isabela

You snorted and then turned back to your fries.

You had always been a constant in Bucky's life—first in middle school, then high school, and now entering your last year in college. Inseparable was a common term used to describe your relationship, but there was something that separated you, and it had been a more... recent development.

Bucky had joined a frat. A very popular frat. You had not liked the frat, but you put up with it. But then Bucky started sleeping with women, and you put up with that far less, because Bucky started sleeping with... a lot of women. So, it was fair. You kept your distance, made your own friends, and you made time to see each other when you could.

Bucky coveted those times, even if he wouldn't admit to it. Even if each quick dinner, each passing coffee in the dining hall, began to feel like he was falling off a cliff. A very sudden, very steep cliff.

The women were not a distraction at first. He was supposed to have sex with women. That's what guys like him did in college. But, recently, for the past few weeks, they were a distraction. A distraction from you. He couldn't stop thinking about you, and that wasn't the plan.

"Why are you staring off into space like a freak?" you laughed, tossing a fry at his face. It smacked between his eyes.

"I'm not," he argued. "What, a guy can't think anymore? That illegal?"

You puffed out a laugh. "What could you possibly be thinking about?" You shoved the plate away and rested your face in your hands. "The next girl you'll waste the time of? Maybe you're worried that you left one in your bed and now she's going through your underwear drawer."

"Ha. Ha," Bucky mocked. "No, smart ass. I was thinking about what to get you for your birthday, but now, since I'm not allowed to think, I think I'll just forget."

"Not my birthday!" you gasped, hands coming down on the table. "You said you were going to take me to Disneyland."

"I was kidding about that. You actually want to go to Disneyland?"

"Not anymore. Not after you've dangled it in front of my nose like this."

Bucky let out another sarcastic laugh, sliding out of the booth after tossing a few bills on the table. He shrugged his jacket on and held out an expectant hand that you stared at dubiously before taking with a roll of your eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky droned. "Let's get out of here before your hysterics get us kicked out."

He helped you into your own jacket, lingered with his nose by your temple and greedily took time he wasn't allowed, and then pushed a rough kiss to the side of your head because that was a normal thing to do. He was being normal. His feelings were normal.

You tugged him into the parking lot and blabbed on about Disneyland and terrible fries and looked at him like you always did, and he looked at you like you were holding his entire life in your hands. You didn't seem to notice the difference.

Bucky kept it to himself and pretended he wasn't crossing a line.

Dana glanced at you over her reading glasses, her expression unbothered. "It’s just a week, kiddo. You’ll survive."

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. "I... I thought we were soulmates. You’re breaking my heart, Dana. I’m wounded."

"You really took those acting classes seriously, didn't you?" Robby chimed in, not even looking up from his charting.

"I got three classes for free," you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. "I’m not letting that talent go to waste."

Robby chuckled. "It isn’t that bad. You’ve worked nights before. It’s quiet."

"And that’s exactly why I know the day shift is better," you argued. Just then, a teenage boy in the waiting area suddenly doubled over and threw up right in the middle of the floor. You gestured toward the mess with a flat expression. "Even with the chaos and the vomit, at least I’m awake for it."

"You’re just mad because you won't have a life for a week," Princess teased, leaning against the supply cart. "It's not like you're going on many dates anyway, but still."

"Excuse me? Is today 'Attack Y/N' day? Because I didn’t get the memo. Oh, wait, I see what this is. You’re just terrified Al Ashimi is going to change her mind and pick you instead."

Princess looked up at the ceiling, pretending she didn't hear you. She quickly grabbed a stack of paper towels and a biohazard bag. "I think I hear duty calling. I need to go help Vomit Boy." She vanished before you could say another word.

Dana chuckled, finally setting her pen down. "Go home and get some sleep, kiddo. Look on the bright side: at least there won't be any traffic."

"If you say so," you muttered, "But if I start hallucinating from sleep deprivation, I’m blaming all of you."

*****

The night shift sat heavy in your chest, a familiar reluctance that never quite eased. The ER looked different after dark—dimmer and quieter, but not in a way that felt safe. It was just slower, like something was waiting in the shadows of the fluorescent lights.

The moment you stepped inside, Princess caught sight of you and grinned. "Enjoy the moon, babes. Call me if you meet a handsome werewolf."

You rolled your eyes, your boots clicking against the linoleum. "Go home."

Behind the counter, Shen glanced up from his coffee, his face illuminated by the glow of a monitor. "Welcome to the night shift."

"Happy to be here," you lied, setting your bag down beside the station.

"Liar," he said, without missing a beat.

You almost smiled, shaking your head as you adjusted your watch. You tried to settle into the unfamiliar rhythm of the ward, but the air felt charged. The sliding doors hissed open again just as you reached for a chart. You shifted to give the newcomer space, only to realize he had stopped right beside you.

"Didn’t expect to see you here."

You turned your head. Jack was standing close enough that you could catch the faint, sharp scent of antiseptic and dark coffee. He had clearly just arrived; his bag was still slung over his shoulder and his sleeves were already pushed up, as if he were halfway into a procedure before he’d even clocked in.

"Temporary," you said. "Just covering."

He nodded once, his eyes briefly meeting yours. "Unlucky."

"That obvious?"

"A little."

You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders dropping an inch. "I’ll survive."

His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary—an assessment, a silent weighing of variables—then he gave a small, sharp nod. "Good. We need people who do."

And just like that, he moved past you. He didn't look back; he was already part of the machine, focused on the floor. You didn't think about it again. There was no reason to.

The night settled into a stretched-out cadence. There were fewer patients and less noise, but it was never truly quiet. Residents drifted between cases like ghosts; Shen remained a permanent fixture at the counter, fueled by caffeine. You found your pace, realizing that the night shift wasn't easier; it was just more exposed.

Now, you were handling a drunk patient who got into a bar fight, his leg injured from stepping on broken glass—probably because he showed up in flip-flops.

"Hey… nurse…"

You ignored it at first.

"…Hey, I’m talking to you…"

You glanced over and immediately regretted it. The smell reached you before the sight did: stale beer and sweat. The man’s words were a slurred mess, a puzzle you didn't have the patience to decode. You stepped closer anyway, crouching by his leg when you saw the dark stain on his jeans.

"Hold still," you said, your voice clinical as you reached for your tray. "There’s glass in here."

"Hey," he grunted, leaning his weight toward you. "You hear me?"

You didn't answer. You focused on the wound, your hands steady as you began picking shards of a broken bottle from his skin. One by one. Clean, rhythmic movements.

“Think you’re too good to answer me, huh?” he slurred, voice rising, thick with alcohol. “Acting all high and mighty…”

He let out a rough laugh, shifting closer. “Bet you wouldn’t ignore me if I looked different…”

He kept talking, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. You tuned it out, retreating into the work. Then, the air shifted. There was a movement, sudden and too close.

You lifted your head and saw his arm already swinging toward you. It was too fast. Your body locked up, that traitorous split-second of paralysis. Your eyes shut on instinct, shoulders tensing as you braced for the impact.

It never landed.

Instead of a blow, there was a sharp, muffled sound. You opened your eyes, your breath catching in your throat.

Jack was there.

He hadn't just stepped in; he had intercepted. With terrifying precision, his hand had caught the patient’s wrist mid-swing. It wasn't a struggle or a clumsy grab. It was a clean, absolute stop.

For a second, the patient looked merely confused, his momentum erased. He tried to jerk away, but he couldn't move. Jack’s grip tightened just enough to make the reality of the situation sink in.

"She’s treating you," Jack said.

His voice was quiet. He didn't yell. He wasn't angry. Somehow, that was worse.

The patient tried to pull back again, but Jack’s hand shifted—not a twist, not yet—just a subtle application of pressure that signaled exactly how easily he could break what he held.

"You’re going to sit still," Jack continued. His tone was calm, almost patient, like he was explaining a fundamental law of physics. "Or I’m going to make sure you don’t use this hand for the rest of the night."

A beat of heavy silence followed.

"Your choice."

Something in the way he said it, the absolute certainty that he wasn't bluffing, made the man go completely still. Silenced. Controlled.

Jack held him there for a second longer, ensuring the lesson had taken root, then released the wrist like it had never been worth the effort. He didn't look at the patient again. He looked at you.

For a second, you just stared.

Oh God.

Dr. Jack Abbot had stepped in like it was nothing.

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs, too fast, uneven, the kind of rhythm you were used to seeing on a monitor, not feeling in your own chest. Your hand came up instinctively, pressing against your sternum as if that might steady it, but it didn’t. Your breathing followed, shallow, quick, just slightly out of control.

He noticed.

Jack’s attention shifted to you almost immediately, sharp and focused in a way that made everything else feel secondary. “Shen,” he called without raising his voice, “get in here. Call security.” He didn’t wait for confirmation. He already knew it would be handled. By the time the words left his mouth, he was already moving toward you, dropping into a crouch in front of you like the situation had changed priorities.

His fingers closed gently but firmly around your wrist, checking your pulse, his thumb steady against your skin. You went still without meaning to, caught somewhere between awareness and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“Pulse is fast,” he murmured, mostly to himself, eyes flicking up to your face, assessing. “Breathing’s shallow… pupils are dilated.”

You blinked at him, a little disoriented by how close he was, by how quickly he had shifted from control to care like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Adrenaline, you told yourself. Acute stress response. You knew this. You’d seen it over and over again.

So why did it feel different when it was you?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice lower now, steady.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

He nodded once, already processing. “Okay. Look at me.”

You did, almost automatically.

“It’s just adrenaline,” he said, calm, grounded, like he was guiding you through something routine. “You’re safe. Slow your breathing.”

You tried. In through your nose, out through your mouth. It didn’t settle immediately, but it helped enough that the sharp edge of it dulled.

“I’m right here,” he added, quieter.

That shouldn’t have meant anything.

It did.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice not as steady as you wanted. “But I’m fine.”

He watched you for a second longer, like he was deciding whether to argue, then straightened, one hand slipping into his pocket. “I’ll take over here. Step outside. Get some air.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded and pushed yourself up, walking out of the ER, the noise fading behind you as the cooler air hit your face. You inhaled deeply, slower this time, letting your shoulders drop as you tried to regulate yourself.

It should’ve passed quickly. Physiologically, it made sense. Stress response, elevated heart rate, rapid breathing. It should settle.

But it didn’t fully.

Something lingered.

And over the next few days, you started noticing it more. Not all at once, not dramatic enough to alarm you, just… there. Subtle at first. Every time you crossed paths with him, your pulse would pick up a little too fast. Your breathing would shift without permission. Heat would settle under your skin like a low-grade fever you couldn’t quite justify.

You told yourself it was leftover adrenaline. Fatigue. Adjustment to night shift.

Anything but what it actually was.

By the end of the week, you were ready to go back. Back to your routine, your quiet nights, your control. You were gathering your things at the station, half-focused on finally being done with this schedule, when his voice came from behind you.

“Heading back to days?”

You turned, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Finally.”

He nodded, like that was expected, his gaze lingering just briefly before shifting away again. For a moment, it felt like he was about to say something else, but instead he adjusted his stance, casual as ever.

“Gonna miss you.”

He said it like it didn’t weigh anything.

Like it was just a passing comment.

Then he walked off, already moving on to whatever was next, leaving you standing there, completely still, your thoughts blanking for a second too long while your body reacted first.

Your pulse spiked again, sharp and sudden, like your body had decided something before your mind could catch up. And this time… you couldn’t explain it away.

*******

Back on day shift, everything felt normal again. The noise, the pace, the constant movement—it grounded you in a way night shift never did. No strange spikes in your pulse, no sudden heat creeping up your skin, no unexplained shortness of breath. Just work. Predictable, exhausting work.

Which was exactly why, during a short break, you found yourself standing in front of Dana and Princess, explaining it anyway.

“It only happened at night,” you said, arms crossed, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Headache, elevated heart rate, a bit of a fever. But now it’s gone. So clearly, I’m just not built for night shift.”

Dana didn’t even look convinced. She leaned back slightly in her chair, arms folded, watching you over the rim of her glasses. “That’s called lovesick, dear.”

You blinked. “Hell no.”

“I agree with Dana,” Princess chimed in immediately, raising her hand like she was in class. “This is the first time you’ve had symptoms for an actual human being instead of your fictional men.”

You frowned. “You don’t mean that.”

Because that was ridiculous. You liked your fictional characters. The ones from your books, the ones who knew exactly what to say, who existed safely behind pages where everything made sense and nothing ever touched you back. That was different. That didn’t count.

“You said you wanted a boyfriend,” Dana continued, unbothered. “But every time you go out—Tinder, Raya, even the ones I introduce—you never make it past the second date.”

Princess nodded. “You literally said your feelings were dead.”

“And what did you tell us about when you’re around Jack?” Dana added, one brow lifting slightly. “Hm? Perhaps…?”

You stared at her for a second, then pointed at yourself. “Me? With Abbot?” You let out a short scoff, already turning away. “Nope. Nope.”

You didn’t wait for a response, stepping off to check on another patient like the conversation had already ended.

Behind you, Princess leaned slightly toward Dana. “Should we move her to night shift?”

Dana gave a small shrug. “It could happen.”

You ignored them.

You really did.

Right up until Robby’s voice cut through the station not long after.

“I need you on night shift again tomorrow.”

You froze mid-step.

Slowly, you turned your head. “What?”

“Short-staffed,” he said simply, already looking down at his chart. “Just for a bit.”

You exhaled sharply under your breath. "Here we go again."

**********

The night shift settled into something almost… enjoyable.

You moved easily with the team now, picking up where others left off and anticipating needs before they were even voiced. Shen trusted you without question, the residents didn't hesitate to call you in, and the pace felt just right. It wasn't suffocating like the day shift, but it wasn't empty either. It was just enough to keep you in constant, fluid motion.

And then there was Jack.

He didn’t hover, and he didn’t insert himself where he wasn’t needed, but somehow he was always there. Passing by. Standing just a little too close when you were both reviewing charts at the station. Dropping comments that sounded casual but never felt entirely hollow.

"Careful," he murmured once as you reached past him for a file. His hand moved reflexively, briefly steadying the edge of the folder before you could grab it. "You look like you’re about to start a fight with the paperwork."

You scoffed softly, trying to ignore the proximity. "It started it first."

That earned you a small, rare smirk.

And then, your body betrayed you. Your heartbeat kicked up, sudden and fast, heat creeping up to your ears like you’d been caught in a lie. You turned away quickly, pretending to focus on a monitor—anything to break the spell.

It kept happening. Every time he got a little too close. Every time his voice dropped just slightly when speaking to you. Every time that quiet, almost amused expression crossed his face, as if he knew something about you that you hadn't realized yet.

It was annoying. It was distracting. And if you were being honest, it was… kind of fun.

But there was another thing. The pain.

It came back in pieces. It started as a dull ache sitting high in your abdomen, easy enough to ignore during the rush of a trauma. Then it grew sharper on certain days, especially after you forced down a quick, greasy meal between cases. Once, the sensation stretched toward your back, making you pause mid-step before you straightened and kept going like nothing had happened.

You told yourself it wasn't serious. You were still working, still functioning, still sharp. If you could do the job, then it didn't count.

Until one shift, when you turned too quickly to grab a tray and the pain hit sharper than before. It was enough to make your breath hitch, a cold spike of clarity in your gut.

"Hey."

His voice came from right beside you. You straightened immediately, forcing your features into a mask of professional calm. "Yeah?"

Jack was already looking at you. This wasn't his casual gaze; he was focused. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You just stopped."

You shrugged lightly, trying to brush it off. "Nothing. Just moved too fast."

His gaze didn’t leave yours. He was searching for the tell, the flinch you were trying so hard to hide. "You sure?"

"I’m fine."

There was a pause. It wasn't long, just enough for the weight of his scrutiny to settle over you. Then he nodded once, accepting the answer for the time being. "Alright."

But the way he looked at you for a second longer before stepping away said he wasn’t even remotely convinced.

******

The next morning, your phone buzzed before you were fully awake. It was Dana. You frowned at the screen, opening the message with one eye still half-closed.

You okay?

You stared at the text for a long moment before typing back. I’m fine. Just a little abdominal pain. Nothing serious.

The reply came almost instantly. Still there?

Yeah. On and off.

A long pause followed. You watched the typing bubbles appear and disappear. Then: If it keeps hurting, tell Jack, alright?

You blinked at the screen. Why him? Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a hundred questions forming, but you just typed back a simple response. Okay.

You didn't think much of it after that. You really should have.

*******

That night, you walked into the ER again, and the familiar rhythm settled in almost immediately. The doors hissed open behind you not long after you'd checked the board.

"Back again."

You turned slightly as Jack stepped in. He was the same as always: calm, steady, acting as if the entire shift adjusted its orbit around him instead of the other way around.

"Looks like it," you said.

He gave a small nod, then glanced at you properly this time. "How are you doing?"

You didn't hesitate. "Fine."

It was too quick. Too easy. His eyes lingered on you for a brief second, weighing the word against the way you were standing, then he gave a quiet, thoughtful hum.

"Alright," he said.

But he didn't look like he believed a single word of it.

****

The shift carried on as it always did, steady and controlled, but the ache refused to leave this time. It stayed, anchor-heavy and persistent.

You were halfway through updating a chart when the pressure pressed in again. It was deeper now, not sharp enough to stop your heart, but strong enough to make you pause. Your hand came up instinctively, fingers pressing against your upper abdomen before you caught yourself and forced the limb back down to your side. You kept your posture straight and your expression neutral, pushing through the discomfort the way you always did.

Except this time, you weren't the only one paying attention.

"Hey."

You looked up. Jack was already watching you. His focus was sharper than it had been all night—not casual, not a passing glance, but a direct, diagnostic stare.

"You need to get that checked," he said.

You exhaled a short, dismissive breath and shook your head. "I’m fine."

His jaw shifted slightly, a tell-tale sign of rising impatience. "You’re not."

"I said I’m fine, Jack."

"Listen to me." His voice didn't rise, but the texture of it changed. It became firmer, colder, leaving absolutely no room for you to brush him off. "You need to be checked. Now."

You held his gaze for a second, the fires of an argument stoking in your chest, but there was something in the way he stood there—steady, unmoving, and entirely certain—that made you realize this wasn't optional.

You clicked your tongue softly under your breath. "Okay. Fine."

That was all he needed. He didn't waste time with a victory lap. He guided you toward a quieter corner of the unit, his movements efficient as he shifted entirely into clinical mode. "Sit," he commanded, pulling a chair toward you.

You sat.

His hand came to your wrist first. He checked your pulse with a steady thumb, his eyes briefly tracking the rhythm of your breathing. Then his attention moved, narrowing. "Point to where it hurts."

You pressed lightly just under your ribs. "Here."

"How long?"

"A few days."

"Worse after eating?"

"...Sometimes."

"Radiates to your back?"

You hesitated. That split second of silence was all the answer he required. His expression didn't change, but you saw the conclusion forming behind his eyes before he even spoke it. He pressed gently along your upper abdomen, and when his hand reached the spot just under your left rib, the pain flared with a white-hot intensity. A sharp intake of breath escaped you before you could stop it.

"There," he said quietly.

You frowned, trying to reclaim your dignity. "It’s really not that bad."

"It is," he replied, his voice level. He straightened slightly, already mentally writing the orders. "We’re running labs. Amylase, lipase. You’re not ignoring this."

You let out a frustrated sigh. "You’re overthinking it."

The results didn't take long. By the time he found you again, the shift was thinning out, and the heavy, blue quiet of the early morning had settled over the ER. He walked up to you holding a chart, his face unreadable.

"It’s pancreatitis," he said.

You stared at him, the word hitting you like a physical weight. "No."

"It is."

"That doesn’t make sense," you pushed back, shaking your head as if the movement could undo the diagnosis. "I’m working. I’m fine."

"You’re functioning," he corrected, his voice cutting through your denial. "That’s not the same thing."

You looked away, your jaw tightening. "It’s probably just a flare of—"

"It’s not." He stepped closer, his tone firmer now. "Your enzymes are elevated. Your symptoms match the labs perfectly. This isn’t something you brush off, and it isn't something you work through."

Silence stretched between you. You hated it. You hated that he was right, and you hated even more that you couldn’t argue your way out of the truth. He exhaled quietly, his tone softening just a fraction. "You’re done for tonight."

"I can finish the last two hours of my shift."

"No," he said simply. "You’re going to rest."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn't even let you start.

"We’ve got it covered," he added, anticipating your every objection. "You’re not helping anyone by pushing through this. You're just a liability to yourself."

You held his gaze, stubborn to the last, but the exhaustion was finally catching up. The ache under your ribs felt like a lead weight.

"...Fine," you muttered.

"Good."

"And I’m coming back tomorrow."

"No, you’re not."

You frowned, eyes snapping back to his. "Excuse me?"

"Take a few days," he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Rest. Fluids. Low-fat food. Let your body actually recover."

You let out a quiet, tired scoff. "You’re very bossy."

"And you’re a terrible patient," he replied, without missing a beat.

That, finally, shut you up.

******

You didn’t remember falling asleep. You just remembered the sheer weight of exhaustion pulling you under the moment you stumbled through your front door.

When you finally woke up, the world was too quiet. You lay there for a moment, disoriented by the daylight filtering through the curtains, until your phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from him.

Didn’t want to wake you. There’s food outside your door. Eat something light.

You blinked, still half-asleep, before dragging yourself out of bed. You walked to the door and cracked it open. A small bag sat neatly on the welcome mat.

You brought it inside and opened it slowly. It was soup. Simple, light, and clear—exactly what you would have recommended to any patient with the same labs. But as you looked closer, you realized it was your favorite.

You stared at the container for a second longer than necessary. A quiet, warm sensation settled in your chest, and for once, it had nothing to do with the pain under your ribs.

"...Ah, damn," you breathed out, almost under your breath, staring at the food in your hands a second longer than you should have.

You were in trouble now.

Because this?

This wasn’t something you could brush off anymore.

You liked him.

The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.

Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.

He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.

Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.

He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.

“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.

“No.”

“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”

“No.”

Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.

“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”

Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”

“It ain't charity.”

“Feels like it.”

Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.

“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”

Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.

“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”

That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.

Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.

He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.

Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.

The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.

Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.

Then another message.

He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.

What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.

There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.

Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.

He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.

The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.

There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.

The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.

The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.

But it isn't the room that makes him stop.

It's the hallway.

Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.

His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.

It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.

He pulls his phone out.

Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.

The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.

It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.

He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.

That last one almost makes him smile.

He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.

Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.

He never sees you once.

The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.

Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.

There is a sticky note on the fridge.

Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.

He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.

The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.

Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.

Then another on the kitchen counter.

If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.

It's strange, living with someone he has never met.

You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.

The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.

Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.

You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.

Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.

He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.

He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.

The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.

Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”

By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.

“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”

“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.

“You keep showing up, that's on you.”

He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.

The guy asks questions constantly.

You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?

Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.

Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.

Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.

The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.

He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.

He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.

“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”

He stops just inside the doorway.

You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.

He had built you into something abstract in his head.

Not a real person.

Certainly not a woman.

Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.

Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.

The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.

You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.

“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”

Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.

You freeze.

It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.

“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.

There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.

The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.

You recover first.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”

“Yeah.”Brilliant move.

You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”

He looks down too. “It was the plan.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”

He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.

The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.

“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”

There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.

“Don't worry about it.”

You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.

“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.

“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”

“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”

Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.

“So what do you do?”

“How are you liking the place?”

You stop. He stops.

“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.

“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”

And it is.

He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.

You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”

More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.

“And you? Were gonna say...?”

“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”

“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”

He blinks once. “Wow.”

You laugh softly at the look on his face.

“That sounds awesome.”

“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”

He leans back slightly against the doorframe.

“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”

You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.

“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”

Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.

“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”

Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”

You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.

“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”

“You leave good notes.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.

Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.

“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.

A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.

The apartment feels different after he meets you.

Not immediately and nothing dramatic.

You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.

But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.

The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.

He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.

You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.

Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.

He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.

Soup is still alive. I think.

He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.

Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.

You stop when you see him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.

“Soup still alive?” you ask.

“Barely.”

You drop your bag onto a chair.

“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”

Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.

After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.

Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.

He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.

Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.

Another day:

Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.

He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.

You had one job.

Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.

Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.

You leave back:

So do I.

He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.

One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.

New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.

He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.

Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.

The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.

I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.

And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.

Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.

So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.

Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.

The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.

He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.

Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.

You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.

The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.

This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?

He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.

After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.

You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.

Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.

Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.

The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.

You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.

One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.

You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.

“Rude,” you say.

“You weren't home yet.”

“You could've texted.”

He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.

You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.

You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”

“Normal people don't have metal arms.”

That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”

Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.

You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.

He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.

You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.

The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.

Thanks for the blanket.

Below it, in smaller handwriting:

That was very disgustingly nice of you.

A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.

He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.

You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.

You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.

He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”

You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.

“Sometimes.”

“You sure?”

“Not particularly.”

He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”

You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”

“You didn't know?”

“I thought it was maybe midnight.”

He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”

You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.

“I'm… up for a promotion.”

Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”

“A curator position.”

He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”

You nod.

“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”

As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.

“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”

“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”

You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”

Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.

“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”

Bucky frowns. “Why?”

You laugh softly to yourself.

“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”

That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”

He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.

He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”

You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.

“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”

Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.

“I don't know,” you say after a second.

“Yeah, you do.”

The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.

Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.

A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.

It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.

The shelves are uneven in places.

Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.

It feels lived in, it feels like you.

He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.

You actually read all of these?

He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.

He pulls it free.

Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.

He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.

There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.

Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.

The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.

You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.

The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.

I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.

He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.

You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.

He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.

But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.

A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.

Well?

He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.

Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.

The next day:

That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.

He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.

They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.

One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.

A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.

Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:

Thought this looked lonely.

Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.

After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.

You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.

Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.

One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.

“You got me one?”

“You looked tired.”

You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.

The hot dog guy notices eventually.

“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.

Bucky frowns. “Who?”

“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”

“No. Not happening.”

The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”

Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mm.”

You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”

He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.

Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”

You look up from your book. “Yeah.”

“So what was the first?”

You smile immediately.

“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”

He watches your face change as you talk.

“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”

You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.

“I used all the money I had to buy it.”

“And then?”

“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”

“You found all of them?”

“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”

There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.

In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.

After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.

The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.

Dad's birthday. Dentist appointment. Collections meeting. Mine.

Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.

He knows immediately you're going to forget it.

And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.

“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”

Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.

“Happy birthday.”

You stop and blink at him.

“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”

You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”

Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.

So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.

It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.

He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.

That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.

He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.

The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.

“You forgot your birthday,” he says.

You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.

“Bucky...” is all you manage.

He gets flustered immediately.

“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”

The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.

“You got me a cake?”

“Yeah.”

“With candles?”

He glances at the little crooked row of them.

“That's usually how birthdays work.”

You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.

The candles flicker softly between you.

“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.

You look down at the cake then back up at him.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”

You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.

The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.

“And this is... also a thing.”

You blink. “You got me a present?”

“You don't have to sound so surprised.”

You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.

Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.

“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”

Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”

“Just found it.” He shrugs.

“Bucky.”

“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.

You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.

"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.

A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.

Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.

“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.

You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.

“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”

He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.

You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.

The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.

Bucky laughs.

“So you've always been weird about books.”

“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”

“Those are different.”

“They're really not.”

You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.

He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.

He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.

By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.

He notices you fighting sleep before you do.

“You're falling asleep.”

“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.

He smiles. “You absolutely are.”

You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.

For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.

You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.

“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.

“I got you.”

You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.

He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.

Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers.

As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.

The call comes on a Tuesday.

Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.

You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”

He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”

“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”

For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”

The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.

You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.

Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.

“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say immediately.

He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”

You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“You won't.”

“What if they ask me something I don't know?”

“You'll know it.”

“What if I freeze?”

“You won't.”

You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”

He leans back against the couch.

“I know you.”

That quiets you for a second.

Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.

Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.

“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”

“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”

You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.

“You mean that?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.

Then you freeze.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.

You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay,” he echoes.

After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.

Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.

Now it just feels like home.

Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.

He fails.

By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.

You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You blink. “No.”

He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”

You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”

“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”

That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.

“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”

“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”

That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.

“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”

“Hey.”

You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.

“It's crooked.”

“Oh.”

His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.

“You got this,” he says.

You nod once then you're gone.

The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.

By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.

He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.

“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”

You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.

“I didn't get it.”

The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.

“Oh.”

You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.

But then you shrug one shoulder.

“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”

He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”

“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”

That takes him a second to process.

“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”

“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”

Bucky nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.

“Come on.”

You look up. “What?”

“Let's go get hot dogs.”

You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.

“Okay.”

The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.

“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”

You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.

“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.

“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.

“You had a bad day.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you a hot dog.”

You don't fight him after that.

On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.

It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”

He glances over at you. “...No?”

You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”

“Okay.” He nods once.

“But that's not what I was getting at.”

He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.

“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”

“Yeah?”

Your smile is smaller now.

"I think it just came true.”

He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”

“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”

You look at him then, really look at him.

“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”

Everything in him goes still.

The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.

He ducks his head, shaking it a little.

“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.

You blush immediately. “Shut up.”

But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.

A week later, you come home before sunset.

Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.

“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.

“I know. Weird, right?”

He smiles a little. “You get fired?”

“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”

He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.

“Do you wanna come by the museum?”

He looks up. “The museum?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”

He tries to act casual. “Sure.”

But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.

The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.

You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.

Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.

You smile the second you spot him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.

You talk with your hands when you're excited.

You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.

“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”

Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.

Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.

At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.

“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.

Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”

You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”

He laughs harder than he should an you grin.

“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”

“You cried over a label?”

“I care deeply about accuracy.”

“You're insane.”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”

He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.

The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.

You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.

They're beautiful.

But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.

“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.

He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.

“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”

You lean back a little farther against the bench.

“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”

Bucky frowns slightly. “I don't think you're insignificant.”

You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.

“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”

The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.

You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.

“It's pretty, huh?”

He smiles.

“Yeah...”

But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.

“What are you gonna do now?”

You blink. “With what?”

“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”

You let out a quiet breath, thinking.

“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”

He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”

You look up at him and smile softly.

“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”

When he found room four, his assumptions were confirmed. Penny was in line with the rest of her kindergarten class, speaking animatedly with a boy beside her while firmly rooted on the numbers painted on the floor. She was excited, but Jack could tell she was putting considerable effort into staying right where she was supposed to be. He had to fight the smile that crept up on his face. 

“Your daddy’s a manager?” Penny asked, tugging on the straps of her backpack. “Wow! What does that mean?” 

The boy next to her raised a brow. “I don’t know. I think he tells people what to do. He has a computer.” 

“What does he tell them to do?” 

“Work more! He always says everyone is a lazy piece of—” 

The teacher in the hall clapped her hands, drawing the class's attention. “Let’s make sure we are using kind words while we wait to go home.” 

A long drone of “Yes, Miss Cindy” reset each conversation in the line, but Penny clearly wasn’t done. Jack took a few steps closer and nodded at Miss Cindy in greeting, content to wait until Penny turned and noticed the surprise. You hadn’t told her Jack was picking her up, and Jack loved how Penny got when she was surprised. 

“Well, want to know what my daddy does?” Penny posed, bouncing up on her toes. 

Jack paused. 

You never talked about Penny’s birth father. You’d offered a simple explanation the first time Jack skirted around the topic: he was there for the birth, and then he never was again. You never tried to fight for child support, not wanting to drag Penny through messy custody battles or inconsistent relationships. Penny knew she had a dad, just like everyone had a dad, but you tried hard to make that hole feel small. Jack thought you did a damn good job. 

And he hoped he played a role in that, as well. 

Jack held his breath as the boy nodded excitedly, and then he felt like he was free-falling as she answered. “He’s a doctor for emergencies! He works when everyone is asleep so he can help people during the nighttime.” 

“But how are there emergencies if everyone is asleep?”

Penny puckered her lips as she thought. “I don’t know. I guess if they wake up, maybe.” 

Jack tried and failed to settle the grin that had taken over his face. Penny had never called him anything but Jack. He hadn’t wanted to ask you for more when it came to your daughter, and he wanted Penny to be comfortable, but Jack felt like Penny’s dad. Penny was his girl. You’d been engaged for a few months, and he couldn’t ask for more than he had, even if he only had the feeling, not the title. He couldn’t be greedy. 

Hearing Penny call him dad made Jack feel greedy. 

He leaned over behind Penny and tugged on her sleeve, raising his brows as she spun and let out a gasp. It was only a tick of a second before she launched herself at him, exclaiming a loud “Jack!” that now held a different meaning for him. He wondered how many times she’d talked about him and called him something different. 

Jack grunted as he lifted her to his hip, trying to find her eyes with her arms clutched tight around his neck. “Hey, Penny girl. Is it alright if I take you home today?” 

Penny squealed and nodded against him, but then became serious as she leaned up. “Does mommy know? She told me to never go home with strangers.” 

Jack raised a brow, both of his girls overcautious and full of rules, as always. “Am I a stranger now?” 

Penny threw her head back in a giggle. “No! But no one else has ever picked me up from school before.” 

“First time for everything. It’s exciting. We can get something up for mommy on the way home.” 

“Like flowers?” 

“How’d you know?” 

“You always get mommy flowers.” 

“You want some too?

Penny blew a raspberry as they finally made it to his truck. “What am I gonna do with flowers? They just sit there. That’s so silly, Jack.” 

“How about a toy, then?” Jack offered, tapping Penny’s nose after buckling her in. He rested a hand on the door and shifted the car seat around to make sure it was locked in place. You were rubbing off on him, clearly. “What do you think?” 

Penny tapped her chin. “I’ll consider it.” 

~~

When you finally got home that night, looking frazzled and far too apologetic for Jack’s liking, Jack had a towel on his shoulder and a pot simmering on the stove. He’d stayed at your place despite you insisting that the neighbor could watch her for an hour, so he figured starting dinner was the next course of action. 

You hadn’t moved in together just yet. For Penny’s sake. 

You sighed when you spotted him, putting your bags down with a defeated sound. “You really didn’t have to stay,” you almost whined. Jack was already on you, hands on your hips and gaze locked on the furrow of your brow. “The lady next door loves Penny. She could have watched her.” 

“Yeah? Well, what if I love Penny?” Jack countered, pressing his lips to yours. He saw another argument brewing, so he squeezed your cheeks and kissed you again. “Seriously. I’m gonna be the one picking her up on my days off soon. Let me practice.” 

You shook your head. “You do not have to do that. You work all the time, Jack. I wouldn’t make you take care of Penny when you finally have time to rest.” 

“Make me take care of her?” 

“Yeah. You have enough on your plate and—”

“Hey,” Jack softly called, tugging you in closer. “When I asked you to marry me, I meant that I wanted both of you. You aren’t making me take care of her. I want to.” 

You looked up at him, hands resting on his chest, and Jack saw the conflict raging in you, the fear that this would be too much. You didn’t talk about Penny’s birth father, but Jack could pick apart the damage that was done by him. He could see it in every anxiety-fueled phone call about Penny and in all the things you tried to take on alone. You wouldn’t accept help, not fully, but Jack was ready to fight you on that. For the rest of his life, if he needed to. 

“Was she okay for you?” you asked, because Jack was pretty sure you knew he would fight you on that. 

“She was perfect,” he answered, his hands holding your head steady as he leaned down to look at you. “Like her mom.” 

You scoffed out a laugh. “Don’t try too hard, Dr. Abbot. The ladies like mystery.” 

“Yeah? Well ignore the flowers in the kitchen then. I want to be mysterious about them.” 

Your smile was soft and vulnerable as you leaned up to kiss him, and Jack backed away only because the noodles in the pot were going to stick together if he didn’t stir them, and Penny was entering a picky eating phase. He could handle a picky eating phase, along with everything that came after. 

And later in the night, when Penny fell asleep over Jack’s legs and Mulan played softly in the background, he thought to bring it up. Casually. More as a curious pondering than a request, because he didn’t want to ask for too much. You played with Penny’s hair as the Huns fought to invade China, and Jack threw his thoughts into the air. 

“Does Penny—” he paused. You lifted your head from his shoulder, and Jack caught your engagement ring glinting under the dim living room light. “Does she ever… call me anything when I’m not around? To other people?” 

You became still, gaze falling to Jack’s chest. “I’ve talked to her about that. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to… be anything you didn’t want to be. Like if you wanted things to be more separated. But sometimes—you know, she’s just a kid—so sometimes—” 

Jack gently shushed you, taking your hand in his because that was the closest thing he could read. “What’d I say earlier, huh? I was asking because I don’t want things to be separated. And she always just calls me Jack, so I was wondering—” 

“She calls you dad all the time,” you revealed, looking down at Penny’s face smushed against Jack’s thigh. “To her friends, her teachers, a random guy in the grocery store.” 

Jack huffed out a breathy laugh. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah. She loves talking about you.” You looked back up at him. “Are you okay with her calling you that?” 

And for some reason—Jack would blame it on the sentimental music in the movie—tears welled in his eyes at the question. At the gentle way you looked at him. Jack cleared his throat of the sticky emotion and nodded, his brow twitching. 

“Yeah,” he almost whispered, voice sounding hoarse. “Yeah, if she wants to.” 

“I think she was waiting for permission. To make sure it was okay.” 

“You two and your rule following,” Jack gruffed, tugging you closer and kissing your temple to hide his misty eyes. 

Jack had a talk with Penny a few days later, after she slipped up and the echo of the word dad bounced around in Jack’s truck. He’d had to pull over to ease the tension that wound up Penny’s expression, sitting her on the tailgate in some gas station parking lot as you stayed in the passenger seat. 

Jack watched as Penny wound her small fingers into a knot on her lap, and he covered them with one of his hands, tipping her chin up with the other. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Jack assured, paying attention to each grimace she tried to hide.

“But I’m really sorry,” Penny edged out. “Because I know my daddy isn’t here anymore, and my mommy says that’s okay, and that you are kind of like a daddy but that sometimes people—” 

“Penny girl,” Jack softly interrupted. “It’s okay, alright? You know how your mom and I are getting married?” 

Penny nodded. 

“Well that means that we’re family. You, me, and your mom. All of us. And I know your daddy isn’t around, and I know you’re too smart for your own good, but sometimes mommys and daddys can be new people.” 

“I was gonna say that next,” Penny mumbled.

“I know you were.” Jack smiled in the empty parking lot and brought Penny’s gaze back up to him. “I love you, kid. You can call me anything you want. And before you ask, yes, your mom is okay with it. I asked her myself.” 

“You asked mommy if it was okay to be my daddy?” 

“Of course I did. Gotta make sure I check all the boxes with you two.” 

You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out. 

You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.” 

“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration. 

“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” 

Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool. 

“Have you ever seen a bone?” 

“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis. 

“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.” 

Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.” 

“What!” 

It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real. 

And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson. 

He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on. 

Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler. 

~~

A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny. 

Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.

“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?” 

Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”

Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.

“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.

“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased. 

Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.” 

Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed. 

“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.” 

“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.” 

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete. 

He needed to ask you that question. 

“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.” 

You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—” 

“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.” 

“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other. 

“Memorizing me?” you teased. 

“Something like that.” 

Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you. 

He felt his back stiffen as the night went on. 

“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.” 

Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.” 

Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.” 

“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile. 

“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.” 

“Catch a vibe?” 

“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.” 

Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?” 

“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling. 

Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.” 

“I did not say that,” Jack shot back. 

“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.” 

Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.” 

“He’s not going to—” 

“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?” 

“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.” 

Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?” 

“Who isn’t—”

 “Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.” 

It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.

He did some math in his head. 

It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment. 

But that was thirty minutes ago. 

It could have been your train. 

“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—” 

“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself. 

“What?”

“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.

Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t. 

The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality. 

But it couldn’t be you. 

Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home. 

You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty. 

“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body. 

Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by. 

Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.” 

You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either. 

But you were the fifth. 

He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you. 

He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago. 

Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his. 

As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?” 

A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel. 

“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?” 

Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness. 

“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound. 

“Are you sure you should—” 

“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—” 

Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him. 

“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?” 

“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.” 

Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was. 

“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.” 

He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape. 

“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery. 

“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.” 

“Jack.” 

It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him. 

“Let them take her. You gotta back up.” 

They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone. 

He hadn’t been ready for the after. 

Robby forced it, anyway. 

Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor. 

He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms. 

He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you. 

Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.” 

Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out. 

“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—” 

“I don’t know where Penny is.” 

“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—” 

“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.” 

Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could. 

“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.” 

“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”

“I don’t even know where my little girl is.” 

“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.” 

So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did. 

Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed. 

“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.” 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder. 

“Anything I can do?” Lena asked. 

Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.

“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—” 

“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.

To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood. 

“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.” 

Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?” 

Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.” 

“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.” 

“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway. 

Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.” 

And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her. 

Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.” 

“Like how she used to check for monsters?” 

“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.” 

“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.” 

Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.” 

Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back. 

You would want your daughter to feel safe. 

He needed to be a safe place. 

So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress. 

Because that was what his life used to be. 

Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family. 

Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference. 

It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly. 

“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—” 

Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?” 

The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny. 

Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—

“Jack?” 

He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted. 

“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.” 

“Penny—” 

“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.” 

Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay. 

Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.” 

In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?” 

“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath. 

“What—does that mean?” 

You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up. 

“You’ll see,” he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. “I love you. Sleep. I got you.”