#chaptereleven

Daylight should make him less destabilizing. It doesn’t. You’ve seen Jack Abbot under fluorescent lights, half-covered in blood, issuing life-saving orders without raising his voice. You’ve seen him at midnight with rolled sleeves and exhaustion carved into his face. You’ve seen him in candlelight, dangerous in entirely different ways. None of it prepared you for ten o’clock on a clear morning.

You’re ready too early.

Again.

By 9:32, you’ve already changed shirts twice, tied your hair up, taken it down, and checked the weather three separate times, even though you checked it before bed. The apartment feels too small for your nerves. You finally settle on fitted black leggings, a soft cream long-sleeve top, and light trail shoes, practical enough for the plan but flattering enough to feel intentional.

Comfortable. Clean. You tell yourself that’s all this is. Then you move to the mirror. Tinted moisturizer. Mascara. Nothing more. The version of you that belongs on shift only rested. You study your reflection for a second, then gather your hair into a loose braid. Simple. Easy. 

It’s a hike.

Not a first date.

The thought does nothing to calm your nerves.

Your phone buzzes.

“Here.”

Your stomach drops so fast it feels theatrical. You grab your keys and head downstairs before you can overthink anything else. The morning air is cool and bright when you step outside. And there he is. Parked at the curb like punctuality is, in fact, a personality trait.

He’s already out of the car. Of course he is. Dark trail pants. Fitted charcoal T-shirt. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. A backpack resting against the passenger-side door while he stands beside it holding two coffees. For one suspended second, your brain offers nothing useful.

Because this might be the most unfair he has ever looked.

Relaxed. Capable. Broad shoulders outlined in sunlight instead of hospital glare. No jacket. No button-down. No attending armor.

Just Jack.

His gaze lifts the moment you appear.

It moves over you once, quick, attentive, taking in your shoes, your clothes, the braid over your shoulder. Then it stills.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks momentarily unprepared.

The morning light catches in his eyes as they settle on your face.

You’re wearing the same minimal makeup you always do. Nothing dramatic. Nothing designed to impress. And yet the way he looks at you makes it feel like you stepped out of something sacred. Like the daylight found every soft edge of you and handed it back brighter.

Something warm and almost disbelieving passes through his expression. You know that look now.

It means he’s affected.

“You’re staring,” you say softly.

The dry tone saves him. Barely.

“You look different in daylight,” he replies.

You lift a brow. “Different good?”

His mouth shifts. “Dangerously.”

Heat blooms instantly through your chest. He holds out one of the coffees. You take it automatically. Iced shaken espresso. Oatmilk. Brown sugar. Exactly right. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup. Of course it is. 

You glance at him over the rim. “Still unsettling.”

A faint shift touches his mouth. “That I’m consistent?”

“That you notice everything.”

His gaze flicks to the coffee in your hand, then back to you.

“Not everything,” he says quietly. A beat.  “Not yet.”

The words settle low in your chest, warmer than the coffee in your hands. He reaches for the passenger door, opens it, then lifts the backpack before you can. You glance at it. “That seems serious for a walk with an incline.”

“It is serious.” He says it with such complete sincerity that you laugh.

The sound clearly pleases him more than he intended to reveal. You slide into the seat.

He closes the door, rounds the hood, and gets in beside you. The car smells like coffee, clean air, and him. A dangerous combination. He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb with the same quiet precision he does everything else. For a minute, neither of you speaks. It isn’t awkward. It feels new. Sunlight moves across his forearms on the wheel.

You glance over and say in a teasing tone, “You really do own clothes that aren’t hospital-approved.”

“I own several.” He responds, teasing you back. 

“That many, huh?” You smile. 

“I’m not reckless.”

You laugh into your coffee.

He glances at you briefly, clearly satisfied with himself. The city gives way slowly to wider roads and early autumn trees. Gold begins at the edges. Wind moving through branches. The farther you get from the hospital, the lighter everything inside you feels. 

You shift in your seat. “So,” you say, “how intense is this hike actually?”

He considers the question. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re asking medically or competitively.”

You turn toward him. “That is the most Jack answer possible.”

“It’s accurate.” He replies. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. Then he answers,  “It’s moderate.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He shrugs his shoulders. 

“I definitely shouldn’t.”

A faint smile appears and disappears. The road curves through a stretch of trees. He reaches forward to lower the music slightly, something instrumental and low you hadn’t fully noticed until now.

“You can still back out,” he says.

You blink. “Of the hike?”

“Of spending several hours alone with me.”

You stare at him. “A bit late for that.”

“Not necessarily.”

You study his profile, the calm line of his jaw, the way he keeps his eyes on the road even while saying something that clearly matters more than he’s letting on.

Then you lean back into your seat.

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m exactly where I want to be.”

His hands remain steady on the wheel. But the muscle in his jaw shifts once. And somehow that reaction feels more intimate than if he’d kissed you again.

The trailhead is quieter than the city. No sirens. No overhead pages. No fluorescent hum vibrating behind every thought. Just pine-scented air, cool sunlight through the trees, and the distant rush of water somewhere deeper in the woods. Jack parks beneath a line of tall maples just beginning to turn. Gold at the edges. Fire beginning in the leaves.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he kills the engine and reaches automatically for the backpack in the back seat. The shift in him is immediate. Not colder. More focused. The same calm precision you know from the trauma bay, only softer here. Untethered from urgency. You step out into the crisp morning and turn slowly, taking it in. Packed dirt lot. Weathered trail map. A wooden sign marked with looping routes and elevation gains. Sunlight filters through the trees in long, clean bands. It’s beautiful. And unexpectedly peaceful. You hear the car door shut behind you. When you turn, Jack is crouched beside the rear tire, retightening the laces of one shoe. They’re not the heavy hiking boots you expected. Low-profile trail shoes. Lightweight. Built for movement. 

You glance down, then at the pack in his hands. “You really came prepared.”

He looks up once. “I told you it was serious.”

You laugh softly and step closer. “That bag looks like you’re planning to survive a small disaster.”

“I am.” He rises in one smooth motion and slides the pack over his shoulders. The movement shifts his shirt against his frame in a way that is deeply unhelpful. You look away before he catches you. Probably.

“What exactly do you have in there?” you ask.

“Water. Layers. Basic supplies.” He answers.

“That was suspiciously vague.” You press. 

“It was intentionally efficient.”

You narrow your eyes. “Try again.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his mouth. “Extra socks. Skin care supplies. Wipes. Moleskin.”

You blink.

“Moleskin?”

“For blisters.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious.

Maybe it is. To him. Your gaze drops briefly to his prosthetic. Then back to his face. He notices. Of course he does.

“These shoes are lighter than boots,” he says before you have to ask. “Less weight with every step.”

Its straightforwardness catches you off guard. No discomfort. No apology. Just information. You glance at the shoes again. At the pack. At the quiet competence of all this preparation.

“You thought of everything.”

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.

Then he reaches into the open trunk and taps a folded pair of forearm crutches secured beside the spare tire.

“Backup plan.”

You stare at them. “You brought crutches?”

“In case of catastrophic prosthesis failure.”

He says it with the same calm tone he’d use discussing weather patterns.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That is an insane sentence to hear on a date.”

“It’s a practical one.” His mouth shifts faintly. Then the humor fades just enough for something more honest to come through. He adjusts one strap of the pack.

“When I first started again, it wasn’t this intense.”

Your smile softens. “Again?”

“Hiking.” He glances toward the tree line. “It started with short walks. Flat ground. Then longer ones. Then incline.” No drama. No self-pity. Just the measured truth.

“I had to learn what my body could do differently.”

The words settle quietly between you. You look at him—really look. At the preparation. At the discipline. At the time all of this must have taken. And something in your chest shifts. Not pity. Never that. Something deeper. Admiration sharpened by tenderness.

“This wasn’t casual for you,” you say softly.

His eyes return to yours. “No.” One word. Steady.

You don’t know if he means the hike or bringing you here. Maybe both. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. Leaves whisper against one another. You step closer without thinking and reach for the front strap of his backpack, smoothing a twist in it that didn’t need fixing. Your fingers brush his chest through the fabric of his shirt. The contact is brief. But not insignificant.

“You brought me somewhere that matters to you.”

His gaze drops to your hand. Then lifts again. “Yes.”

Your pulse stumbles. You let go slowly.

“So,” you say, trying for lighter and not quite managing it, “how hard is this trail really?”

A pause. Then, “Moderate.”

You laugh under your breath. “I still don’t trust you.”

A small smile appears. “Good. Stay alert.” He offers you his hand. Simple. Unforced. Like the most natural thing in the world. You take it. And together, you step onto the trail.

The trail narrows quickly, pine needles soft underfoot and sunlight breaking through the branches in shifting bands of yellow and gold. The air smells like earth, cedar, and the faint sweetness of leaves beginning to turn. For a while, you walk in easy silence. Not empty. Comfortable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes. Somewhere overhead, birds move through the canopy. The farther you go, the quieter the world becomes. Jack sets a steady pace beside you. Not too fast. Not cautious either. Just measured. Matched to you so naturally, it takes a minute to notice he’s doing it. When you do, warmth blooms low in your chest.

“You’re pacing me,” you say.

He doesn’t look over. “I’m maintaining efficiency.”

You laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You glance at him. Sunlight catches along the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the silver threaded through his hair. He looks younger out here somehow. Less burdened. Less carved into angles. More like the man beneath all the structure.

“You know,” you say, stepping over an exposed root, “most people flirt on dates.”

“I am flirting.”

You nearly trip. He catches your elbow before you can stumble, hand warm and immediate. His grip steadies you easily. You stare at him.

“This is flirting?”

“It's effective.” The corner of his mouth shifts. 

You shake your head, smiling. “Your methods need work.”

“I’ll consider feedback.”

“You really only have one line, don’t you?” You’re smiling before you can stop yourself.

“It’s not a line.” 

He lets go of your arm slowly. Too slowly. The place his hand touched feels suddenly overaware. The trail curves upward through a rocky incline. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you focus on your footing. Jack steps ahead first, then turns and offers you his hand without comment. No flourish. No smirk. Just certainty that you’ll take it. You do. His fingers close around yours, firm and grounding as he guides you over the uneven stretch. When you reach level ground again, neither of you lets go immediately.

Then neither of you lets go at all.

You keep walking hand in hand, as it happened accidentally. Like neither of you notices.

Like, both of you are lying. The path opens briefly beside a narrow stream cutting through stone. Water slips over the rocks in bright, clear ribbons. You slow to watch it. He slows with you. No impatience. No need to keep moving.

“You’re different here,” you say quietly.

His thumb shifts once against your hand. “How?”

You think about it. “Lighter.”

He looks ahead toward the trees. “I come here when I need things quieter.”

The honesty in that simple sentence touches something deep in you. You squeeze his hand once before you can overthink it. His gaze flicks to you. Then down to where your hands are joined. Then back up. A question and an answer all at once. You keep walking. The trail rises again, steeper now. Your breathing deepens. He notices immediately. Of course he does.

“You need a break?” The concern is practical. Not patronizing.

You arch a brow. “Do I look like I need a break?”

“You look competitive.”

“That’s because I am.”

A rare, fuller smile appears. Brief. Devastating. “Good,” he says. “Keep up.”

You let out an offended laugh and pick up your pace. He could outdistance you easily. You know it. He knows it. But he stays exactly beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. With you. When the trail narrows again near a drop lined with brush and stone, his hand leaves yours only long enough to settle at your waist and guide you past the tightest section. The touch is practical. It is also absolutely not just practical. Heat flashes through you.

You glance back at him once you’re through. “That felt suspiciously unnecessary.”

“It was preventative.”

“Sure.”

His hand lingers one second too long before falling away. You both notice. Neither of you comments. By the time the trees begin to thin, your pulse is elevated for reasons that have very little to do with the incline. Ahead, sunlight spills brighter across the path. The trees thin gradually. Light shifts first—brighter, warmer—then the air changes, carrying open space instead of canopy. 

And then the trail opens.

The overlook stretches out in front of you, wide and quiet, the valley below painted in early autumn color. Gold, rust, deep green. A river cuts through it in a slow silver line, catching the sunlight in pieces.

You stop without thinking.

“Okay,” you breathe. “You win.”

Jack comes to a stop beside you. “I wasn’t aware this was a competition.”

“It always is.”

He glances at you. “I assumed.”

You step forward, closer to the edge, taking it in. It’s beautiful in a way that makes you instinctively quieter. Not fragile. Just… expansive. You feel him step in behind you, not touching, but close enough that the awareness is immediate.

“You come here a lot?” you ask.

“Enough.”

You nod slowly. “I can see why.”

A breeze lifts the loose strands of your braid, cool against your neck. For a moment, neither of you speaks. No need. Just the sound of wind, distant water, and the quiet presence of each other.

Then—“You brought me here on purpose,” you say.

Not a question. 

His answer comes just as easily. “Yes.”

You turn to look at him. He’s already watching you. There’s no deflection now. No distance. Just intent. Something in your chest tightens.

“This isn’t just a hike,” you say softly.

“No.”

A beat.

“What is it?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s me not pretending this is casual.”

The words land deep. Solid. You feel them settle somewhere you can’t ignore.

You take a small step closer. “So what is it, then?”

His jaw shifts once. Then he answers you without pulling anything back.

“It’s me choosing you.”

Your breath catches. Not because it’s loud. Because it isn’t. Because it’s said like a fact. Like something already decided. The world feels very still all of a sudden.

“Jack…” Your voice softens without permission.

He closes the space between you. Slowly this time. No urgency. No collision. Just inevitability.

His hand lifts to your face, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before settling there. Warm.  Steady.

“You asked what the next three days look like,” he says quietly.

Your pulse stutters. “Yes.”

“This.” The word is simple. But the meaning behind it is not. 

You don’t think anymore. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. This one is different from last night. Less desperate. More certain. He meets you immediately, one hand still at your jaw, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you closer—not urgently, but like he’s allowed to now. Like he’s not holding back in the same way. The kiss deepens slowly. Deliberately. His thumb brushes your cheek once, then stills like he’s grounding himself in the moment. You shift closer, your hands finding his chest, then sliding up to his shoulders. He exhales softly against your mouth, and the sound alone is enough to send heat through your entire body.

When he pulls back, it’s not far.

It never is. Not anymore.

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

You tilt your head, studying him. There’s something softer in him now. Not weaker. Just… open.

The walk back feels different. Same trail. Same trees. Same filtered sunlight through the branches. But everything has shifted. Your hand stays in his. No pretense now. No pretending it happened accidentally. No pretending either of you forgot to let go. The path slopes downward, easier on your lungs and somehow harder on your nerves. Because now there’s no anticipation to hide behind. Only the reality of what’s already been said. What’s already been chosen.

You glance at him as you walk.

He catches it immediately. “What?”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.” You smile. 

A faint pause, “It was an effective location.” He replies, a trace of a smile on his lips. 

You laugh out loud. “There it is.”

He looks ahead again, but not before you catch the hint of satisfaction in his expression. The sound of the stream returns as you round a bend. This time, when you step across the stones lining the edge of it, you misjudge one slightly. Your foot slips. Not enough to fall. Enough to gasp. His hand is on your waist before the sound finishes, leaving you. The other is still anchored around your hand. You steady instantly against him. Chest to chest. Breath caught. For one suspended second, neither of you moves. The world narrows to warmth, sunlight, and the firm span of his hand at your side.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.

You nod. Too quickly. “Yes.”

His eyes search your face like he’s checking for something deeper than balance. Then his gaze drops briefly to your mouth. Dangerous. You should step back. You don’t. Neither does he.

“You’re taking your time letting me go,” you murmur.

His gaze stays on your face. “Am I?”

Heat rises instantly to your cheeks. You look away first. “Don’t look at me like that.”

A beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Like what?” He asks, feigning innocence. Smug. Absolutely smug.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says quietly, still not moving back, “you’re still standing here.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching somewhere between nerves and want. Then, slowly, he guides you back to stable ground. Only once you’re steady does he let go. The absence of his touch feels immediate. Unfair. You continue walking, but closer now. Shoulders brushing every few steps. The easy quiet between you returns. Only warmer. At one point, he reaches into the side pocket of his pack and hands you a water bottle without breaking stride.

You stare at it. “You packed hydration support, too?”

“I packed for variables.”

You laugh and take another drink.

He watches you over the rim of his own bottle. Thoughtful. Unhurried. The look settles under your skin. By the time the parking lot comes back into view through the trees, a strange disappointment rises in you.

You’re not ready for it to end.

Apparently, neither is he.

Because when you step off the trailhead and onto the packed dirt lot, he doesn’t head straight for the car.

Instead, he stops beside the hood and turns toward you. The sunlight is lower now. Softer.

Everything was edged in gold.

“What?” you ask quietly.

He studies you for a moment. Like he’s deciding how honest to be.

“I had a very good time with you today.” Its straightforwardness steals your breath.

You smile. “That sounded dangerously sincere.”

“It was.”

You step closer. “So did I.”

Something in his expression eases. Not relief exactly. Something deeper. Like satisfaction earned. You glance at the trail behind you. He reaches up, fingertips brushing a loose strand near your braid back behind your ear. The touch is featherlight. Intimate enough to quiet every thought in your head. Then his hand lingers at the side of your neck. Not possessive. Just there. Grounding. 

His eyes hold yours. “We’re not done yet,” he says quietly.

Your pulse jumps. “No?”

“No.” A pause. “If you’re hungry, I know a place nearby.”

Warmth spreads through your chest. Not because of lunch. Because of the assumption tucked inside it. More time. More of this. 

You smile slowly. “Lead the way.”

His mouth shifts. Satisfied again. Then he opens the passenger door for you like it was never a question. And this time, when you get in, it feels less like the end of a date—and more like the beginning of the rest of the day.