#er romance

Central was already loud when you came through the double doors. 

Not bad loud. 

Normal loud.

Monitors chirped from somewhere down South. A transport tech maneuvered an empty stretcher around the corner. Someone called for respiratory from one of the rooms near North. At the central workstation, Shen was staring into an enormous Dunkin cup with the betrayed expression of a man who had discovered corruption at the highest level. Crus stood beside him, peeling open the wrapper of a protein bar.

You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder as you approached. “Should I ask?”

Shen lifted the cup and shook it once. Ice rattled loudly inside. “This is a scam.”

Crus took a bite of his protein bar. “You say that every night.”

“Because every night I am victimized,” Shen replied. He pointed accusingly at the cup. “More ice means less room for coffee. They are charging me for coffee and giving me frozen water.”

You dropped your bag beneath the workstation. “Have you considered asking for less ice?”

Shen ignored the question and lifted the cup toward you. “Look at this. Half the volume is ice.”

You leaned slightly closer to inspect it. “Maybe sixty percent.”

Shen’s expression sharpened with vindication. “Thank you.”

Crus looked at you. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I believe in consumer advocacy,” you told Crus as you pulled your badge forward.

A dry voice came from the workstation beside you. “You believe in making this conversation longer.”

You turned. Jack stood at the computer in dark scrubs, one hand resting beside the keyboard, his attention split between the tracking board and the argument happening around him. You had looked for him when you walked in.

You were choosing not to examine that too closely. Instead, you glanced toward the clock mounted above Central.

Jack followed your gaze before looking back at you. “You’re late.”

You stared at him. “I’m two minutes early.”

Jack shrugged with a smirk. “Could’ve been earlier.”

You logged into the workstation beside him. “Good evening to you too, Abbot.”

Shen lifted his coffee again. “Do you see what I deal with?”

Jack’s attention shifted toward him. “You’ve spent ten minutes complaining about ice.”

Shen cradled the cup protectively against his chest. “Because less coffee is not a trivial issue.”

Jack looked back at the computer. “It is at the moment.”

Crus nodded toward Jack. “He’s got you there.”

Shen pointed at Crus. “You stay out of this.”

Crus took another bite of his protein bar. “Gladly.”

Jack reached toward the tracking board and tapped one finger against a patient listed in Central.

“Central nine,” he said.

You followed the gesture. Forty-three-year-old male. Ear pain. Possible foreign body.

You looked back at Jack. “You say the sweetest things.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “You’re welcome.”

You picked up the tablet from beside the keyboard and opened the chart. “Any idea what kind of foreign body?”

Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “Patient says something flew at him while he was taking the trash out.”

Your thumb stopped against the screen. “Something flew at him?”

“That’s what he told triage,” Jack said.

You skimmed the note. Right ear discomfort. Sensation of movement. Unable to visualize object at triage. You looked up. Jack was watching you. Not obviously. But enough.

Your eyes narrowed. “You have a theory.”

Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “I have several.”

“That is not comforting,” you told him.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

You studied his face for another second. “What do you think it is?”

Jack tipped his chin toward the hallway. “Go look.”

You stared at him. “Abbot.”

“Doctor,” Jack corrected, entirely too calmly.

Shen turned away from his coffee long enough to glance between the two of you.

You pointed the tablet at Jack. “You know something.”

Jack folded his arms loosely across his chest. “I suspect something.”

You waited. Jack waited longer.

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re enjoying this already.”

His mouth twitched again. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes. That only made the amusement in his expression worse.

“If whatever is in his ear bites me, I’m putting your name in the incident report,” you warned him.

Jack pushed away from the workstation. “If it bites you, I’ll read the incident report.”

You turned toward Central Nine. “I hate working with you.”

Shen lifted his cup toward you in sympathy. “Godspeed.”

You looked back at him. “Thank you, Shen.”

Crus glanced toward the patient room. “Now I kind of want to know what it is.”

You kept walking and lifted the tablet slightly. “I’ll find you if I need backup.”

Jack’s voice followed you down the hall. “Central nine.”

You lifted one hand over your shoulder without turning around. You could hear Shen laugh behind you. The patient was sitting rigidly upright on the stretcher when you entered, one hand hovering near his right ear without quite touching it.

His wife stood beside him. Both of them looked miserable. That did not inspire confidence.

You gave them a small smile as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”

The patient nodded carefully. “Hi.”

You sanitized your hands as you moved toward the stool. “I hear something happened while you were taking out the trash.”

His wife made a face.

The patient closed his eyes for a second. “Something flew at me.”

You rolled the stool closer. “Did you see what it was?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head carefully. “I felt it hit the side of my head, and then I felt something go into my ear.”

You kept your expression steady. Something in his ear. Great.

“And since then?” you asked.

The patient’s mouth tightened. “It moves.”

Your entire nervous system objected. You did not. You reached for the otoscope.

His wife rubbed both palms against her arms. “He keeps saying he can hear it.”

You paused for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Okay.”

The patient looked at you anxiously. “Is that bad?”

You pulled on a pair of gloves. “It means I should probably take a look before I answer that.”

He turned his head for you. You adjusted the light and leaned closer. For the first second, all you saw was irritated skin.

Then something shifted deeper in the canal. You stopped breathing. Tiny legs scraped against the edge of your view.

No. Absolutely not. You drew the otoscope back with what you considered an impressive amount of professional dignity.

The patient immediately searched your face. “What is it?”

You smiled. Calmly. Competently. As if you had not just seen your own personal nightmare living inside another human being.

“There is definitely an insect in there,” you told him.

His wife covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”

The patient went pale. “What kind?”

You glanced once more through the otoscope. The insect moved. You pulled back again. Your soul attempted to leave your body.

“It looks like a cockroach,” you said.

The patient made a strangled sound. His wife whispered something under her breath. You set the otoscope down and lifted both hands slightly before either of them could panic further.

“The important part is that we can get it out,” you assured them.

The patient stared at you. “That’s the important part?”

“Yes,” you said, nodding firmly. “That is absolutely the important part right now.”

His wife looked at the equipment beside you. “Does this happen a lot?”

You considered lying.

Instead, you reached for what you needed. “More often than anybody would like.”

The patient looked horrified. You decided that was enough information. You talked him through the plan before you started, keeping your voice even despite the fact that every cell in your body still objected to what you had just seen.

“I’m going to put some lidocaine into your ear first,” you explained as you gathered what you needed. “It’ll help with the discomfort, and it should stop the insect from moving before I remove it.”

The patient’s face tightened. “Please make it stop moving.”

You gave him a reassuring nod. “That is absolutely the goal.”

You instilled the lidocaine carefully and gave it time to work. When you checked again, the cockroach was still. Significantly better.

Still a cockroach. Still in an ear. But still. You worked carefully under direct visualization until you were able to grasp it and draw it free. The cockroach dropped into the basin. Dead. Entirely motionless.

You stared at it for one second. That was enough. You covered the basin with a towel.

The patient let out a breath so hard his shoulders dropped. “Is it out?”

You peeled off your gloves. “Completely.”

His wife sagged against the edge of the stretcher. “Thank God.”

You checked his ear again, making sure the canal and tympanic membrane appeared intact before reviewing what irritation to expect and providing return precautions. By the time you stepped back into the hallway, your face was perfectly composed. The door shut behind you.

You made it approximately three steps. Then you shuddered so hard your shoulders came up around your ears. Jack looked up from the workstation.

You immediately looked down at yourself. Your hands swept over the front of your scrub top. Jack’s brows lifted.

You twisted, trying to see the back of your own shoulder. “Is there one on me?”

Jack stared at you. “What?”

“A cockroach.” You brushed rapidly at one sleeve. “I feel like there’s one on me.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You pointed at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.

Your brow furrowed. “You were about to.”

Jack shook his head. “I wasn’t.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely were.”

Jack walked closer, his expression settling into something suspiciously composed. “There is not a cockroach on you.”

You looked down at your scrub pants. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s left eyebrow rose. “I’m looking at you.”

“That means nothing,” you told him.

His mouth tightened.

You caught it immediately. “Stop smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” Jack said.

You frowned. “You are trying very hard not to.”

Jack gave you a long look. “You’re being dramatic.”

You stared at him.

“There was a live cockroach inside someone’s ear, Abbot,” you said.

“And now there isn’t,” Jack replied.

You shook your head. “That does not undo what I saw.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth pulled upward.

You glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he said.

You looked genuinely wounded. “You suspected.”

Jack nodded once. “I suspected an insect.”

“And you didn’t warn me?” You asked, horrified.

He tipped his head slightly. “Would it have changed anything?”

“Emotionally?” You pressed one hand against your chest. “Yes.”

Jack’s smile grew.

“You’re horrible,” you told him.

Jack tipped his chin toward you. “You handled it.”

You gave him a flat look. “That is not the point.”

He gestured back toward the room. “You removed it.”

You folded your arms. “Also not the point.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you, amusement warm now instead of hidden. “Patient’s fine.”

“I’m not,” you said.

You shifted your weight. A stray piece of hair brushed the back of your neck. You yelped.

Actually yelped. Your whole body jerked sideways as you slapped a hand over the spot. Jack stopped.

You froze with your palm pressed to your neck. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Jack pressed his lips together.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”

His shoulders moved once.

“Abbot,” you warned.

Jack looked away. That was worse.

Your mouth fell open. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he said, his voice suspiciously tight.

You pointed at him. “You are.”

Jack shook his head, still fighting the smile. “I’m not.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You can barely speak.”

Jack looked back at you. His face was mostly composed. His eyes were not. Neither was the corner of his mouth.

You stared at him. “I hate you.”

That did it. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Low and warm and completely unguarded.

Jack dropped his gaze for a second, one hand settling against his hip as another quiet laugh slipped free. You stared at him. Your annoyance remained. Mostly.

But underneath it was the unexpected realization that you had never heard him laugh like that before. You had made him laugh like that. That thought felt strangely good.

Jack finally looked back at you, still smiling. “You done?”

You straightened. “No.”

His smile deepened. “You sure?”

You straightened. “I’m considering filing a formal complaint.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “For laughing?”

You gave him a pointed look. “For emotional damages.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Good luck with that.”

You started back toward Central beside him. “I still hate you.”

Jack glanced at you. His smile softened at the edges.

“No, you don’t,” he said.

Your step faltered. Just slightly. Jack kept walking like he had not said anything at all.

You followed him toward the workstation. And irritatingly, impossibly, you were smiling too. The emergency department did what it always did after allowing you approximately thirty seconds to enjoy anything.

It moved on. Central six needed discharge instructions. A patient in North wanted to know for the fourth time when radiology was coming. Someone in South had vomited on the floor despite having an emesis bag directly in his hand, and Shen spent several minutes insisting that this represented a personal betrayal. By the time you made it back to the central workstation, the phantom sensation of tiny legs crawling across your skin had mostly faded.

Mostly. You were finishing a note when a piece of hair shifted against your cheek. Your hand came up automatically.

Across the workstation, Jack looked up. You caught him. His mouth twitched.

You pointed at him without taking your other hand away from your hair. “Not a word.”

Jack lowered his gaze to his computer. “Wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

He clicked into another chart. “Can’t prove that.”

You dropped your hand. “Your face gives you away.”

Jack glanced toward you. “Does it?”

“Constantly,” you told him.

His expression suggested he disagreed. You smiled to yourself and went back to your note. A few minutes later, your name appeared beside a new patient in North.

Thirty-eight-year-old woman. Nausea. Epigastric pain. Dizziness. You opened the chart. Her vitals were reassuring. No fever. No significant medical history beyond hypertension. Triage described intermittent upper abdominal discomfort since that afternoon, nausea, and one episode of vomiting.

Nothing immediately alarming. Nothing particularly specific either. You pushed away from the workstation and headed toward North.

The patient was sitting upright when you entered, one hand pressed below her sternum.

You introduced yourself before moving to the computer mounted beside the bed. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

The woman shifted against the pillow. “I started feeling sick after lunch. I thought maybe I ate something bad.”

You glanced toward her. “What did you have?”

She made a face. “A cheeseburger.”

You nodded once. “A respectable suspect.”

The woman laughed weakly. “That’s what I thought.”

You moved closer to the stretcher. “And the pain started around then?”

She shook her head. “Maybe an hour later. It’s not terrible. Just uncomfortable.”

You asked her to show you where. Her hand settled over the upper middle portion of her abdomen, drifting slightly toward the right. You worked through the rest of the history.

No diarrhea. No fever. No urinary symptoms. No prior gallbladder problems. No significant shortness of breath. But when you asked about the dizziness, she hesitated.

“It’s more like I get kind of lightheaded,” she explained.

You nodded. “When you stand?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But I felt it sitting down earlier too.”

That made you pause. You kept going. The discomfort had come and gone. She described it as pressure more than sharp pain. She had noticed some sweating earlier, but she had blamed that on feeling nauseated.

You finished the exam and stepped back. Gallbladder was possible. Gastritis was possible.

Reflux was possible. So were several other things. And there was one possibility sitting farther down your differential that you disliked enough not to ignore.

You thanked the patient and stepped back into the hallway. Jack was coming out of another room farther down North. His eyes found you almost immediately.

“There you are,” he said as he approached.

The words caught your attention more than they should have.

You tucked the tablet against your side. “Were you looking for me?”

Jack stopped beside you. “Yes.”

You had expected a denial. Something dry. Instead, he simply said it.

You blinked once. Jack seemed entirely unaware that there had been anything unusual about his answer.

He nodded toward the room behind you. “What do you have?”

You fell into step beside him as you headed toward Central. “Thirty-eight. Epigastric discomfort, nausea, one episode of vomiting, intermittent lightheadedness. Started this afternoon.”

Jack glanced toward you. “Tender?”

“Mild epigastric and right upper quadrant,” you said. “No guarding. No rebound. Murphy’s isn’t convincing.”

He nodded once. “Gallbladder?”

You tipped your hand from side to side. “Maybe.”

Jack looked at you. You knew that look. You had started to know several of them, apparently.

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t think it’s gallbladder.”

Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “I didn’t say that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Your face did.”

His brows lifted. “My face?”

“Very opinionated,” you said.

Jack studied you for a beat. “You’re reading a lot into my face.”

“I’m reading exactly enough,” you replied.

His mouth twitched. “That sounds scientific.”

“It is,” you said.

Jack gestured toward the tablet in your hand. “What else?”

You glanced down at the chart. “Gastritis. Reflux. Pancreatitis, although I don’t love it. Gallbladder disease is still on the list.”

Jack waited. You looked up at him. He kept waiting.

You sighed. “And cardiac.”

“There it is,” Jack said.

You gave him a look. “I was getting there.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied.

Your eyes narrowed. “You were thinking it.”

Jack folded his arms. “You’re doing the face thing again.”

“Because I’m right,” you said.

From the opposite side of the workstation, Shen slowly looked up from his computer. His gaze moved from you to Jack and back again.

“Are you two arguing?” Shen asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.

You turned toward him. “We are not arguing.”

“You’re disagreeing with me,” Jack pointed out.

“Disagreement is not automatically an argument,” you said.

Crus glanced over from the other side of the workstation. “It kind of sounds like an argument.”

You pointed the tablet toward him. “You stay out of this.”

Crus lifted both hands. “See? Now it feels like an argument.”

Shen leaned back in his chair. “I’m still unclear on what the argument is.”

Jack tipped his chin toward you. “She thinks gallbladder.”

“I said gallbladder was one possibility,” you corrected.

“You led with it,” Jack said.

You tapped the tablet with one finger. “Because she has right upper quadrant tenderness.”

Shen looked toward Jack. “And you think?”

Jack gestured toward you. “Ask her.”

You stared at him. He was enjoying this. Again.

You looked back at Shen. “I think we get the EKG before we decide her stomach is the problem.”

Shen nodded. “So you agree.”

“Thank you,” you said, pointing toward him.

Jack shook his head. “That wasn’t the argument.”

Crus leaned one forearm against the counter. “I’m starting to think there was never an argument.”

“There was,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “There was not.”

Shen’s gaze moved between the two of you again before he turned back to his computer. “Whatever this is, I don’t want to be involved anymore.”

Crus returned to his own work. “That makes two of us.”

You looked back at Jack. “EKG.”

“EKG,” Jack agreed.

You smiled. “So we agree.”

“For now,” Jack said.

The EKG tech was already in the room when you returned. Your patient now looked more annoyed than frightened, which you took as a good sign. She lay back against the stretcher while the last leads were adjusted across her chest, one hand resting loosely over her upper abdomen.

You stepped beside the bed. “We’re just checking your heart while we sort out everything else.”

The woman glanced down at the leads. “Because of the dizziness?”

You nodded. “The dizziness, the nausea, the pressure you described. Sometimes cardiac symptoms don’t show up the way people expect.”

Her expression tightened. “You think I’m having a heart attack?”

“I think there are enough possibilities that I don’t want to assume,” you said. “This is one of the quick things we can check.”

She seemed to accept that. A minute later, the machine finished printing. The tech handed you the tracing, and you stepped into the hall.

You were halfway back to Central when you slowed. The EKG was not dramatic. It was not catastrophic. It was also not something you wanted to dismiss. Jack looked up when you stopped beside the workstation.

His gaze dropped to the tracing in your hand. “What?”

You held it out toward him. “Well.”

Jack took the EKG.

You folded your arms. “I officially like gallbladder less.”

His eyes moved over the tracing.

Jack tapped one section with his finger. “Yeah.”

You leaned slightly closer. “Subtle.”

“But there,” he said.

You nodded. “I want troponins.”

Jack handed the tracing back. “Good.”

There it was. One word. Simple. Quiet. Still enough to feel good. You turned toward the computer and started placing the orders.

Jack stayed beside you.

You glanced at him. “You can say it.”

His brows pulled together. “Say what?”

You clicked through the lab orders. “That your extremely opinionated face was right.”

Jack looked at you. “My face doesn’t say anything.”

“You are very committed to that position,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “And yet?”

You submitted the orders. “And yet, apparently, it has excellent diagnostic instincts.”

Jack folded his arms. “Good to know.”

You gave him a warning look. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not smug,” he said.

You pointed toward him. “That. Right there.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “What?”

“The face,” you said.

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. Almost. You caught it.

Something pleased curled quietly in your chest. There. Almost. You immediately decided not to examine why you had apparently started keeping score.

Instead, you tucked the EKG beneath the tablet. “Enjoy being right while it lasts.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I usually do.”

You stared at him. “That confidence is upsetting.”

His mouth twitched. “You’ll adjust.”

You started toward North. “I hope not.”

The first troponin result came less than an hour later. Elevated. Not dramatically. Enough to matter. You pulled up the result and turned the screen slightly toward Jack.

He stepped closer.

You tapped the result. “There.”

Jack read it. “Call cardiology.”

You nodded. “Already paged.”

His gaze shifted toward you.

You lifted one shoulder. “Your face told me you were going to say that too.”

Jack stared at you. You waited. His mouth twitched. You smiled.

Jack shook his head and turned back toward his computer. “You’re becoming a problem.”

“I thought I already was one,” you said.

“You’re becoming a different problem,” Jack replied.

Your fingers paused against the edge of the workstation. You looked at him. Jack was already back in the chart.

Naturally.

You leaned one hip against the counter. “Should I be concerned?”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Probably.”

You smiled. “Good.”

For half a second, his eyes stayed on yours. Then Lena appeared at the end of the workstation. The expression on her face wiped the smile from yours.

Lena nodded toward North. “Seventeen-year-old in twelve. Assault at a party.”

You straightened. “Stable?”

“For now,” Lena said. “Awake, talking, vitals are okay.”

You tucked the tablet beneath your arm. “What happened?”

Lena fell into step beside you as you started toward North. “Sounds like she got shoved or hit. Went down and struck her head. Dad brought her in.”

You glanced toward room twelve. “Loss of consciousness?”

“Unclear,” Lena replied. “That’s part of why I’m sending you in.”

You looked at her. “What else?”

Lena’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”

That made you slow.

She looked toward the room. “I just don’t like how she looks.”

You nodded once. That was enough. You changed direction toward North Seven. North Seven was quieter than the rest of the department.

The girl on the stretcher looked younger than seventeen. Maybe it was the oversized sweatshirt swallowing her hands. Maybe it was the way she sat slightly folded into herself, one knee drawn up beneath the blanket. A red mark had started to darken along one side of her forehead. Her father stood near the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.

He looked tired. And angry. Not at her, necessarily. At the night. At the hospital. At whoever had put his daughter here.

You sanitized your hands as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”

The girl looked toward you. “Hi.”

Her father straightened. “How long is this going to take?”

You glanced toward him. “I’m going to examine her first, then I can give you a better idea.”

He nodded, though not happily.

You pulled the stool closer to the stretcher and looked back at the girl. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

She picked at the cuff of her sweatshirt. “I was at a party.”

You waited.

The girl swallowed. “There was this girl there. We got into it.”

Her father let out a breath through his nose. “She got into a fight.”

The girl’s jaw tightened.

You kept your attention on her. “What happened during the fight?”

“She shoved me,” the girl said. “I think.”

You caught the hesitation. “You think?”

The girl looked toward her father.

He answered for her. “One of her friends said she got shoved and fell backward.”

You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember falling?”

Her eyebrows drew together.

“I remember arguing,” she said slowly. “And then I remember being on the ground.”

You leaned forward slightly. “Do you remember hitting your head?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Her father shifted at the end of the stretcher. “She’d been drinking.”

The girl looked irritated. “I had two drinks.”

“You’re seventeen,” her father said.

You held up one hand before the argument could build. “We can come back to that part.”

The girl looked at you.

You gave her a small nod. “Right now I just need to know what you remember.”

She relaxed a fraction. You continued through the history. Headache. Nausea. One episode of vomiting in the car. No seizure. No known medical problems. No blood thinners. The headache had gotten worse since the party.

That mattered.

You stood and moved closer. “I’m going to check your eyes and do a quick neurologic exam.”

The girl nodded. “Okay.”

You checked her pupils. Equal. Reactive. You had her follow your finger.  No obvious gaze abnormality. You tested strength. Sensation. Coordination. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed emergency.

And still— Something bothered you. You stepped back. The girl rubbed one hand against her forehead. You watched her.

“Has the headache changed since you got here?” you asked.

She took a second too long to answer.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Her father sighed. “She’s exhausted.”

You looked at the girl. “Do you feel exhausted?”

She blinked at you. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

You waited another second. “How about dizzy?” you asked.

“A little,” she said.

“When you stand?”

She frowned. “Sometimes.”

You glanced at the monitor. Vitals still reassuring. You looked back at her.

“Can you tell me what month it is?” you asked.

The girl gave you a confused look. “August.”

You nodded. “And where are we?”

“PTMC,” she answered.

You smiled slightly. “Good. And who’s president?”

Her father looked annoyed now. “She knows where she is.”

You kept your voice even. “I’m checking a few things.”

The girl answered correctly. You moved on. But when you asked her to repeat three words back to you a few minutes later, she missed one.

Not dramatic. Not definitive. Just enough to add to the growing discomfort in your gut.

Her father shifted again. “She’s been up all day. She drank. She got into a fight. Of course she’s tired.”

You looked at him. “That may be all this is.”

He seemed to latch onto that. “Exactly.”

You held his gaze. “But I don’t want to assume that.”

His mouth tightened.

You turned back toward the girl. “Did anybody tell you if you passed out?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Her father answered instead. “Her friends said she got up.”

You looked at him. “Right away?”

He hesitated. “I think so,” he said.

You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember getting up?”

She stared at you. Then her expression changed. Not fear exactly. Recognition.

“No,” she said quietly.

You nodded once. There it was. You finished the exam without rushing. Then you stepped toward the door.

“I’m going to talk with my attending,” you told them. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The girl nodded.

Her father looked toward you. “Are we talking about a concussion?”

“It’s possible,” you said. “I just want to make sure we aren’t missing anything else.”

He exhaled, but he let you go. You stepped into the hallway and pulled the door mostly closed behind you. Jack was coming down North.

His eyes found you. You didn’t have to call him over. He changed direction immediately.

“What do you have?” Jack asked when he reached you.

You glanced through the narrow window in the door before looking back at him. “Seventeen. Assault at a party. Shoved or hit, fell backward, struck her head.”

Jack nodded once. “Loss of consciousness?”

“Unknown,” you said. “She doesn’t remember the fall or getting up afterward.”

His attention sharpened. “Vomiting?”

“One episode,” you replied. “Worsening headache. Mild dizziness. Neuro exam is mostly reassuring.”

Jack caught the word. “Mostly?”

You folded your arms loosely. “She’s slow.”

He waited. You looked toward the room again.

“Not dramatically,” you continued. “She’s oriented. Strength is equal. Pupils are fine. Coordination is okay. But her responses are delayed, and she missed one on delayed recall.”

Jack watched you for a moment. “Walk me through it.”

You nodded.

“The mechanism is enough to make me cautious,” you said. “Add the memory gap, vomiting, worsening headache, and the fact that I don’t think her mental status is completely baseline.”

Jack looked through the window toward the girl.

You continued, quieter now. “I know the exam isn’t dramatic. I just don’t like it.”

He looked back at you. “Neither do I,” Jack said.

Relief came quickly. Not because you needed him to tell you what to think. Because he had listened.

Jack tipped his chin toward the room. “CT.”

You nodded. “That’s what I want.”

He gestured for you to go back in. “Then order it.”

You pushed the door open again. Her father looked up immediately.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

You moved back toward the stretcher. “I want to get a CT of her head.”

His expression hardened. “Why?”

You kept your voice calm. “Because she has a gap in her memory around the fall, she’s vomited, her headache is getting worse, and she’s a little slower to respond than I’d expect.”

“She’s tired,” her father said.

“She may be,” you replied. “But those symptoms overlap with things I don’t want to miss.”

He glanced toward Jack, who had stepped into the room behind you. You noticed it. So did Jack.

The father looked directly at him. “Do you really think she needs a scan?”

Jack didn’t step forward. He didn’t repeat your explanation. He didn’t take the case away from you. He simply looked at the man.

“She’s right,” Jack said.

The room went quiet. You looked at him. Just for a second. Jack’s attention was already back on the patient.

Her father exhaled and rubbed one hand over his face. “Okay.”

You nodded. “We’ll get it moving.”

The girl looked at you. “Am I going to be okay?”

You stepped closer to the bed. “Right now, you’re awake, you’re talking to me, and your exam is reassuring in a lot of ways.”

Her eyes stayed on yours.

You softened your voice. “The scan is how we make sure we’re not missing something that needs more attention.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You gave her a small smile. “Okay.”

Then you stepped back toward the computer to place the order. Jack moved toward the door. As he passed you, his hand paused briefly against the edge of the workstation beside your hip. Not touching you. Just close.

“Good,” he said quietly.

You looked up. Jack held your gaze for a moment. Then he stepped back into the hall.

You watched him go for half a second before returning to the order. The patient still needed you. The CT results came twenty-three minutes later.

You were at Central when the notification appeared. You opened the report. Then stopped. Small acute subdural hematoma. No significant midline shift. You read it twice anyway.

Jack came up beside you. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him. His eyes moved across the report.

You exhaled slowly. “There it is.”

Jack nodded once. “Call neurosurgery.”

You reached for the pager clipped at your waist. “Already doing it.”

His gaze shifted toward you.

You looked at him. “What?”

Jack’s mouth moved faintly at one corner. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Your face disagrees.”

“That again?” he asked.

“You started it,” you said.

Jack glanced back at the CT report. “Good catch.”

The teasing left you. You looked at the screen.

“It wasn’t much,” you said.

Jack’s attention returned to you. “It was enough.”

You were quiet for a second. He didn’t fill it.

You looked back toward North Seven. “I should update them.”

Jack nodded. “Go.”

You pushed away from the workstation and headed down the hall. The girl’s father stood when you entered. His expression changed the second he saw your face.

“What did it show?” he asked.

You moved closer to the bed. “The scan shows a small subdural hematoma, which means there’s a small amount of bleeding between the brain and one of the protective layers around it.”

The girl went still.

Her father stared at you. “Bleeding?”

You nodded. “It’s small, and there’s no significant pressure or shift on the scan right now. That’s reassuring.”

The girl swallowed. “Do I need surgery?”

“Not based on what we’re seeing right now,” you said. “I’ve paged neurosurgery so they can review the imaging and examine you too.”

Her father rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Jesus.”

You gave him a moment.

Then you looked back at the girl. “We’re going to keep a close eye on you, repeat neurologic checks, and make sure nothing changes.”

She nodded slowly. Her father looked at you again. Some of the defensiveness from earlier was gone now.

“I thought she was just tired,” he said.

You kept your voice gentle. “There was a lot going on tonight. The important thing is that you brought her in.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. You turned your attention back to the girl and answered the rest of her questions before stepping out. The door clicked shut behind you.

You stood there for a second. Not long. Just long enough to breathe. Then you started back toward Central. Jack was there when you returned. Of course he was. He looked up as you approached.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

Jack watched you. You waited for him to challenge it. He didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

That was all. No interrogation. No lecture about taking care of yourself. Just okay.

You sat down at the workstation and opened the chart again. A bottle of water appeared beside your keyboard. You looked at it.

Then at Jack. His attention was already on another screen.

“Did you put this here?” you asked.

Jack kept typing. “Maybe.”

You picked up the bottle. “Are you monitoring my hydration now?”

“Someone has to,” he said.

You stared at him. “That is deeply invasive.”

Jack glanced toward the unopened bottle. “You haven’t had anything since you got here.”

“You don’t know that,” you said.

“I do,” he replied.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s creepy.”

“That’s observable,” Jack said.

You held the bottle up. “Do you do this to everyone?”

Jack finally looked at you. “Only the ones who get useless when they’re dehydrated.”

Your mouth fell open. “Useless?”

His eyes dropped deliberately to the bottle. Then back to you.

“Prove me wrong,” he said.

You unscrewed the cap while glaring at him. “I liked you better when you were laughing at me.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No, you didn’t.”

You took a drink. He turned back toward the computer. And somehow, annoyingly, that made you feel a little better.

By the time you made it back to Central, the department had settled into one of those strange stretches of relative quiet that never lasted long enough to trust. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were gathered around the far end of the workstation. That alone was suspicious.

The fact that all three of them stopped talking when you approached made it worse.

You slowed beside your computer. “Why do I feel like I just interrupted something illegal?”

Shen looked toward Crus. Crus looked toward Ellis.

Ellis glanced at you, then made the decision for all of them. “I think she’s ready.”

You stared at her. “That sounds ominous.”

Shen pushed his chair back and reached beneath a stack of printed downtime forms beside the workstation. “You’ve been on nights long enough.”

Crus nodded solemnly. “You’ve survived us.”

Ellis folded her arms. “More importantly, you’ve survived him.”

You followed her gaze across Central. Jack was halfway down the hall, speaking with Mateo outside one of the rooms.

You looked back at them. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Shen placed a sheet of paper facedown on the counter in front of you. “Welcome to the inner circle.”

You looked at the paper. Then at Shen.

“You have an inner circle?” you asked.

Crus shrugged. “Apparently.”

Shen pointed at him. “Don’t cheapen this.”

You reached for the paper. “What exactly am I being initiated into?”

Shen grinned. “Abbot Bingo.”

You turned the page over. A five-by-five grid stared back at you. For several seconds, you said nothing.

Then you looked up. “You made bingo cards about Abbot?”

Ellis corrected you from across the workstation. “We all made our own.”

Crus pulled his from his scrub pocket. “Same basic premise. Different squares.”

You looked back down at Shen’s card.

Says “Absolutely not.”

Asks “What did you do?”

Tells someone to go home.

Says ‘Shen’ like a threat.

The center square read:

FREE SPACE: Visibly regrets choosing medicine.

A laugh escaped you.

Shen tapped the paper. “First person to get five in a row wins.”

You looked at him. “What do they win?”

“The other three each owe the winner one coffee or snack,” Ellis explained.

Your interest sharpened immediately. “Each?”

Crus nodded. “Three total.”

You looked between them. “Redeemable whenever?”

Shen pointed toward you. “See? This is why we knew she was ready.”

Ellis smiled. “Any shift. No expiration.”

You pulled an empty sheet of paper toward yourself. “Give me a pen.”

Crus handed one over. “Welcome aboard.”

Something warm caught quietly beneath your ribs. It was stupid. Completely stupid. A homemade bingo game devoted to tormenting an attending physician should not have meant anything. But Shen had said inner circle.

And apparently you were in it.

You uncapped the pen. “What are the rules?”

Shen leaned closer. “Has to happen naturally. You cannot directly provoke the square.”

Crus pointed toward him. “That rule exists because of Shen.”

You looked at Shen. “What did you do?”

Shen’s expression turned defensive. “I needed him to say ‘absolutely not.’”

Ellis shook her head. “So he asked Abbot if he could intubate someone from across the room.”

Your mouth fell open. “You did not.”

Shen lifted one shoulder. “It worked.”

Crus gave him a flat look. “And then we instituted the rule.”

You laughed and started filling in your card. A minute later, Shen leaned over your shoulder. His brow furrowed. Then he leaned closer.

“Why are yours so specific?” Shen asked.

You glanced at him. “They’re not.”

Shen pointed to the upper-left square. “Abbot raises his left eyebrow judgmentally.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Ellis leaned over from the other side. “Left eyebrow specifically?”

“The left one is judgment,” you explained. “Both eyebrows are disbelief.”

Silence settled around you. You looked up. All three of them were staring at you.

“What?” you asked.

Crus glanced toward Shen. “She might be better at this than we are.”

Shen looked personally threatened. “She’s been here five minutes.”

“I pay attention,” you said.

Ellis pointed farther down the card. “Abbot crosses his arms menacingly.”

You nodded. “That happens constantly.”

Crus pointed farther down your card. “Abbot winks.”

Shen looked at you. “Abbot winks?”

You nodded. “I’ve seen him do it.”

Shen’s expression turned skeptical. “When?”

You glanced toward Jack’s side of the department. “That pregnant patient who came in with the headache and blurred vision. The one who seized.”

Ellis looked up. “The HELLP case?”

You nodded. “Robby asked if Abbot had it.”

Crus frowned. “And?”

You smiled at the memory. “Abbot said, ‘Yeah, I’m good. I got it with my eyes closed.’”

Shen waited.

You lifted one finger. “Then he went, ‘But I won’t. Maybe one eye.’”

You winked. Ellis started laughing.

Crus nodded slowly. “Okay. Documented wink.”

Shen pointed at your card. “Fine. That one stays.”

A dry voice came from behind the four of you. “What are you doing?”

Everyone froze. You turned first. Jack stood a few feet away.

His gaze moved across the group crowded around the workstation. Then down to the papers. Then back up. His left eyebrow rose.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, yes.”

You immediately marked the square.

Jack’s attention snapped to you. “What?”

You held up the card. “Left eyebrow. Judgmentally.”

Crus burst out laughing.

Shen pointed accusingly at your paper. “She already got one.”

Jack looked at him. “Got one what?”

Ellis lifted her card. “Abbot Bingo.”

Jack stared at her. His expression went completely blank. You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack looked toward Shen. “Abbot Bingo.”

Shen nodded once. “Correct.”

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. You gasped again. His eyes went directly to you.

You marked another square. “Crosses arms menacingly.”

Jack looked down at his arms. Then back at you.

“This is menacing?” he asked.

You considered him carefully. “A little.”

Crus leaned toward your card. “Does ‘a little’ qualify?”

You pulled the card away from him. “It absolutely qualifies.”

Jack looked around at the four of you. “Explain.”

Shen straightened in his chair. “We each have a card containing things you regularly say or do during a shift.”

Ellis held hers up. “First person to five in a row wins.”

Crus gestured toward the cards. “The losers each owe the winner a coffee or snack.”

Jack looked from Ellis to Crus. “You’ve been doing this during work?”

Shen shook his head. “Only during periods of appropriate clinical downtime.”

Jack stared at him.

Shen shifted slightly. “Mostly.”

Jack extended one hand toward you. “Let me see that.”

You hesitated.

His fingers curled once. “Card.”

You handed it over. “Don’t judge my methodology.”

Jack looked down at the grid. His eyes moved slowly across your squares.

Raises left eyebrow judgmentally.

Winks.

Crosses arms menacingly.

Says “Doctor” in that tone.

Points toward a room instead of telling someone to go.

One-word praise: “Good.”

Looks over his shoulder instead of turning around.

Tiny almost-smile he immediately gets rid of.

Jack stopped. Then he looked at you. You waited. His gaze dropped to the card again.

“This is disturbingly specific,” he said.

You held out your hand. “It’s accurate.”

Jack gave the card back. “That doesn’t help.”

You smiled as you took it. “I disagree.”

His mouth twitched. Your gaze dropped immediately to the corresponding square. Jack saw you look. His mouth flattened. Too late.

You marked it.

“That counts,” you said.

Jack pointed toward your card. “No.”

Shen made a strangled noise. Crus immediately checked his own card. Ellis grabbed her pen.

Jack realized his mistake.

Shen slapped the counter. “Anybody have ‘No’?”

Crus marked a square. “Got it.”

Jack closed his eyes for one long second.

Ellis laughed. “Does that count as visibly regretting choosing medicine?”

“It should,” Shen said.

Jack opened his eyes. “Nothing I do while discussing this game counts toward the game.”

You shook your head. “You can’t add rules after the game has started.”

Jack looked at you. “Apparently I can.”

“You’re not playing,” you pointed out.

His stare sharpened. You smiled sweetly.

Jack looked around the workstation at all four of you. “I hate all of you.”

Your smile widened.

You held his gaze. “No, you don’t.”

For half a second, Jack said nothing. Then his left eyebrow rose. You looked down at your card.

Shen immediately grabbed your wrist. “Absolutely not. You already used that one.”

You started laughing. “He did it again.”

Crus sided with Shen. “One occurrence per square.”

Ellis nodded. “I agree.”

You pulled your hand free. “This game is corrupt.”

Jack shook his head and started away from the workstation. Shen looked at the retreating figure, then down at his own card. His expression turned calculating.

Jack made it four steps before stopping. He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at the group. Your eyes dropped instantly to your card.

You marked another square. Jack saw you do it. His eyes narrowed.

You lifted the paper toward him. “That one was on here too.”

Jack stared at you for a long second. Then he walked away.

Shen leaned over to inspect your card. “You’re going to be a problem.”

You looked down at the growing collection of marks and smiled. Apparently, you already were. By four-thirty, Abbot Bingo had disappeared beneath actual work.

Your card was still tucked under the edge of the keyboard, one square short of a win. You had stopped thinking about it somewhere around the second trauma. Mostly because you no longer had enough functioning brain cells to think about anything that was not directly in front of you.

You were standing at Central with a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago when Jack came out of Trauma Two. He looked about as tired as you felt. His gaze found yours across the workstation.

You lifted your cup slightly. “How bad?”

Jack glanced toward the tracking board. “You really want an answer?”

You looked at the wall of yellow and red. “No.”

“Smart,” he said.

You took a miserable sip of cold coffee.

Jack watched you swallow. “That’s disgusting.”

You looked down at the cup. “It’s caffeine.”

“It was caffeine,” he corrected.

You gave him a tired look. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

His mouth pulled into a small smile.

Jack lifted his own cup and tapped it lightly against yours. “Hang in there.”

You smiled. “You too.”

Someone called for him from Trauma One.

Jack started backing away. “Duty calls.”

You lifted your cup toward him. “Try not to have too much fun.”

His eyes met yours. Then he winked. Quick. Easy. That same cocky little one-eyed wink you had seen him throw at the patient during the HELLP case.

Except this one was for you. You stared after him for half a second. Beside you, Shen sucked in a sharp breath.

Your head snapped toward him.

Shen pointed at you. “The wink.”

Oh. You dropped your coffee onto the counter and grabbed for the card beneath the keyboard.

Crus looked up. “Did he just do it?”

Ellis was already laughing. “He did.”

You found the last empty square and slashed an X through it.

Then you held up the card. “Bingo.”

Shen groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Crus pointed toward Trauma One. “He handed you the win.”

You folded the card. “I didn’t ask him to.”

Ellis gave you a knowing look. “Nobody said you did.”

You tucked the card into your scrub pocket. “Three free snacks.”

Shen stared at you. “You are remarkably focused on the wrong thing.”

You picked your coffee back up. “I won. That is the thing.”

Crus shook his head. “She’s going to be unbearable.”

You smiled over the rim of your cup. “You invited me.”

By the time the board finally started thinning, the sky outside the narrow windows near the ambulance entrance had begun to lighten. Not sunrise yet. Just the first gray hint that morning was coming.

You finished your last note, signed it, and leaned back in your chair. For the first time in hours, nothing immediately needed you. The realization lasted approximately five seconds before your stomach growled.

Loudly. You looked down. Across the workstation, Shen looked up.

His eyebrows rose. “Was that you?”

You pressed one hand against your stomach. “Mind your business.”

Crus glanced over from his computer. “That sounded medically significant.”

You gave him a tired look. “I haven’t eaten an actual meal since yesterday.”

Ellis zipped her bag closed. “That explains a lot.”

You pointed at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Ellis slung the bag over her shoulder. “I am. Eat something.”

Shen stood and stretched. “I would offer to buy you something, but you already have a legally binding snack voucher from me.”

You smiled. “I’m saving that.”

His expression immediately turned wary. “For what?”

You pushed back from the workstation. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Crus shook his head. “Creating the no-expiration rule was a mistake.”

“You invited me,” you reminded him.

Ellis laughed as she started toward the hall. “And now we live with the consequences.”

The three of them began filtering out one by one, still arguing about whether your Abbot Bingo win had been assisted. You let them go ahead. Your bag had somehow migrated beneath a chair during the shift, and you crouched to retrieve it.

When you straightened, Jack was still at Central. Of course he was. He was finishing something at the computer, shoulders slightly rounded with exhaustion now that the adrenaline of the shift had worn off.

You hooked the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your stomach growled again. Loud enough that Jack glanced over from the computer.

You closed your eyes for a second. “Don’t.”

His brows lifted. “Don’t what?”

You sighed. “You heard that.”

“I think the entire department heard that,” Jack said.

You pressed a hand over your stomach. “Traitor.”

Jack looked back at the computer. “Go eat.”

You leaned one hip against the workstation. “Any suggestions?”

He paused.

Then Jack glanced toward you. “There’s a diner two blocks east.”

You waited. Jack went back to typing.

You stared at him. “That’s all I get?”

His fingers stopped. “What else do you want?”

“A name would be helpful,” you said.

Jack glanced toward you. “The Beacon. Two blocks east.”

You nodded slowly. “Is it good?”

His expression turned thoughtful. “It’s open.”

You laughed. “Glowing review.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You adjusted your bag. “What do you get?”

He looked at you. You waited.

Jack seemed mildly suspicious of the question. “Why?”

“Because you’re recommending it,” you said. “I need to know whether your judgment can be trusted outside this building.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You trusted it all night.”

“Medically,” you corrected. “Breakfast is different.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Pancakes.”

You stared at him.

His brows drew together. “What?”

“You eat pancakes?” you asked.

Jack gave you a look. “I do. Why is that surprising?”

You smiled. “I don’t know. They just don’t feel very Abbot.”

His mouth twitched. “You have strong opinions about me.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “I have strong opinions about most things.”

Jack nodded. “I noticed.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Jack shook his head. “Their pancakes are decent.”

“Decent,” you repeated.

Jack looked at you. “That’s what I said.”

You started backing toward the hallway. “High praise from you.”

Jack pointed toward the exit. “Go.”

You smiled. “There it is.”

His expression flattened. “What?”

You reached into your pocket and pulled out the folded bingo card. Jack stared at it.

You grinned. “Tells someone to go home.”

“That game is over,” he said.

You tucked the card away again. “Still counts in my heart.”

Jack shook his head. “Goodnight.”

You turned toward the doors. “Goodnight, Abbot.”

You made it several steps before his voice stopped you. “Try the pancakes.”

You looked back. Jack had already turned toward the computer again. You smiled.

“I will,” you said.

Then you headed for the elevators. Working with Abbot had gotten easy. That was all.

You liked his judgment. You liked arguing with his face. You liked making him laugh.

And apparently, somewhere along the way, you had learned that he ate pancakes after bad shifts. None of that meant anything. Probably.