Noelle begins, "Do you know if she's dating anyone?"

Robby's head whips around so fast, it leaves an ache in his neck, "Excuse me?"

"From what you were telling me earlier about her being passionate and feisty, I know someone who would be great for her," Noelle shrugs.

"Who?" Robby begins to frown and for a reason unknown to him, he didn't like the prospect of you going on a date with someone. Most people keep their loved ones away from the hospital in general and for good reason but over the years Robby has seen peoples partners picking them up from the hospital or even occasionally dropping off lunch for them, but he had never seen that with you. If it wasn't for the fact that the young doctors always spoke loudly whenever they gossiped about their love lives causing Robby to overhear, he would have never known about the people you date.

"Someone from upstairs."

"Someone from upstairs." Robby echoes.

"A lawyer."

"A lawyer." Robby echoes once more causing Noelle to huff at him.

 "Is there an echo in here? Why are you repeating everything I say?"

"Sorry, sorry. So a lawyer?"

"His name is Jonathan. Nice guy."

That makes Robby bark out a laugh, "Well you know how she is. Maybe you should tell him what he would be getting into."

Noelle shakes her head, "I think he could handle her."

Robby frowns and swallows harshly at that, something deep inside of him flickering in discomfort. You had been a constant by his side ever since you arrived five years ago and you were also probably his favourite resident, his protege that he brought in on every major case because he knew and trusted in your skills. He never considered you more than a resident doctor whom he should mentor until you attended a conference together in New Jersey. During the trip, you bonded over shared interests and aligned beliefs and that was where Robby first fell for you. He sought advice from Dana and Jack when he returned only to be taken back at their objection to his suggestion of officially asking you out on a date. Jack reminded him of the rules while Dana cautioned him of the repercussions that would land solely on you; you would be the one kicked from the hospital and out of your program, your career would be the one ruined and not to mention the chance of rumors spreading that you slept your way to the top. So Robby decided to step back and not do anything that would interfere with your career, just waiting for the day when you would finish your residency. He had overheard you talking to Langdon, Shen and Ellis about how much you loved Pittsburgh, so Robby hoped that even if you left PMTC, you'd stay close enough so he could formally ask you out on a date.

"So, is she single?" Noelle repeats her first question.

"Uh, I don't know," Robby rubs his hand over his jaw, "You're better off asking one of the nurses or other residents, they'd know."

Noelle nods as Perlah calls for him, requesting his help on behalf of a med student. He quickly disappears leaving Noelle with Dana who didn't hide the fact she had clearly overheard their conversation.

You hadn't had even a moment's break since then, constantly swept off your feet with patients and helping the med students whenever they called for help. It was the afternoon now and the lack of food and even water was catching up on you.

You crumple into a chair at the nurses station, head tilted back and eyes closed as you try to regulate yourself. Your stomach was so empty that it was making you feel sick and your hands were shaking as well. You doubted you even had enough energy to drag yourself upstairs to the cafeteria.

You don't open your eyes but you can still hear the noise of  the pitt around you. You're left undisturbed for a while, until someone nudges your foot with a soft, "Hey,"