✦ PULSE POINT ✦
PULSE POINT • 14 • ON MY WAY
Summary: The quiet after something real can be louder than anything that came before it. When certainty isn’t spoken out loud, doubt fills the space instead. But sometimes, reassurance doesn’t come in grand gestures—it comes in showing up.
Warnings / Content Notes:
emotional vulnerability
anxiety / overthinking spiral
attachment insecurity (non-clinical)
domestic intimacy
consensual physical intimacy (kissing)
workplace dynamic (attending / resident)
references to injury/disability (non-graphic)
Previous Chapter(s): | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt.4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 | Chpt. 7 | Chpt. 8 | Chpt. 9 | Chpt. 10 | Chpt. 11 | Chpt. 12 | Chpt. 13 |
Recommended Listening:
Reader's Song: Rivers and Roads– The Head and the Heart
Jack's Song: Work Song– Hozier
Bonus Track: Sign of the Times - Harry Styles
Chapter 14: On My Way
You wake up, reaching for your phone. Habit. Hope. Something in between. The room is quiet. Gray morning light filtering through the blinds. Blanket tangled around your legs. For one suspended second, you expect to see a message waiting. A plan. A time. Something certain.
There’s nothing. Your chest tightens before you can stop it. You stare at the screen far too long.
No missed text. No “good morning.” No suggestion for today. No reassurance that yesterday naturally continues into now. It’s ridiculous how quickly the silence becomes loud.
You set the phone down. Pick it back up. Check again, as though absence might have corrected itself—still nothing. The thoughts come fast after that.
Maybe he assumed you wanted space.
Maybe he wanted space.
Maybe yesterday was enough.
Maybe three days of stolen little worlds were always going to end when real life got close again.
Maybe you read certainty into only temporary moments.
You close your eyes. Annoyed instantly. At him for not texting. At yourself for caring. At the fact that someone else’s silence can still reach this far into your nervous system.
You throw the blankets back and get up too quickly. The apartment is exactly as you left it. Wine glasses in the drying rack. A basil leaf on the counter, you somehow missed.
Evidence.
Which helps and does not help. You clean because movement feels better than feeling. Wipe counters already clean. Fold the throw blanket again. Rearrange the books on the coffee table. Open the fridge. Close it. You consider baking. Too obvious.
You consider reading. Impossible. You consider texting him. Immediately reject it.
Too eager.
Too vulnerable.
Too much.
You make coffee instead. Strong. Unnecessarily so. You carry the mug to the couch and sit cross-legged with your phone face down beside you like that proves anything. Ten minutes pass. Then twelve. Then an entire humiliating half hour of pretending you are not waiting. You groan and drop your head back against the couch cushion. “This is pathetic,” you mutter to the ceiling. The ceiling offers no guidance.
You grab your phone.
Open the message thread.
Type:
“Are you free today?”
Delete it.
Type:
“Did you still want to see me?”
Absolutely not. Delete.
Type:
“Come over?”
Too bare. Too honest. You stare at the blinking cursor. Then force yourself not to think.
“Are you free today? Come over.”
You hit send before courage can fail. The message leaves—instant regret. You toss the phone onto the cushion beside you as if it burned you. Then snatch it back up three seconds later. Nothing yet. Of course, nothing yet. It has been three seconds. You stand. Sit. Take one sip of coffee. Too hot. Set it down. Check again—still nothing. Your pulse is absurd. You are a competent adult woman with advanced medical training and the emotional regulation of a Victorian heroine. The phone lights up in your hand.
One new message.
You stop breathing long enough to open it.
“On my way.”
Just that. No hesitation. No delay. No ambiguity. Something in you unclenches so suddenly it almost hurts. You read it twice. Then a third time for no defensible reason. On my way.
You press the phone to your chest and laugh once at yourself. Then immediately stand up and look around your apartment as if he has never been here before. The blanket is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Why are there two mail envelopes on the counter? You snatch them up.
Check the mirror. Too late now. He’s already coming.
And somehow that simple fact changes the whole room.
You have exactly enough time to become unreasonable. You fix the blanket on the couch. Then unfix it because the first version looked too intentional. You rinse a mug that is already clean. You open the bedroom door, decide the bed looks suspiciously unmade, and close it again.
You check the mirror. Immediately regretted checking the mirror. Your hair is doing whatever it wants. Which, annoyingly, is not nothing. You attempt to adjust it anyway. Then stop. Then adjust it again.
“This is embarrassing,” you tell your reflection.
Your reflection offers no mercy.
The knock comes sooner than expected. Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then does something medically concerning.
You open the door.
He’s standing there in jeans, dark Henley, coat unzipped against the morning chill, one hand in his pocket. The other is holding a paper bag.
You blink. “What’s that?”
He steps inside like he already belongs there. “Insurance.”
You close the door behind him. “Against what?”
“You overthinking for the last thirty minutes.”
You stare. “How dare you.”
He sets the bag on the counter and pulls out two pastries from the bakery down the block. The good one. Your favorite one. He glances at you then, properly, and something in his expression changes. Softer. There and gone.
You hate how much you like him.
He steps closer. Not touching yet. Just near enough that your pulse starts behaving badly again.
“You texted me like someone in distress.”
You try to defend yourself, “I texted you like a person with options.”
“Mm.” He hums unconvinced.
“You’re smug.” You groan.
“I’m accurate.” He reminds you.
You roll your eyes, but it lacks conviction.
He studies you for one quiet beat too long. Then, “You were worried.”
Not a question.
You look past him toward the kitchen.
Deny.
Deny.
Deny.
“No.”
A pause.
His voice lowers and answers for you, “Yes.”
Damn it. He knows. Of course, he knows.
You exhale sharply. There’s no point trying to outmaneuver someone who sees straight through you.
“I didn’t know if I was going to see you today.” You say. The room is still. You keep going before courage disappears.
“We didn’t make plans. You didn’t text. Tomorrow is…” You gesture vaguely toward the hospital, the future, everything waiting outside this apartment. “Tomorrow.”
His expression shifts. Not defensive. Not surprised. Understanding. “I know.”
The two words nearly undo you.
You look at him. “Do you?”
“Yes.” He steps in closer now. Close enough that the air changes. “I was trying to give you space this morning.”
You chuckle without humor. “That was a terrible decision.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m learning.”
You should laugh. Instead, you ask the real question.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
Something unreadable moves through his face. Then honesty.
“Yes.”
Your brows lift. That admission matters. He sees it.
“I’m nervous too,” he says quietly. “I’m just quieter about it.”
The truth of that settles warmly inside you. He reaches for your hand. Takes it. Certain.
“You never have to wonder if I want to see you.” The sentence lands deep. Deeper than flirting. Deeper than reassurance.
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “You say things like that very casually.”
“No,” he says. “I say them carefully.” That does it.
You step into him before you can think better of it. His free hand comes to your waist immediately, catching you like he expected you all along. You press your face briefly against his chest. Solid. Warm. Steady heartbeat beneath cotton. He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head. Neither of you speaks for a while. The apartment holds the silence gently.
Then, against your hair, he asks, “What’s your plan for today?”
You don’t move. “I don’t really have one.”
“Good.” He replies.
You tip your head back enough to look at him. “Why?”
His thumb moves once against your side. “Then we can stop trying to make it memorable.”
The words settle around you like something soft. No itinerary. No performance. No pressure to squeeze meaning from the last free day. Just this.
You smile. “That was almost romantic.”
He deadpans, “It was efficient.”
You laugh into his shirt. And for the first time since waking, tomorrow feels farther away.
The pastries go mostly untouched. You each take a few bites out of principle, then abandon them on plates beside cooling coffee. Neither of you seems particularly interested in food now that the room has steadied. Jack sits at one end of the couch. You sit beside him. Then, without discussion, closer. Then closer again. Until your thigh rests against his.
The adjustment feels so natural it almost startles you. You reach for the book you bought him yesterday from the bookstore. Still in its paper bag.
He notices immediately. “You’re giving me homework?”
“I’m trying to improve you.” You say pulling the book out of the bag.
“Ambitious.” He smirks.
You hand it over.
He turns it in his hands, thumb brushing the cover once before opening to the first page.
You tuck your legs beneath yourself and reach for your own book from the side table.
For a while, that’s all it is. Pages turning. Rain at the windows. Coffee getting cold. His shoulder warm and solid beside yours. It should feel uneventful. Instead, it feels intimate in a way kissing almost doesn’t. No performance. No seduction. No need to fill the silence. Just being. You read the same paragraph three times. Absorb none of it. Because every few minutes, he shifts slightly beside you. Because his forearm rests along the back of the couch behind you. Because once, when you reach for your mug, his hand steadies it before you spill. Because the air between ordinary gestures has become charged with meaning.
You lower your book. “I can’t focus.”
He doesn’t look up from his page. “That seems unlike you.”
“It’s your fault.” You huff.
“That seems convenient.”
You close your book over one finger. “Are you even reading?”
“Yes.” He still doesn’t look up.
“What page?”
He glances down once. Then names the number without hesitation. You narrow your eyes. Annoying. He marks his place with one finger and finally looks at you. “What page are you on?”
You glance at your own book. No idea. You shut it completely. “This interview feels hostile.”
A flicker of amusement touches his mouth. Then he takes your book from your hands, sets it on the table, and opens one arm without comment. The gesture is so unassuming that it almost catches you off guard.
Like he assumes you’ll come if you want to.
Like he’d never force it.
Like he already knows you will.
You stare at him. “That’s manipulative.”
“It’s comfortable,” he counters.
You consider holding out on principle. Then crawl into the offered space immediately.
He makes a quiet sound that might be laughter as you settle against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, one of his arms around your shoulders. The book returns to his other hand.
You look up. “You’re going to read while I’m here?”
“Yes.” His eyes skim the page, looking for where he left off.
“Incredible arrogance.” You comment.
“It’s multitasking.”
You try to be offended. You fail.
His chest rises steadily beneath your cheek.
The rhythm of it works through you faster than it should.
Your body, traitorous and relieved, begins unwinding inch by inch.
You watch rain track down the window.
Listen to pages turn.
Feel his thumb move absently once against your upper arm.
The smallest touch.
Almost nothing.
Almost unbearable.
“Jack.” You say, not looking at him.
“Mm.” He hums in response.
“You know this is dangerous.” You say.
“What is?”
You tilt your face enough to look at him. “This.”
He studies you for a moment. Then bends and kisses your forehead once. Measured. Tender. The kind of affection that feels somehow more exposing than hunger. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You don’t remember closing your eyes. Only the warmth. Only the sound of rain. Only the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. Sleep comes slowly. Then all at once. The last thing you feel is his hand smoothing once along your back like he knows exactly how to quiet every alarm in you.
You wake slowly, disoriented by warmth. For one strange second, nothing makes sense. The room is dimmer. The rain has stopped. Your cheek is pressed to something firm and warm that rises beneath you in a slow, steady rhythm. A hand rests lightly on your back. Pages turn somewhere above your head. Then memory returns in pieces. The couch. The book. Jack. You go still. Not because you want to move. Because you don’t.
You’re sprawled half across him, one leg tangled with his, your face tucked against his chest like this is something you do regularly. There’s a blanket over both of you that definitely was not there before. You lift your head slightly. He looks down from his book.
“Welcome back.” His voice is low with disuse. Calm. Like waking up in his arms is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “How long was I asleep?”
“A while.” He responds.
“That is not a unit of time.”
“Approximately ninety minutes.”
You stare. “You timed me?”
“I estimated.” He corrects.
“Disturbing.” You counter.
A corner of his mouth lifts. You become aware of your hair. Your makeup. Your general state of unconscious humanity.
You squint at him. “Why do you look completely normal?”
“I was awake.”
“That feels like cheating.”
“It was efficient.”
You should move. You know you should. Instead, you settle back down for one more second. Then another. His hand shifts once along your back. Slow. Absent. The gesture nearly melts your spine.
“This is dangerous,” you murmur into his shirt.
He goes quiet for a beat. Then, “You keep calling this dangerous.”
You tilt your head enough to look at him. “Because it is.”
His hand moves slowly along your back. Steadying. “No.”
Your brows draw together. “No?”
His gaze holds yours. “It’s important.”
The room is still. A beat. “That’s different.”
The words land somewhere deep and defenseless. You stare at him because he says things like that so calmly, like he has no idea what they do to you.
Or worse—
like he knows exactly.
You try for recovery. “That was annoyingly insightful.”
“It was accurate.”
You should argue. Instead, you settle closer. Then realize you still haven’t answered your own earlier question.
You tilt your head enough to look at him again. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
His gaze returns to the page briefly before he answers. “You looked like you needed the sleep.”
The tenderness of it lands harder than expected. Your throat tightens. You try to recover with suspicion. “Or you wanted me trapped here.”
“That too.”
You laugh softly. The sound feels sleepy and unfamiliar. You push yourself up enough to sit beside him, blanket falling into your lap. The room has gone blue in the evening. Streetlights are just beginning to light up outside the window.
Your coffee cups still sit on the coffee table from earlier, abandoned and forgotten.
Time moved without asking either of you.
You rub at your eyes. “What time is it?”
He tells you.
Your stomach drops. “That late?”
“Yes.”
“We wasted the whole afternoon.” You shift, sitting up a bit.
“No.” The answer is immediate. Certain. You look at him.
“We slept.” His response is soft but factual.
“I slept,” you correct him. “You rested.”
“That is the same thing.” His hand brushes softly down your spine.
“It isn’t.” You counter, trying to stop a smile.
He closes the book and sets it on the table. Then turns toward you fully.
“You needed quiet.” His gaze holds yours. “So did I.”
The room stills around the sentence because you understand what he means. No adrenaline. No flirting to hide inside. No outings to fill the hours. Just peace. With you.
You tuck the blanket tighter around your legs. Tomorrow is still coming. The hospital will still exist. The fluorescent lights. The clipped voices. The distance you’re afraid of. But here, in the blue hush of your apartment, his hand warm around yours, it feels survivable for now.
Later, at the door, his coat is back on. He lifts a hand to your face, brushing an absent touch along your cheek like he needs one more reason to linger. “You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“That sounds fake.” You reply.
“It isn’t.” He leans down and kisses you softly. Then once more, because apparently neither of you knows how to stop at one.
When he pulls away, his expression has gone quieter. Professional almost. A preview. Your stomach twists. He sees that too.
“What happens tomorrow?” you ask softly.
He knows what you mean. “At work?”
“Yes.”
He studies you for a moment. “We do our jobs.”
You exhale sharply. “That sounds cold.”
“I’m not finished.” He answers.
A beat.
“We’re professional when we need to be. Clear when it matters. No one gets compromised.”
Your pulse steadies enough to listen. “And us?”
His eyes meet yours. “The environment changes.” Then, quieter, “Not my intentions.”
The room goes still.
You swallow. “I’m still nervous.”
“I know,” he acknowledges.
“You say that like it solves something.” Annoyed at how calm he is.
“No.” He steps closer again, close enough that the air shifts. “But you don’t have to be nervous alone.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. You look away. “That was worse than smooth.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.” He says honestly.
“It was devastating.” You confess.
A small pause. Then, “Good.”
You turn back at him, half offended, half wrecked. He opens the door, then pauses. Looks back once more.
“See you tomorrow, doctor.”
And there it is.
The future, standing in your doorway.
You watch him go, heart unsteady for entirely new reasons.
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