#attending!reader

Jack blinked. "And yours?"

"Ah." You waved a hand dismissively, already halfway down the hall toward the breakroom. "I'll grab something later. The cafeteria's open till three."

By noon, you'd checked on Crus twice ("Eat the damn sandwich, I saw your hands shaking earlier"), coaxed the intern into taking a ten-minute nap in the supply closet ("Hand me your pager, I'll cover it."), and discreetly swapped Shen's watered-down coffee with a fresh one.

At 2:47 AM, Jack found you in the middle of explaining discharge instructions to an elderly patient, your voice patient as you repeated the same sentence for the third time.

Your pen hovered over the paperwork, but your fingers had started trembling. You didn't seem to notice.

By 3:15 PM, you managed to sneak a granola bar into the pocket of Crus' scrubs, reassured the new intern that no, she hadn't killed anyone by mislabelng a vial, and somehow talked Shen into sitting down for five minutes.

You were mid-sentence, something about ibruprofen dosing, when the world tilted sideways.

Not metaphorically.

Your vision narrowed to a pinhole, the edges fuzzing like static on an old TV. The papers slipped from your fingers, fluttering to the floor. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, but your hand missed entirely, swiping at empty air.

The last thing you registered was the sharp scent of expensive cologne, the distant sound of someone calling your name. Your name, not "Doc" or "Hey," and then the cool unforgiving floor rushing to meet you.

Jack saw it happen. One second, you were talking, hands moving in that animated way you had, like you were physically shaping the words between your fingers.

The next, you were folding at the knees. He moved before he thought, his body reacting faster than his brain could catch up. He caught your before your head could hit the floor, one arm hooking under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders.

The first thing you registered was the smell. Then the texture beneath your fingertips, the kind that came standard on hospital-issued blankets.

You blinked, and the ceiling tiles swam into focus.

"Back with us, sleeping beauty?"

Jack sat perched on the edge of the gurney, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper, tighter. He held a juice box with a straw already punched through the foil.

When you didn't immediately reach for it, he shook the box pointedly, the liquid sloshing inside. "Drink," he said, and it wasn't a question.

You tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. Jack's free hand shot out, pressing gently against your sternum to keep you horizontal. His palm was warm through the think fabric of your scrubs.

"Nope. Try that again and I'm cuffing you to the rails." The jokes fell flat when his fingers twitched against your collarbone.

Across the room, Shen hovered near the door, his arms crossed. "She's fired," he announced, too loud, like he'd been rehearsing the line.

The juice box straw brushed your lips, and you took a reflexive sip, the flavor bursting across your tongue. Jack's gaze didn't waver, tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed.

Behind him, Shen snorted. "Even I can't fire her for fainting," Jack said, still staring at you like you'd personally offended him. "Half the department's running on caffeine and spite."

You managed to lift a hand. Weak, but enough to take the juice box from him. His fingers lingered a half-second too long before releasing it.

"Statistically," Shen drawled, "she's also the only one dumb enough to forget to eat for hours while force-feeding the rest of us like we're her kids."

Jack leaned in, voice dropping so only you could hear. "When was the last time you ate?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The granola bar you'd given to Ellis flashed in your memory. Your last one, plucked from your locker this morning.

"Thought so," Jack muttered. He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar, the kind stocked in vending machines. The wrapper was already torn open, one corning missing.

"I bit it," he admitted, handing it to you. "Just to make sure it wasn't expired."

The bar tasted like sawdust and regret, but you chewed anyway, because Jack's stare had taken on the intensity of a laser. Shen, still hovering by the door suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Hold on. She packed my lunch today." He left for a moment and came back with a tupperware container in his hands. "Here. Eat this instead of that expired vending machine crap."

Jack looked at the container before you could react, flipping the lid open. His eyebrows climbed "You made him goddamn club sandwiches?"

You swallowed another bite of the bar, which was sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue, and shrugged weakly. "His wife's out of town. He burns toast."

Shen pointed at you triumphantly. "She gets it."

The sandwich tasted like guilt. Rich with mayonnaise and thinly sliced turkey, the kind of careful meal you'd never make for yourself. You managed two bites before you hands stalled, the weight of eyes pinning you to the gurney.

"Jesus," he muttered, plucking the container from your lap. "You're worse than the med students." He tore off a corner of bread and held it up, hovering near your mouth.

You opened your mouth, more our of shock than compliance, and Jack fed you with a precision that suggested he'd done this before, probably with Robby drunk.

Shen coughed into his fist, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "I'll just..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Charting. Or whatever." He disappeared before you could protest, abandoning you to Jack's relentless stare.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "You'd do the same for any of us." The truth of it hit you square in the ribs. You had done this. Last month for Ellis when she was hypoglycemic after a double, last week for Nazely who'd forgotten her lunch.

The difference was, no one had ever noticed when you skipped meals.

The next bite came with a sip of juice, Jack tilting it toward your lips with exaggerated care. His thumb brushed your chin, catching a crumb you hadn't felt fall.

Something cracked behind his eyes. "You're allowed to be selfish, you know," he said, so low it was almost audible. "Just enough to not collapse in the middle of paperwork."

Your fingers curled into the blanket, the starchiness of it grounding. "I didn't..." you started, but Jack cut you off.

"Yeah, you didn't mean to. That's the problem. You keep giving everything to everyone and nothing for yourself. It's stupid."

The word should've stung. Instead, warmth pooled under your ribs. No one had every called you stupid with that particular edge. Like it physically pained him to say it.

"Christ. You're smiling? Now?" But his thumb was already tracing the curve of your lip where it had lifted, rough skin catching. He froze, as surpised as you were by the contact.

A knock of three sharp raps flooded the quiet room. Crus, leaned in, his scrubs rumpled. "Uh. We have a GSW incoming, ETA for minutes."

His gaze flicked between you, Jack's hovering hand, the half-eaten sandwich. "Should I... tell them you're working on something else?"

Jack didn't move. "Yes."

"No," you said at the same time, pushing upright. The room only spun a little this time. Jack's palm landed between your shoulders, steadying. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."

Crus hesitated. "Garcia was called downstairs. She said you--"

"Garcia," Jack interrupted, "can eat my entire--"

You elbowed him. Hard.

Crus' mouth twitched. "Right. Well. The GSW's stable, but it's Senator Reeve's nephew, so." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Media circus incoming."

The senator's nephew could wait. Jack's hand stayed firmly planted between your shoulders, his grip telegraphing a silent, immovable no before he even spoke.

"Crus," he said, "tell them we're in a trauma consult." He didn't blink. "And if anyone asks, I'm instructing her."

Crus opened his mouth, glanced at your still-pale face, then snapped it shut with a nod. "Got it. Try not to let her die before shift change, please." He ducked out before you could protest, the door swinging shut.

"Lie back down."

"I'm fine, Jack."

"Lie back down," he repeated, softer this time.

And you did, because his voice had cracked open somewhere between exasperation and something raw. The gurney creaked under your weight as you sank back against the thin pillow.

Jack's fingers skimmed the curve of you shoulder, tentative, as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You scared the hell outta me."

You stared at him. Really looked, and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

"I didn't mean to," you said, and it came out embarrassingly small.

Jack's thumb traced idle circles against your collarbone. "That's the thing about you," he murmured. "You never mean to."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away just as fast. "But you do it anyway. Every damn time."

The overhead lights hummed as Jack's fingers stilled against your collarbone. His thumb rested there, an anchor point in the spinning room.

"You're not going back out there today," he said in a way that wasn't negotiable.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Jack's other hand came up, pressing his fingers to your lips. "Don't even," he warned. "I will physically restrain you."

The threat should have been laughable, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he'd bench-press the gurney with you on it if it meant keeping you there.

A knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Crus' wary face.

"I know you said to tell them you're busy, but the nephew's asking for the 'hot doctor with the nice hands.'" His eyes flicked to where Jack's fingers still hovered near your mouth. "I'm assuming that's not you at all, Abbot."

Jack didn't move. "Tell him she's off-duty."

Crus hesitated. "He's--"

"Tell him," Jack interrupted, "she's indisposed."

Crus' eyebrows shot up. The door clicked shut with exaggerated care.

You stared at Jack. He stared back. His fingers were still at your mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of them, not quite touching anymore but not pulling away either.

"You're staring," he murmured.

"So are you, you whispered back.

The overhead page crackled to life. "Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3. Repeat, Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3."

Jack's fingers tensed against your collarbone, his body already pivoting toward the foor before the announcement finished. But he didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat like he was memorizing the shape of it.

"Don't move, okay?" The protein bar wrapper from earlier fell to the floor as he reached for the IV pole beside your gurney, yanking it closer. "I'm hanging a bag of dextrose. "

Another page, more urgent said, "Trauma team, Trauma Bay 3, now--"

You saw the exact moment duty won. His jaw locked, shoulders sagging as he stepped back. The warmth of his touch lingered.

"Crus!" Jack shouted toward the foor, never taking his eyes off you. "Get in here!"

Crus materialized instantly, as if he'd been hovering just outisde. He took one look at Jack's expression and raised both hands. "I'm on it. Go."

Jack hesitated. Just a breath, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth again, then turned on his heel.

Crus let out a low whistle, nudging the abandoned juice box toward. "So. That happened."

You pressed two fingers to your pulse point, counting the slugging rhythm as Crus adjusted the IV drip with practiced ease.

Crus didn't comment on the way your gaze kept flicking to the foor. Instead, he nudged the juice box closer. "Drink," he said, echoing Jack, but gentler. "Before Abbot comes back and burn me alive."

You took a sip, the flavor cloying without Jack's glare to make it taste like a challenge. The ER's distant chaos filtered through the closed door. The raised voices, the beep of a crashing monitor, the unmistakable sound of gurney rattling past at a sprint.

Crus' pager buzzed violently against his hip. He glanced at it, grimaced, then deliberately silenced it. "There's someone else on the floor, it's okay," he muttered, though his knee had started bouncing in a restless tempo.

"You should go."

Crus shook his head, adjusting the IV flow. "Abbot said--"

"I know what he said." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened them with a weak smile. "But we both know he's elbow-deep in someone's chest right now. Go help him."

Crus hesitated, his fingers drumming against the rail. "Abbot's been pacing the nurses' station like a lost child since they wheeled you in here," he admitted, voice dropping.

"Nearly took the head off an orderly who tried to move your chart." He tilted his head, studying you with sudden intensity. "You know he canceled that thing he had with that cardiology chick last week? Said he had 'charting' to do. Pretty sure he just sat in the break room watching you force feed Nazely those sandwiches."

The juice box crumpled in your grip, the straw bending at an awkward angle. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen him bite open a protein bar for anyone else before."

His pager buzzed again, more insistent this time. He ignored it. "Pretty sure that's his version of a love letter."

The door burst open before you could respond. Jack stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest heaved like he'd sprinted the entire way.

"You're still here."

Crus stood smoothly, pocketing his pager. "She's all yours, Romeo." He dodged Jack's half-hearted slap, pausing to turn back and look at you, "He told me he cried during Marley & Me in med school," before disappearing into the chaos beyond.

The overhead lights hummed a steady note as Jack stepped fully into the room. His fingers flexed at his sides, still damp from where he'd scrubbed hastily at the blood streaking his forearms.

Jack didn't speak. Neither did you. The silence between you stretched, elastic and charfed, as he reached for the IV bag with one hand, his fingers skimming the tubing to check the flow rate. His other hand landed on the gurney's rail.

The bag crinkled under his touch, nearly empty now, the last of its content slipping into your veins like a slow, sugared confession.

None of you said anything, but you're exactly where you want to be.

while you occasionally argue over patient care, or which resident should get the department's letter of recommendation that year- for the most part you and robby are each other's right hand in the ER. you pull gloves in the other's size without a second thought, finish each other's sentences during a trauma, and bring the other back down to earth after a tough loss or difficult save.

you knew this shift would be an especially hard one- you’d urged him to stay home and do something to get his mind off of the looming anniversary, but robby is nothing if not stubborn.

this is a fix it fic-esque series. for the most part it will be a retelling of season one of the pitt through the perspective of attending!reader- or you!! most patients and major plot points will remain the same but original patients and events will be added throughout to make things interesting

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ this series is dedicated to anyone who loves imagining themselves in their favourite shows- i hope this lets you do that !! <3 <3

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ join the attending!reader taglist ⋆.˚ main masterlist // dr. robby masterlist

⋆.ೃ࿔* table of contents ·˚ ༘

[0] prologue

[1] 7:00 am

[2] 8:00 am

[3] 9:00 am

[4] 10:00 am

[5] 11:00 am

… more parts to follow …

dividers by @strangergraphics + @diviniyae // layout inspo

⋆˚࿔ series warnings/tags: fem!reader, canon typical medical gore, death, blood, injuries, mentions of drug addiction and overdose, probably inaccurate medical terminology, age gap (reader early-mid thirties / robby early fifties, pittfest, robby's ptsd, swearing, flirting, soooo much dialogue etc, smut in epilogue, specific warnings in the beginning of each part + more to be added as necessary.

DISCLAIMER none of the characters/main plot points in this series have been created by me nor do i claim any credit for them- they belong to the original creators: r. scott gemmill, john wells & noah wyle ... (among other writers, directors, producers etc) the non-canon compliant events and characters are my original ideas.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ taglist: @timeofmadness @aryacoulson @bookoffracturedescapes @concentratedconcrete @robbyslittlelamb @sizzlingkryptonitetale @thedamnqueenofhell @caterpillarskimono @andabuttonnose

The Swiss knife Summary: A few days before you are scheduled to switch to days for the first time...

On daycare duty Summary: Your first day shift...

When the tension finally snaps Summary: After a bad case involving a vet, you find Jack on the roof...

The day after Summary: You ask Jack to have breakfast with you so you could talk about what happened...

Stressing the f*ck out Summary: You try to keep your distance from the rumour mill and Abbot, and you fail spectacularly...

Stress relief Summary: You break your agreement, and bring up the rooftop incident when you make a proposition...

Gaslighting the gossip girls Summary: After getting "caught" going out for breakfast with Jack for a second time, the charge nurses are on your ass about it for days...

A glitch Summary: You sleep in the same bed with Jack for the first time...

Punchline Summary: The new resident can't take no for an answer... (related poll)

Contradictory confession Summary: Jack feels like he has to confess his feelings...

An other day after Summary: You wake up with questions about what's next...

Daddy, zaddy, bratty Summary: You have the chance to mess with the gossipy gambling addicts at the Pitt...

Therapy-induced nightmare Summary: Jack talks to his therapist about his newfound guilt, which led to a dream that felt way too real...

Abbot's Knife Summary: A visiting attending only wants to work with a guy they call "The Knife"... (basically the Grey's Anatomy trope with Bailey from s02)

The pastry box tilted when you adjusted your grip, it was Jack's favorite since med school, when you'd split a single slice at 2 AM during your first overnight shift together.

The ED's automatic doors whooshed open. Two paramedics wheeled in a gurney while a nurse rattled off vitals. And there, undershirt sleeves rolled to his elbows with a stethoscope looped around his neck, stood Jack.

He was frowning at a chart while Nazely beside him pointed frantically at something on the screen. His hair was sleep-mussed in that way it got when he'd been running his hands through it all night.

June chose that moment to shriek, "Dada!" in her newly discovered, ear-splitting register. For a heartbeat, he just stared--then the chart clattered to the counter as he cross the distance in three long strides.

"What--" His hands hovered over the car seat like he wasn't sure whether to lift June out or kiss you. You solved it for him by shoving the pastry box into his chest.

"Happy birthday, you workaholic," you said as he peered under the lid. His laugh was startled, warm, and the nurses behind broke into spontaneous applause.

Jack's fingers left floury smudges on his scrubs as he balanced the cake box one-handed, the other already scooping June from her seat. She latched onto his stethoscope with the ruthless effiency of a nine-month-old, yanking it sideways as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

"You," he murmured against your skin, "are sneaky."

Behind him, a nurse cleared her throat. "Dr. Abbot, the--"

"Page Dr. Shen," Jack said without looking away from you, bouncing June on his hip as she gummed enthusiastically at his ID badge. "Tell him I'm taking my birthday privileges."

The nurse opened her mouth, then closed it when Jack shot her the same look he used on interns trying to order unnecessary CT scans. She fled.

The break room smelled of burnt coffee and antiseptic wipes. You watched Jack blow out the single candle June kept trying to grab. His scrubs were wrinkled from his double shift, and he'd never looked more like himself.

Jack's thumb swiped icing from the corner of June's mouth before she could smear it on his clothes. "You realize," he said around a mouthful of cake, "that technically I'm still on shift for another--"

"Sixteen minutes," you finished, tapping your watch. "Which is exactly how long it took you to propose ever since meeting me."

The laugh lines around his eyes deepened as he leaned in, "You kept count?"

"Of course I did." June's sticky fingers found your hair as you stole a bike from his fork. "And I also know you've worked seventeen birthdays in a row."

Jack's expression softened, the kind of look that still made your stomach flip even after your first date. He shifted June higher on his hip, her chubby lefs kicking against his ribs as she attempted to shove an entire fistful of cake in her mouth.

"So what's the plan, mastermind?" he asked. "Because I'm pretty sure kidnapping an attending physician mid-shift violates at least three hospital bylaws."

Behind him, the door swung open. Lena leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Abandoning your post, Abbot?" She flicked a glance at the cake, then at June, who was now smearing chocolate into Jack's collar.

"Never mind. I'll cover your discharge orders. Go."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Just like that?"

Lena snorted. "Pkease. Half the department, day shift included, have been betting on when your wife would finally drag you out of here." She tossed a set of car keys at him--his, from his locker.

"Peds owes me a favor. They'll handle your follow-ups."

Jack caught the keys one-handed, his other arm tightening around June as she squealed and lunged for Lena's glasses.

"You're all traitors," he said, but the grin splitting his face ruined the effect. You recognized that look. It was the same one he'd word when you both stole Robby's snacks during your third-year.

The hospital corridors blurred past as you made your exit, Jack's shoes squeaking against the floor. June bounced in his arms, giggling as he fake-whispered, "Mommy's breaking us out, baby. Act natural."

Outside, the morning air was crisp, the parking lot still shadowed in the early light. Jack paused beside the car, suddenly still.

"Hey," he said quietly, turning to you with June cradled against his chest. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

"I know," you leaned into his touch. June yawned dramatically between you, her energy finally waning. "But someone had to remind you that you're not a robot."

Jack's key jingled as he fumbled them one-handed, June now dropping against his shoulder with her thumb in her mouth. "Shotgun," he whispered, buckling June into her seat, even as she bonked her head sleepily against his wrist.

You watched him circle the car, his clothes rumpled in the morning light. The driver's seat groaned when he dropped into it, his exhale carrying the weight of his overnight shifts.

"So," he said, turning the key in the ignition. "Where are we going?"

The engine purred to life, the dashboard clock blinking 7:03 AM. "Somewhere with pancakes," you said, reaching over to pluck a crumb cake from his hair. "And a bead. Not necessarily in that order."

The PTMC shrank in the rearview mirror. June made a soft, snuffling noise in the backseat, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks.

The diner's neon sign flickered blue against the dawn. Jack slumped into the vinyl seat, his elbow knocking over a sugar shaker as June immediately began banging a plastic spoon against the table.

"I think she's taking after you," you said, rescuing the syrup bottle before it could topple.

Jack caught June's tiny wrist mid-swing. "She's got strong grip."

The waitress--name tag reading Alyssa-- dropped two laminated menus with a clatter, her eyes flicking to you both. "Long night, guys?"

"Something like that," Jack said, just as June lunged for Alyssa's apron strings. The resulting tug-of-war ended with Jack prying her finger loose while you orded pancakes the size of dinner plates and an extra side of bacon.

The pancakes arrived, steam curling off the buttery surface. Jack wasted no time--he flipped a piece onto June's tray, slicked into bite-sized squares with the edge of his fork, and pushed half the stack toward you without looking up.

"Eat," he mumbled around a mouthful, syrup dribbling down his chin. June, ever the mimic, immediately smeared her own chin with sticky fingers and giggled.

The diner's jukebox crackled to life, an old tune bleeded into the diner's noise. Jack's foot tapped absently against the leg of the table, his shoulders finally beginning to unknot.

Between bites, he stole glances at June--the way her nose scrunched when she chewed, the delighted shriek she let out every time a truck rumbled past the window.

As music plays, Jack visibly relaxes. The fork slipped from his fingers, clattering onto his pancake. His chin had dropped to his chest twice already. June, sensing weakness, seized the opportunity to smear a handful of syrup across his forearm.

"You're dead on your feet, honey," you murmured, plucking a napkin from the dispenser.

Jack blinked sluggishly, his gaze drifting to the smear of sticky fingerprints June had left on his watch. "M'fine," he mumbled, but his head was already tilting sideways.

Alyssa appeared with the check, her eyebrows rising at the scene before her. Jack was falling like the titanic, June gleefully playing with her pancake, and you fishing out a twenty from your bag.

"I advice you guys don't drive home, there's a cheap and very high-quality motel just beside here," she said, tucking the bill under a sugar shaker.

Jack didn't stir when you nudged his shoulder. His breathing had evened out, his fingers slack around his coffee cup.

The motel room smelled like lavender air freshener and old carpet, the kind of place that existed soley for exhausted travelers and desperate affairs.

Jack barely made it three steps inside before face-planting onto the bed. June, miraculously awake despite the syrup crash that should've leveled her, clambered onto his back.

"You, missy, are supposed to be alseep," you told her. She responded by babbling what sounded suspiciously like 'Dada snores,' which--fair. Jack's breathing had already deepened into the ragged snoring of a man who'd been running on caffeine for hours.

You wrestled June into her portable crib, which was a losing battle given how she kept poppin gup like a jack-in-a-box to scream for her dad.

"Daddy's out cold, baby," you whispered, petting her hair. She giggled, plooping down onto her diapered bottom with a squeak.

You watched Jack's shoulders rise and fall beneath his shirt. Something about the sight of it, so mundane and human amidst the chaos, made your throat tighten.

June finally collapsed onto her belly, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as sleep claimed her. And the sight of your baby girl and Jack made you chest ache in a good way.

The digital clock blinked 9:47 AM in red when you felt the mattress dip behind you. Jack's arm slid across your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt.

"You're thinking so loud," he mumbled into your shoulder, voice thick with sleep.

"Impossible," you whispered back, turning just enough to see his eyelashes cast shadows across his cheekbones. "You couldn't have heard me above all that snoring."

Jack's fingers traced patterns along your hipbone beneath the sheets, his touch light as a feather. His lips brushed the nape of your neck, the scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the thin motel blankets.

You turned carefully, the mattress springs creaking a protest. June's soft snuffling from the portable crib froze you both mid-movement. Jack's hand stilled on your waist, his breath hot against your collarbone.

You waited three hearbeats. The amount of time it took for June to sigh and burrow deeper into her blanket nest.

"You're terrible at stealth,: you whispered against Jack's temple. His answering grin was all teeth in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His thumb found the dip of your waist as it swept upward beneath your shirt.

The headboard bumped the wall with a muffled thud when Jack rolled you over. He winced, gaze darting to the crib. June stirred, her tiny fingers flexing in sleep.

Jack held his breath until she settled. "This," he mouthed against your neck, "is why we have a house."

June's sudden giggle made you spring apart like teenagers caught by your parents. Jack nearly kneed you in the ribs as he twisted toward the crib, only to find her still fast asleep, deep in her dreams.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder as you both shared a silent laugh. His breath hitched when you traced his hipbone, the same way you always did.

The headboard creaked again when Jack shifted his weight, his hand slotting in between your legs. You bit down on his shoulders to muffle a sound as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties--only for June to sigh and roll onto her back.

Sunlight sliced through the curtains, paiting stripes of sun across Jack's bare shoulders from when he took his shirt off late at night, as he propped himself up on one elbow.

His free hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, calluses catching on the stretch marks June had left behind. When his thumb brushed the underside of your chest, you arched into the touch, the sheet pooling at your waist.

June chose that exact moment to sit bolt upright in her crib. Jack groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "I love her, but she's got the worst timing in the world."

June responded by babbling something that sounded like 'Dada up!,' her tiny fists gripping the crib rails as she bounced on her diapered bottom.

Jack flopped onto his back with one arm flung dramatically across his face. "Daddy's wounded baby," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

June shrieked in delight when you scooped her up from the crib, her fingers immediately tangling in your hair as she planted a slobbery kiss on your nose.

The three of you collapsed into a pile of tangled limbs and laughter, June wedging herself between you. Jack's arm curled around the both of you, his palm warm against the small of you back where you shirt had ridden up.

June sighed contently, her cheek pressed against Jack's chest as her eyeslids began to droop again. Outisde, traffic hummed along the road but here, in this motel room, everything felt impossibly, unbearably right.

You'd trade everything if it meant to be with June and Jack your whole entire life.

At first, it was just pure professional. Just work. The occasional calling the floor above to call for a doctor to come down and consult the patient.

Moments where you and Brendon Park didn't happen once in a blue moon. Whether that's high-acuity trauma, vascular instability, or borderline surgical decisions that triggered something queasy in people's stomachs.

But with you both, it didn't.

Brendon "Shark" Park had a reputation that preceded him. He was fast, surgical, annoyingly unforgiving in logic. He didn't escalate conflict because he didn't need to, it was like he was outpacing it.

With the amount of times he's been called down, most people learned quickly that even thinking about disagreeing with him directly was a mistake.

Not because he'd make a fool of you, but because he'd simply just brush you away. And if you were still standing in disagreement when he did, you were no longer part of the room. Done. Easy like that. It was way worse than confrontation.

But somehow, none of that exists for you.

Jack noticed it first during a trauma activation. Park was called down, minutes away from having the case in his hands to lead. He was pushing toward the OR before most of the room had fully stabilized their understanding of the injury.

"Pelvic instability with suspected retoperitoneal bleed," Park said, eyes locked on the imaging. "We go now or we're going to lose the window."

Whitaker beside him hesitated, burrows furrowing in confusion. "Shouldn't we--"

"No, that's too slow."

It was like the room tightened immediately. And just like an angel falling from heaven, you stepped in. No urgency in your movement. No attempt to match whatever speed Park had.

"You're assuming full compensation," you said evenly.

Park paused in return not because he was interrupted, but because he was recalculating his decisions.

"They're based on vitals," he replied after a second.

"Based on current vitals," You corrected.

The silence in the room was deafening. Whitaker was trying to control his breathing, it was like that was the only thing being heard the in the room. Shen was trying his best not to just bolt out the room, already thinking that he'd rather be taking the lamest case out in triage than here and be in Park's presence.

A beat. The entire room held still.

Then Park said, "Show me."

Jack stood from the central station, watching something he couldn't immediately categorize. It's not that Park softened at your presence, it was that he got structured by it. It was like something shifted in him and it pisses Jack off.

You didn't challenge him in the way others sheepishly did. You didn't talk over him just because you were the attending in that trauma room. You corrected him in a way that assumed that he'd listen to you. And what was worse--he did.

And it irritates Jack more.

Later, when the case stabilized, Jack overheard it from Ellis and Shen gossiping. They were talking in what seemed like their 'low voices.' They were confused, Shen fully amused, Ellis was slightly unsettled.

"It was so weird. Shark doesn't do that with anyone else."

"Did you hear what he said to Whitaker earlier? He didn't shut her down like that."

"So why exactly is he listening to her?"

No one had a clear answer. Because there wasn't one and Jack was trying his best not to let his frustration show on his face. But the truth was in his face--simple, and more uncomfortable than he'd like it to be.

You were one of the few people in the hospital who didn't treat Park like he was going to bite your head off. You treated him like you treated everyone, like you treated him.

So why was Jack bothered? Why is he so desperately trying to figure out what the deal is between the two of you?

He replayed the memory of you and Park in that trauma room. He couldn't hear what was going on and he was glad that he didn't because he was scared with how he'd feel if he did.

It was the way Park reponded to you the way he responded to nothing else. He wasn't trying to assert dominance over you, he was listening to you with refinement.

Jack didn't like how visible this whole thing with you and Park became. He also didn't like how stupid he's sounding to himself. There's nothing going on between to both of you.

He doesn't know what gave him the reason to intepret your actions toward him in a different light. For fuck's sake, he has no time to be devloping a stupid teenage crush on his co-worker.

Get a grip, Jack.

At the moment, it felt impossible for him. It's not like he was unhappy that you are getting the recognition you deserve, it was just annoying that it wasn't him that was doing this all with you.

He noticed the little things. The way Park's body would lean into yours while assessing the patient, his head peeking from behind your shoulder. The way it was this unspoken rule that only you were allowed to call for Park, because if it were anyone else, it's a given he's going to make everyone's lives a living hell when he comes down. The way Park would look at you, always knowing you have a second opinion.

Everyone noticed. Especially Jack.

Park, when challenged by others, became something people have grown used to be scared of. Park, when corrected by you, became something people could actually work with.

And that difference started to spread through the ED faster than anyone admitted.

But then there were the moments that had nothing do with Park at all. The moments that had Jack going. The reason why he's hoping something nearly impossible would spark.

The quiet moments. The ones he'd keep all to himself. The ones Jack couldn't ignore anymore.

When it was just him and you in your own little world. Residents and nurses were all over the place. The occasional request for triage. The ED kept moving. Crisis after crisis. Noise after noise.

But occasionally, it would just go silent. And only you and him would remain inside that same pocket of stillness. And he'd wear that on his sleeve every damn time.

And then there was Park again. It's always Park again. Because everytime you entered his space, something shifted. It wasn't dominance. It wasn't submission. He was showing you recognition.

Jack saw it in the way Park paused before correcting himself when she disagreed. In a way he asked for confirmation instead of overriding. In the way he didn't show her that glance everyone else was afraid of when she challenged him.

And Jack hated the simplicity of what that meant. He hated that the truth was just slapping him on the face. Because it meant that you weren't just good. You were everything in a way the system had adapeted around without naming it.

At some time, Jack started realizing what bothered him wasn't actually Park. It wasn't that connection you and Park had, it was what it implied that bothered him the most.

It was that there were people in the ED who didn't have to fight just to have a spot in the system. They were simply just granted it. And you were one of them.

Not because of authority, or that you were one of the most trusted attendings on the floor. But through something far more destabilizing in Jack's mind that even he can't place a name on.

Jack takes the quiet moments with you by heart. No Park, No residents, no noise. He could still feel that same structure echoing faintly underneath the chaos.

You weren't just an attending to him. Not just a co-worker to him. You were a fixed point other people oriented themselves around. And, Jack, whether he admitted it or not, was starting to realize something he didn't like the shape of.

He wasn't the only one in the ED watching her anymore. He wasn't the only one admiring how she managed to stay calm in a place like this. He wasn't the only one silently wishing that he'd get on the same case with you.