#hellorhightreason writes

The Hub is jam-packed, the departing night shift crammed in around the day shift as they filter in. It’s rare to have all of both teams in one space; usually a few have already left by the time the next arrive, but apparently there’s some sort of announcement to be made. You hurriedly stuff your bag into your locker and slot yourself into a space near the back of the crowd. The already vibrant life of the ER becomes almost overstimulating, the usual cloud of disinfectant and beeping machinery mingling with warm bodies holding fifteen different conversations and the scent of stale coffee and cooling sweat.

“I heard it’s about the annual charity event,” Whitaker murmurs beside you.

You frown. “The what?”

McKay, on your other side, leans in knowingly. “Management organises a fundraiser every year. It’s always something fun - we did one of those paint runs a couple of years ago, then last year was a bake off thing where each week someone brought in homemade cake or cookies for the team, and everyone who donated got to try some and vote for their favourite. It went on for like 3 months.”

That sounds amazing, and you begin to hope last year’s success means they’ll choose that again this year. You’re not the best baker, but you’ll throw your hat in the ring if it means weeks of fresh cake. You scan the room, already trying to decide who is harbouring a secret culinary brilliance, when your gaze lands on the trio of night shift menaces: Ellis, your best friend; Shen, her partner in crime; and Abbot, the enigma. You worked on nights not long after you started at the Pitt, quickly becoming good friends with the three of them, but when an opening came free on days and you transferred it was only Ellis and Shen who carried on like nothing had changed. Abbot, without warning, went from gentle encouragements and playful remarks to silent stares across the room during handover. Kind of like the one you're receiving now. The other two give a nod of acknowledgement when they catch your eye, and Ellis winks. Almost like she knows something you don’t.

Gloria sweeps into the room with all the grandeur of someone about to announce the next president. “Good morning, all. Thank you for taking time out of your days to be here, so I’ll make this quick.” She goes on to explain what you’ve already started to know: the time has come for the annual charity drive, with the staff as participants. However, this year is going to be a little different. Murmurs ripple through the crowd. “Some of you may be aware we have our own social media star, Dr Javadi, or Dr J as I should say.” Victoria steps up beside her with a bashful wave. “As well as your donations, she will be filming this year’s event and contributing any earnings produced, so the bigger you go with this the better.”

“Okay, but what’s the event?” a voice in the crowd asks, maybe Santos.

Gloria claps her hands together. “Oh, of course. Those of you who were here last year will remember our Great British Baking Show theme. This time we’re turning once again to television for inspiration, with PTMC’s Dancing With the Stars.”

The murmurs turn to gasps ranging from interest to horror. You bite the inside of your cheek. This is going to be far too easy.

“Also,” Gloria raises her voice over the hubbub, “to encourage team cooperation, pairs will be drawn at random with one night shift and one day shift member.”

Your gaze flickers back to the trio. Shen looks faintly amused, Abbot looks mortified, and Ellis… has her eyes trained on you with a wicked grin. Oh no.

She speaks up, all heads swivelling to her, and your stomach drops. “Y/n, aren’t you a professional dancer on the side?”

The heads snap around to you. If only the ground would swallow you whole. “Competitive dancer,” you correct quietly. “Not the same thing.”

“Still,” your best friend grins, “I think there should be some sort of penalty. Who here has two left feet?”

Almost as if they've planned it, which you realise isn't outside the realms of possibility and in fact is rather likely given Ellis’ expression, she and Shen both turn and look at Abbot. This cannot be happening. They cannot be conspiring to pair you with a man they know full well will barely even speak to you on shift unless he has to.

“I only have a left foot, it's not the same,” he huffs, but there’s a good-natured edge to it. For a second it seems like his gaze flickers to you before he glares at the other two.

“Any objections?” Gloria asks. Silence follows. You and Abbot both open your mouths, but neither of you seem to be able to form words. “Very well, Dr y/l/n and Dr Abbot can be the first pair. All others will be drawn today, so please put your names forward by this afternoon. You’ll have a little under four weeks to prepare - filming will be done at the Board of Directors’ gala dinner, so those who volunteer will have the hours paid and those who don’t will have the option to cover the night shift.” Oh, so it’s optional. That would have been nice to know thirty seconds ago. Still, how are you supposed to object without telling the entire department that your ex-boss stresses you out because you’re pretty sure he loathes your very existence?

“Hang on,” Robby interjects, waving a hand to stop everyone from leaving for home or getting back to work. “I'm all for raising money, but this seems like a lot of work. People will have to give up their time to practise.”

“Yeah, last year we at least got cake out of it!” Donnie nods emphatically. The rest of the room mutter their agreement.

Gloria considers for a moment. “I see your point, Dr Robinavitch. How about this? Whichever couple garners the most engagement-” she pauses, turning to Javadi to check she's understood the concept, and receiving an encouraging smile, “-will each receive an additional paid day off.”

The room explodes with cheers and noises of approval. Nothing like the prospect of a day away from here to motivate people. If nothing else, it'll keep morale up for the next couple of weeks.

In the ensuing hubbub, you drift towards the desk, trying to keep your focus on the board and not the way a certain attending steps into the space beside you. He smells like hand sanitiser and blood and exhaustion as he leans dangerously close over the counter to grab a piece of paper and a pen before scribbling something down. You reread the same name on the screen three times. A warm hand taps its knuckles against your arm.

“Here you go, Twinkletoes,” he says, voice low and steady against the unfurling chaos of the shift starting around you. You glance to the side to see him holding the paper with a hint of a smirk. There's a number scrawled hastily across it. “For planning rehearsals.”

You raise an eyebrow, which feels far too natural for an expression you’ve not been in a position to even consider making towards him for months. “Someone’s eager. Didn’t have you down as a dancer, Dr Abbot.”

“I’m not, but I could do with a day off. Seems like I might stand a chance at getting it thanks to you.”

Warmth creeps into your cheeks, an annoyingly common occurrence in his presence. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“You won’t,” he replies, simple and to the point, as he turns and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

The whole of the Pitt is abuzz after the announcement. Patient satisfaction scores must be through the roof with the way people are smiling, being more chatty, working together with barely a quibble. You have to hand it to Gloria, she knows exactly what she’s done. People even seem to have overlooked the fact that they’re going to be recorded and put out to however many thousands of followers Javadi has, that’s how much of an incentive PTO is. Even Santos is less sullen than usual.

The list gets pinned to the notice board in the break room shortly before 5pm. The pull of coffee has drawn you in, but it’s forgotten the moment you spot the crisp white sheet among posters for food shelter donations, an upcoming gig that one of the night shift nurses is playing in, and a reminder about the pedes’ knitwear campaign. It’s straightforward, a little too matter-of-fact, but someone has at least taken the time to drop a photo of the Dancing With the Stars trophy in the top corners, either side of a date, a Saturday just over 3 weeks away. Your name is at the top alongside Abbot's. With no small amount of curiosity, you scan the rest of the pairings: Ellis is with Mel, Shen and Emma are a duo, then there’s Robby and Walsh, Whitaker and Henderson, Santos and Mateo, McKay and Toomarian, and Dana and Lena (you don’t doubt for a second that there was some sort of bribery to make that happen). You’ve seen the way Dana twirls around the center when she thinks nobody is looking. If anyone is going to be a challenge to beat, it’s her. The slip of paper that has been burning a hole in your pocket all day returns to the light as you check the number against the one you still have saved. At least some things never change. Then, you snap a photo of the list and hit send before you can give yourself time to think about it.

The reply arrives faster than you expect. Looks like I got lucky.

You roll your eyes. Abbot has always been a bit of a flirt, and far from exclusive about it. In fact, you think you might be about the only person in the Pitt who isn’t frequently subjected to it. You don’t know what exactly makes you different or when the change occurred, but there must have been something you did to make him like you less or feel the need to keep things professional. Until now, when there's nothing professional about texting him to plan dance rehearsals. Old habits clearly die hard. Still, the words rattle around your mind as you pick up the coffee pot, when your screen lights up again on the counter beside you. My night off tomorrow. Strategy meeting at my place after your shift?

How very military of him. You should have known that him getting in the spirit would come with a strict regimen. Still, you can’t complain, the process will give you a distraction from constantly wondering what is going on in that man's head.

Sure, I’ll come over after dinner, you reply with slightly trembling hands. Blame the lack of coffee. You take a sip.

I’ll cook. It’s not a negotiation. Stir fry? In spite of yourself, you smile as you return to the last 2 hours of work.

Every ounce of anticipation that has carried you through the next day's shift dissipates the moment you pull up outside the address that haunts your memories, a smart bungalow just outside of the centre of town. Everything about it screams Jack Abbot, even if you’d deny knowing him well enough any more to know what that means - neatly maintained, a small wooden deck with a coffee table and two chairs, a black truck parked out front. There’s absolutely nothing about it to put you on edge, nothing beyond the perfectly ordinary act of going to a coworker’s house for dinner, yet you still find yourself tense and on the verge of turning heel when the door opens. Abbot leans against the frame in a faded band T-shirt and dark sweatpants, muscular arms folded across his chest.

“Are you coming in, Twinkletoes,” he says with a hint of amusement, “or are you planning on loitering on my path all night?”

“I thought I might loiter for another hour or so at least,” you reply dryly, even as you step up onto the deck.

He shrugs as he steps back from the doorway. “Suit yourself, but your food’s gonna go cold.”

A small breath of a laugh escapes you before you can remind yourself that you’re not supposed to be getting invested, and you follow him through the house into the warmth of the familiar, well-lit kitchen, filled with the low hum of a classic rock radio station and the enticing scent of hoisin sauce and cooked vegetables. Abbot nods for you to take a seat at the table while he turns the heat back on under the pan on the stove and finishes cooking. You drape your jacket across the back of a chair and sit, a little awkwardly, and take in the small stack of recipe books and the ocean blue backsplash. It’s homier than you remember. A pair of crutches sit against the wall by the opposite chair; he must have refitted his prosthetic just before you arrived.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, more to have something to do with your fidgeting hands instead of sitting in the static sizzle from the pan and the crushing weight of the we’ve-barely-spoken-in-three-months tension sitting on your chest like a stubborn cat.

“You’re good, it’ll only take a minute or two.” He pauses, glances back over his shoulder. “You, uh, remember where everything is? If you want to grab yourself a drink.”

He sounds almost hesitant, like he’s expecting you to have deleted every memory of the place that you’re still clinging to in spite of everything. Being invited round for a small get-together with some of the night shift not long after joining the team; hanging out here before heading to staff drinks between Christmas and New Year; game night with him, Ellis and Shen where you laughed so hard you were in tears on his living room floor. Standing outside on your day off a couple of weeks after everything fell apart, wondering whether to knock and ask to talk about whatever you’d done to drive him away; walking away without a word. Deciding it was for the best to keep things restricted to half-glances during handovers and full glances when you knew he wasn’t paying you any attention. Look how well that’s worked out, you think to yourself as you fetch a glass and fill it with water.

“How was work?” The question interrupts your thoughts, far too mundane for how bizarre this situation is, yet somehow it feels right. Personal disguised as professional. Figures.

“The usual,” you remark. No. You can’t just leave it at that. None of this is ever going to work if you insist on keeping your walls up around him, even if that's exactly what he does around you. “People are really fired up about this competition, it’s all anyone is talking about.”

He gives a small scoff. “Hope you’re as competitive as Ellis says. Seems we’re going to be up against it.”

You groan. Of course Parker has been hyping you up; you’d appreciate it were it not for the circumstances her support has landed you in. You’ve been competing for years, something you’re immensely proud of and yet haven’t been able to bring yourself to mention to anyone at work besides her. Maybe it feels too much like bragging, maybe you don’t want any judgement, or maybe you just want to have one thing that’s not smudged by the all-encompassing grip of the Pitt. “I get by,” you say as casually as you can.

Abbot must see right through you, giving you a skeptical look as he sets a dish down on the table. It smells incredible, rich and fragrant. He’s full of surprises. “Oh yeah? How many trophies do you have?”

“...Six,” you admit quietly.

He lets out a low whistle, somewhere between amazement and approval.

You drop your gaze, overwhelmed by the feelings that are the exact reason you never told anyone at work about this, and pointedly turn your attention to the steaming bowl in front of you. The first mouthful hits your tongue and you let out an involuntary, contented sigh. The noodles are cooked just right, the vegetables are lightly charred and there are small chunks of chicken, golden brown and tender. “If you can dance as well as you can cook, we should be alright,” you remark by way of a compliment, something that feels too personal to say upfront. That's not how you two work, never has been and especially not now.

“Maybe if we had more than a month.”

Right. There is a deadline on this. That’s the only reason you’re sitting in the kitchen of your former attending who has spoken to you more in the past two days than he has in months, having a strategy meeting that thus far has involved precisely no strategising, instead of being at home catching up on sleep. What a perfectly ordinary way to spend your evening.

You help Abbot clear the dishes after dinner, ignoring his protests about it being his house. It’s the least you can do.

He’d asked more about your experience while you ate, a palatable attempt at small talk, so you explained that you mostly competed in ballroom dancing but occasionally dipped your toe into the Latin world. Hours of rigorous training from childhood, taking a break when med school got too much, finally returning to your roots when you felt more settled in your residency. You’d let it slip about the competition you entered back in December, and watched the realisation dawn across his face about the real reason you’d been so much less energetic than usual and why you were cagey about why you were so eager to get away from your shifts on time or needed cover for a weekend. He made a small comment about how it must be easier to keep up with now you were back on days, and you’d agreed confidently. It was easier to find time to practise with your usual dance partner when you didn’t have to try and match up your nocturnal habits with his nine to five. The more you spoke, the more intently he listened despite it being abundantly clear that every single piece of information was news to him.

“So,” he begins as he places the pan on the draining board and settles back at the table, fingers steepled in front of him, “the first thing we should do is pick a dance.”

You nod. The relief of the evening finally veering in a direction you can handle washes over you, and you grasp at the measure of control it offers. “I think we should stick with ballroom, it’ll be easier - for me to teach, I mean.”

He tilts his head, hazel eyes glimmering with the challenge that falls from his lips. “If you don’t think I can handle Latin, you can just say so.” Ever the stubborn type. You should have known he’d call you out on that. Fine, if that’s how he’s going to be then you can play the game.

“I don’t even think there’s enough room in here for me to demonstrate the jive, let alone teach it to you.”

He takes the bait. “What the hell is a jive?”

You smirk as you pull out your phone and call up a contest clip, one of the only pieces of media you've allowed yourself to keep. Most times, you spend so long analysing your form in photos and videos that you end up hating them and sticking them in an archive folder or deleting them entirely - you've got so far in your own head about it that your dance friends have started affectionately referring to sending you footage as ‘burning the negatives’. The dance is upbeat, set to Crazy Little Thing Called Love, all fast spins and flicking feet. Jive is one of your favourite dances even if it is exhausting, but as you expect Abbot’s eyes widen beside you.

“Okay,” he huffs, “ballroom it is.”

“How about a waltz?” you relent. “We can start out with the basics, it’s pretty straightforward, and then depending on how that goes we can jazz it up.”

“Please don’t bring jazz into this.”

You laugh properly this time, not noticing the way the sound eases a fraction of the tension in his shoulders at being so out of his depth. “Figure of speech.”

“Waltz is the… the three-step one?” he asks uncertainly after a moment.

You beam. This might not be so unbearable after all. “That’s it!” You stand, moving into the space between the table and the stove, and he swivels to watch. “So it’s kind of like moving in a square, or rather two triangles. You start at one corner, then go forward, out, together…” Your feet move instinctively: left up to the corner, right following the diagonal, left shifting to meet it. It’s as easy as breathing for you. “Then back, across, together. And that’s all it is, just changing the angles a little if you want to turn.” You demonstrate again, keeping your movements small so you can twirl slowly around the small space.

Abbot’s eyes never leave your feet, and you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he tries to follow your steps. His own feet twitch in time with yours, visualising each movement. You almost feel self-conscious under his careful scrutiny; even though this meeting was his idea, even though he said he wanted to win for the day off, you never expected him to actually be this invested.

“Do you want to try?” you offer, holding out your left hand. He hesitates, brows furrowing, before taking it loosely with his right and standing at almost arms length. You give him a soft, encouraging smile as you take his other hand to guide him. His ring is slightly cool against your skin, and it takes a moment for his touch to settle. “Okay, we’re both going to do exactly the same thing I just showed you, but you’ll start with the forward step while I go backwards. Sound good?”

His gaze flicks from your feet to your interlinked hands and back, without meeting your eyes. “Slowly.”

“Of course,” you assure him, “this isn’t a fast one, don’t worry. I’ll talk you through it.”

You take in the way his throat bobs nervously, but he nods.

“Tell me if you need me to stop at any point. So you’re going to bring your left foot forward…” He does so tentatively, and you move your right foot back the same distance. “Good. Then right foot across to the other corner, not a very big square. That’s it. And almost slide your left to meet it.”

When his feet meet again, he finally glances up at you. “Like that?”

The sincerity in his tone and gaze makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. You’ve taught kids before, the odd class between shifts to earn a bit of extra cash, but this is your first time teaching anyone older. It’s an effort not to seem patronising with your praise, but this is the first time you’ve ever seen Abbot look unsure of himself, and the knowledge that you hold his confidence quite literally in your hands is a daunting prospect. “Exactly,” you murmur, smiling again. “Now right foot straight back, small step, left back to where it started, bring the right across.” You follow him through the next movement, quietly impressed by how close he takes you to your original position. “There you go! It’s always left right, left right, you don’t have to worry about switching or anything. Again: forward, right, together; back, left, together; forward, right, together; back, left, together.”

A faint hint of a smile begins to tug at the edge of Abbot’s mouth as the two of you move in unison, swaying towards his sink and away again. You’re still leading, but with each step and each twitch of his lips you can see him grow more proud of himself.

“Forward, right, together; back, left, together; one, two, three; one, two; three.” He doesn’t need the instructions any more, just the beats in place of any music. The more you count, the more you gradually increase the tempo, still slow but closer to an actual dance. He keeps up without faltering.

After a while (you honestly can’t say how long), his hand twitches in yours and you slow. He scrunches his lips, eyes narrowing as he hastily releases his grip. “I- I think that’s my limit for tonight.”

“That’s fine. It's a lot to take in for the first time, but you did really well.”

His smile creeps back in again. “Feels weird being the one getting taught for a change. You explain it very clearly.”

You fight down the blush working its way up to your cheeks. Even now, he can’t resist switching back into attending mode and offering words of support. It would be sweet if he hadn't just dropped your hands like they'd burned him. To think you've got another three weeks of this.

“When’s your next day off?” he asks to fill the chasm of space that has opened up between you. It sits bigger than the room somehow, wide and yawning and threatening to pull you in. You try not to think about the time when he’d have known your schedule as well as you.

“Monday.” It’s Thursday now - you’ve got a whole weekend to survive until then, yet this feels more urgent.

“Okay,” he says decisively, strategising again. “Your place or mine?”

This is absolutely not the scenario for him to be using that phrase, and you are absolutely not close enough to him to be thinking of that context. “Um…” you falter, trying not to be so obvious in how you glance away, “I can try to get a room in my friend’s dance studio near work? Might give us a bit more space. Not that your kitchen isn’t great - I can’t judge, I practically have to sit on the opposite counter to use the stove.” You’re rambling and you know it. There’s no way he wants to hear about your shitty little flat - he only asked about your dancing because it's relevant, and about work because it's relatable; you're not here to make friendly small talk.

He makes a small sound, glancing at his own counter and the two bowls you stacked neatly to dry. “Sounds like a plan.”

You nod. A thought flashes across your mind, swift and bright. You catch it before it can slip away. “Do you… Is morning or afternoon better? You’ll need to sleep at some point between your shifts.”

“Sleep’s overrated,” he quips, before softening. It feels a little like he just came too close to admitting something you’re not supposed to know. You won’t ask. “Whatever works for you. Just catch me over the weekend to give me the time and place. Or, you know, text me,” he adds as an afterthought. You’re too busy shrugging into your jacket to process why that feels significant.

When he leads you to the door to see you out, you hesitate on the threshold. “Thanks again for dinner,” you say softly, “and for putting up with this whole thing.”

He gives a dismissive shrug. “It’s no problem.”

The studio would be tranquil were it not for the looming storm that is Abbot, clouding over your good mood despite not even being there yet. This place is as delightfully cool as the mid-spring morning beyond the front door, air conditioning set to low and lights dimmed. It’s so tempting to lie down on the soft vinyl flooring, get an extra fifteen minutes of sleep, but there’s no time for that. You warm up, watching your form in the mirrors as you stretch out each muscle with care. When you’re ready, you run through a couple of routines - a quick waltz, plus some others you’ve been meaning to practise. You deliberately told Abbot half an hour later than the room is booked for, to give you some time alone to prepare. For teaching and dancing, you mean. Not for dealing with him. That would be absurd. You’re used to dealing with him and the way he manages to subtly dodge interacting with you at work, it’s nothing you can’t handle. Then again, maybe you’re preparing for the fact that avoidance is clearly no longer an option. You left his house last week with the oddest sensation, like you weren’t allowed to accept the possibility that things could start to look how they had done before, if that even was a possibility. Like the simple act of existing once again in Abbot’s space had to hold some greater meaning, for better or worse, than needing somewhere to figure out how to get through being bound back together by the string of fate that Ellis had tugged. Too much has passed between you for you to be okay with acting like nothing has happened; not enough has passed between you for you to not be okay with the way his eyes found yours, already watching him, when he cracked a joke during Saturday night’s handover. You’re not sure that’s something you’d ever have been anything other than okay with, even when the initial hurt and the loneliness was so raw you thought it would physically bleed out of you onto the stark clinical floors of the hospital for everybody to see. Even him. Especially him. He still doesn’t tease you like he used to, the way he still does the others, but it’s a start. It makes this tolerable at least.

A short, clipped knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. He’s early.

“Come in!” you call. Abbot slips into the room, dropping his backpack next to yours. As he takes in the vast mirrored wall, you take in him. He’s still wearing his scrub trousers but has ditched the top to reveal a fitted khaki T-shirt, sleeves short and tight across his freckled biceps. You drag your gaze away before he turns and sees you staring or, worse, spots you in the reflection.

“How was work?” you ask, echoing the same question he had posed in his kitchen.

“Rough,” he mutters. “It never let up, and all complex stuff.”

You step a little closer, taking in the first hints of shadows under his eyes, the creases woven into his forehead and the tightened space between his brows. None of it is unfamiliar. That makes it worse. “We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t feel up to it.”

“No,” he says a little too quickly as he turns to face you without actually looking at you. “No, it’s… fine. It’s a good distraction.”

You understand. How could you not? That’s half the reason you keep dancing despite your hectic schedule. Anything you can do to think about something else is a good thing, and if you - the dancing, that is - can be that for Abbot for a short while then you’re happy to do it.

He follows you into the middle of the room as you guide him through a few quick stretches. He’s probably somewhat limbered up from being on the go all night, but if it’s been as bad as it sounds he’s definitely also tense in places, and you know how damaging that can be. You try to choose ones that won’t apply too much pressure around his prosthetic leg, not that he ever mentions it but you notice the way he shifts his weight around when he’s standing. You trust, or at least hope, that he’ll tell you if it’s bothering him, but then again why would he?

Once you’re both ready, you take his hands and walk him through the steps you taught him last week. He starts out a little uncertain, almost as though worried he’s forgotten them, but quickly settles back into the rhythm.

“Ready to try moving around the space more?” you prompt, trying to make it clear that he doesn’t have to if he’s not ready.

“Sure.” His feet still move as he speaks. That’s encouraging; most people you know would have stopped the second they had to try and converse at the same time. “How does that work?”

“We’re just going to adjust the shapes we make,” you explain, “so instead of neat triangles in the square we can move the corners around. Here.” Your hands slip from his as you move back. At first, you begin with a few of the basics he’s familiar with, but then you bring the corners further out and shift them sideways until your body turns, gliding in a smooth circle around him. Instinctively, your arms come up to hold an imaginary partner, one stretched out to an invisible hand and the other holding a close-pressed shoulder. He watches you with unwavering focus, his attention divided between your feet and your hands. As you circle him, he turns on the spot.

You drift to a stop and hold out your hands again in front of you. “I’ll try to lead so you don’t have to worry about picking a direction, just follow where my feet go.”

He nods, but when his hands come up to meet yours he hesitates. “Your hands were different just then.” It’s blunt, a statement, but you can sense the questions behind it. Why were you doing it differently when it was just you? Are you changing things for him? Why?

“Oh,” you exhale. “Yeah, um, normally for a waltz you stand closer, but I didn’t want to put you on the spot while you’re still learning.”

Something shifts in his expression. Something barely there, just a twitch of his lips and a flash of something bright and dark at the same time behind his eyes. “You can’t put me on the spot more than Ellis and Shen did. Besides, I’d rather get it right. Did I never teach you about learning bad habits?”

“I must have tuned that lecture out.”

He laughs, a low sound that rumbles up from deep in his chest, and steps closer until your toes are almost touching. “No excuses now.”

“Stop being an attending for once,” you huff, breath fanning across his chest, “and give me your hand.”

He raises an eyebrow at the shift to playful authority in your tone, but takes the hand you extend. His other one hovers just over your waist until you take it by the wrist and guide it under your arm to rest on your shoulderblade. Finally, you settle your hand on his bicep. It tenses slightly under your touch.

You meet his eyes. “Slowly,” you assure him.

The two of you do start off slowly, more of the original steps while you adjust to being in one another’s spheres. His hand is warm on your back, the faint smell of his cologne breaking through the haze of the hospital that you know every member of the Pitt carries on them. When he looks at you expectantly, you begin to deviate from the square you’ve etched out. You speak as you move, not just leading but explaining how you’re doing so. Pulling your foot back like this means you’re moving this way, and he should adjust his foot like this to follow. Shifting your hand on his arm means this, but doing so with the hand he’s holding means that. Pressing in a little closer shows you’re about to move him backwards, so he needs to take a bigger step back to allow you to enter into the space he’s just been occupying. Gradually, you begin to drift around the room, your bodies turning in easy circles around one another within the larger looping path. If you are the earth, he is the moon, with his silvery curls catching the light as you guide his orbit around you. He’s doing well. Surprisingly well. You know he’s smart and adaptable, but you’d never have expected him to take to this so quickly. Before long, you’re not even having to explain what you’re doing beyond the occasional nudge. He’s utterly synchronised with your thoughts, receptive to every miniscule gesture. You get a little more confident, and try for a tighter turn.

Your toe catches against his.

Before you can recalibrate, you feel yourself pitch backwards. Your hand tightens in his and across his arm, a desperate attempt to keep yourself upright, but you’re at the wrong angle to step out and correct yourself without either twisting something or kicking him. A gasp bursts from your lips as you clutch at his sleeve.

The hand between your shoulders shifts downwards, pressing into the centre of your back as it drags you towards the broad expanse of his chest. You finally snap back to your senses enough to release his arm and pull yourself in by his shoulder instead, breaths rapid as the world rights itself around you. His fingers splay across your back, solid and soothing.

“You okay, Twinkletoes?” he asks, voice a low murmur as his head dips down to check your expression.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you manage over the tightness in your chest and the racing of your pulse high in your throat. “Good reflexes. Thanks.”

“You say that like I didn't just trip you.”

You squeeze his shoulder as you steady yourself, finally moving your feet into a better position. His hand remains firm on your back. “It wasn't your fault,” you tell him gently. “I got kind of carried away.”

“Did you forget who you were dancing with?” he jokes.

The opposite, if anything. “Something like that.”

Your hand is still in his. He doesn't drop it like last time. In fact, it isn't until you loosen your grip on his shoulder that he purses his lips and retreats further into the room.

“Anyway, now is probably a good time for a break,” you clear your throat and say to the floor. “Bathrooms are down the hall, and there's a coffee machine in the office by the door.”

“Not going to fall over while I'm gone, are you?”

“Oh ha ha,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

Abbot gives you a look like he doesn't quite believe you, and as if to emphasise the point he stays close as he moves quickly past you to the door, hand skimming steadyingly across your elbow. Every nerve in your body catches alight and freezes at the same time. It's only once he's gone that you regain control and turn towards the mirror. Staring back at you is a trembling figure with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Your brain refuses to recognise the figure as you, because the person in the reflection is so visibly making more of the situation than it could possibly warrant. It's fine, you repeat to yourself - all he did was stand slightly too close and make one vaguely playful remark. Isn’t that what you wanted, for him to act just like he does with everyone else? It's normal, it's him trying to find some stability in this altogether ludicrous situation. It’s no big deal. It doesn't mean anything, it never does to him. And really, the man might as well have just bolted from the room in his haste to be away from the situation. It’s no different to how he has been. Nothing has changed.

Abbot returns with two mugs and a cloud of palpable tension. He sets one of the mugs down on the table in the corner, next to your phone, and fishes something out of the pocket of his scrubs to place beside it. Curious, you approach. Two little plastic pots of milk and a handful of sugar sachets.

“Wasn't sure if you still take your coffee the same as you did on nights,” he states a little bashfully. A pause. “Or if you even want any. You don't have to drink it, just figured it'd be a dick move for me to make one for myself and not you too.”

That's… surprisingly thoughtful of him. It's not like you expected him to only make his own out of spite - whatever may have changed to make him so distant, you know he'd never be that cruel - you simply hadn't expected your needs to come into consideration.

“Thanks, Abbot,” you murmur, peeling back the film lid on the milk. Nothing has changed. Milk, three sugars.

“Jack.”

For a moment, you don't quite process what he says. He's never been someone who feels the need to raise his voice unless absolutely necessary, but this time it's so soft it sounded like he was saying it more to himself than to you. Instead, the sound weaves its way slowly in to settle somewhere warm just below your lungs like it was always meant to be there. You try to pretend that's a perfectly understandable way to react: the remarkable softness with which he speaks is one of the most calming aspects of life at the Pitt, even if there's no way you could ever tell him or anyone else that. When your brain catches up, you repeat the name back, tasting it like the rediscovered recipe of a childhood favourite, feeling the familiar sensation of it sparking against the roof of your mouth.

“Figured we're past the point of formalities,” he justifies, some of his usual hoarseness returning to his voice. You almost believe it's a step in the right direction to the two of you being… not close, that's not the right word any more, but civil at least. Then your heart sinks, uncontrolled, when you return to the centre of the room and his grip is lighter on your hand and barely there on your back. Even physical closeness is a step too far after what just happened, apparently, let alone anything else.

You just about make it into your flat before collapsing onto the couch, simultaneously exhausted and running at a hundred miles an hour. Abbot - no, Jack - stayed longer than you expected him to after your near miss, practising until you were both worn out, yet still managed to keep his distance. You try to believe he was just making sure you didn’t fall again, but the doubts worm their way in. Why did you keep hold of him so long after you were back on your feet? Did you make things weird? That’s normally his remit. But if you had, then why did he make you coffee? And why did he suggest another rehearsal when he’s off tomorrow night? The man is impossible to read. It’s not much wonder being around him makes you nervous.

Your crisis is averted, or rather postponed, by the buzz of your phone on the coffee table. With a melodramatic sigh, you roll over and glance at the caller ID. Jack Abbot. Speak of the devil.

“Jack?” you answer, making no attempt to conceal the weary confusion in your voice.

“Hey, y/n.” You sit up. This is the first time all week he’s not called you Twinkletoes. In fact, it's the first time in months he's used your name. Something is up.

“Everything alright?”

“Ellis has phoned in. Food poisoning. Sorry it’s such short notice, but I’d be glad of an extra set of hands tonight if you’re available to cover.”

For one brief moment, you consider asking if there’s anyone else. It's not been long enough since you left the studio for him to have tried the entire department, there must be someone else you can call upon as a buffer. Someone he's forgotten is a better choice than you. Then, with all the gleeful spite of a child discovering a loophole in the rules, your mind conjures two images. The first is Jack’s face that morning, eyes dulled by the shadows of exhaustion, still choosing to stay. The second, the far more treacherous of the two, is less of an image than a sensation, that of his hand in yours and hesitating to let go. His other hand on your back. His breath across your cheek as he checked if you were okay. Your eyelids flutter shut, your brain cursing your heart for being so easily manipulated despite it being self-inflicted. There’s no real reason for you to care either way, and yet you can’t help feeling like this is your chance. To dispel the tension or prove its existence. Either works.

“Don’t worry if you’ve got plans, I can try someone else,” he tacks on with his usual level of calm when you don’t respond straight away.

“No, it’s alright,” you say before you can change your mind and accept the out. “I’ll be there.”

“Oh. Okay, great. Thanks.” He sounds a little surprised. Did he not expect you to say yes? Then why did he ask you and not one of the many other options? “I’d better let you get some rest, then.”

“Eh, sleep’s overrated.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, remembering his own words. The sound makes your skin tingle. “Tell me that again when you’re on hour seventeen of your double.”

Even though he can’t see, you roll your eyes. “Fine. See you later.”

“Sleep well, Twinkletoes.” The line clicks dead.

You try to sleep, you truly do, but those last three words keep getting in the way. How ironic.

“Hey, stranger!” Mateo greets warmly as you wander into the Hub. “Long time, no see.”

You grin. “That’s what happens when you ditch us for the night shift.”

He mimes clutching at imaginary pearls, as he gasps out, “You ditched them first. It’s not my fault there was an opening for a charming young ray of sunshine.”

A blush creeps into your cheeks out of nowhere. “Wow,” you say, more playfully than you expect or mean, “I’m impressed you even remember what sunshine is now that you’re nocturnal.”

“You know you miss it,” he hits right back.

Without realising, your eyes find Abbot across the room, deep in conversation with Robby, Shen, Dana and Lena. Your blush fails to recede, but you feel it soften as you remember that morning’s mishap. Shen glances up and meets your gaze, which you quickly drop. Not quickly enough, it seems, because the next thing you know the man is halfway across the room, and Abbot is watching him approach you with something bordering on apprehension. You pray it has nothing to do with the fact you’re here despite how much he pulled away in rehearsal. Maybe agreeing to come in was a mistake, but then again it was him who asked. If only you could figure him out.

“Well, well, well,” Shen remarks somewhat smugly, taking in the fact you’re clearly not just passing through. “Don’t tell me Abbot’s managed to poach you back after less than a week, or I owe Ellis-”

You shake your head, brows furrowing. “Ellis is off sick. She didn’t tell you?” That’s hard to believe.

“Oh no, she said she’d asked for cover, I just didn’t expect it to be you.”

Something about that digs into the back of your skull like a headache. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mateo quickly excuses himself. Understandably, since Shen’s poker face is good but not unbreakable, and there’s a hint of a crack in it. It mends itself as he shrugs. “Wasn’t sure he’d ask. Wasn’t sure you’d say yes. I don’t know, just with everything…” The mask is fully fixed now, his casual demeanour restored as he takes a slow sip of his iced coffee instead of finishing the thought. “Glad it’s you though, missed having you around here.”

You allow him to cheekily ruffle your hair, pretending it’s insulting despite the grin spreading across your face. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, unconvinced. “I’m guessing you’re still on your day shift tomorrow? I’ll talk to Robby and see about getting someone in an hour or two early so you can get home sooner.”

“You’re the best.” You smirk as he gives an exaggerated bow on his way back to his fellow attendings.

You’ve almost settled back in, which is surprising considering how much you’d dreaded the mere thought of ever returning to the night shift. It’s great getting to work alongside Shen again, even if it is a shame Ellis isn’t here to complete the set, and you’ve missed the weird and wonderful patients who only seem to appear once the sun goes down. Even Abbot was being fairly normal, as far as continuing to not quite meet your gaze and avoiding making too many jokes could be considered normal. Still, he laughs when he overhears you teasing Shen, but quickly hones his attention on the young med student who approaches for help when you glance up. You don’t notice the way the sound makes you perk up, nor the way Shen definitely does notice.

Your good mood comes crashing down a little after midnight.

There’s been an eleven year old boy sitting in West 12 for the past few hours. His parents brought him in after a spate of uncontrollable vomiting, which they said they would have chalked up to food poisoning were it not for the addition of him being sluggish and barely aware of his own surroundings. You learn this from a nervous MS4 named Hansen who approaches you for a second opinion on the boy’s CT results while Abbot and Shen are both busy in a trauma. Quite prominent swelling, you note.

“What’s your differential?” you ask, just outside of the door, as you glance over his chart.

“Meningitis, encephalitis, encephalopathy…” they begin. They know their stuff, just need a push in the right direction. Kind of like you when you started out, you think. Still are like that, sometimes.

You nod. “Okay, good. Do you have any thoughts on next steps?”

They think for a moment. “I’ve already sent off for bloodwork which would rule out meningitis and a few types of encephalopathy, but a spinal tap could cover the meningitis and the encephalitis. Maybe a Doppler ultrasound? I just need Dr Abbot or Dr Shen to sign off on everything.”

You hesitate. You’re just here to cover, not to rock the boat, and besides you’re out of sync with however the night shift operates, but… “I’ll sign off. Let’s just have a quick chat to the parents so I’ve got a clear picture, okay?”

The student nods, and you hold open the door for them to lead you into the room. Inside, you’re met with a pale figure on the brink of consciousness, and his worried parents sitting at his side. You greet them with the surname from the chart, González, and introduce yourself.

“Do you know what’s wrong with Oscar?”

You settle onto the rolling stool and drift closer, tablet in hand. “We’ve got his CT results back and they do show some inflammation of the brain,” The boy’s mother lets out a strangled cry. You press on, gently, “but that doesn’t give us an exact answer. You can’t think of anything that could have brought this on? Any recent head injuries, pre-existing medical conditions? He’s not taken anything?” They both shake their heads. “Well, we’ll start him on some antibiotics and a diuretic to reduce the swelling, but with your permission, I’d like to perform some further tests to narrow it down: a spinal tap and-”

“Anything,” they say, almost in unison. “Please, doctor.”

“We’ll allow anything,” Mr González continues, “we just want what’s best for our son.”

You nod, turning back to the student. “Let’s get Oscar started with an injection of ceftriaxone in case it is meningitis, and then set up for a lumbar and ultrasound.” Something tugs at the back of your brain, like a snagged sweater being slowly unravelled. “And I’m going to sign off on a liver biopsy as well, just to be sure.”

You pull in Crus to assist, would have got Toomarian to observe if she wasn’t helping with the trauma, and quickly rattle through all the tests. While you wait, drifting around a few other patients to keep both the hospital and yourself moving, Oscar’s bloodwork comes back. Sure enough, you can rule out a few conditions and it’s not bacterial, nothing to suggest it could be meningitis, but there are indicators of a low-level viral infection. You frown at the chart. The wool of your brain unravels a little more, leading you through the labyrinth towards the solution you know is lurking at its centre.

Suddenly, Hansen barrels out of the room and towards where you’re standing by Mateo at the nurse’s station. “He’s seizing,” they announce breathlessly.

In an instant you’re on high alert, dashing after them with Mateo hot on your heels. Sure enough, Oscar is convulsing, his whole body wracked by spasms that Hansen is just about managing to avoid as they carefully roll him onto his side.

You kick into action, your mind the calmest it has been in a long time even as it shifts into overdrive. “Mateo, call Crus back in here, tell him we’ve got a seizure from possible encephalitis, and get me an O2 setup. Hansen, I’m gonna need you to up that IV to reduce the swelling.” You turn your attention to his anguished parents, only now tuning into their insistent cries of distress. “His blood tests showed mild signs of an infection, are you sure he’s not taken anything?”

“No,” Mr González starts.

“”Well…” Mrs González interjects half a second later, and you swivel to her with urgency in your gaze. “He was a little under the weather last week, moaning about the flu but I thought it was just a bad cold.”

“What did he take?” you ask again.

“Tylenol and aspirin, alternating every four hours.”

You snatch in a breath, not realising you’d been holding it, and turn to Hansen. “Start with twenty grams of mannitol, with glucose and electrolytes. Get Henderson to help if you need him.”

They scramble to prep the fluids for his existing IV, and you’re on the verge of second guessing your prescription or shouting for one of the attendings when the tablet lights up with the results of the liver biopsy you insisted the lab rush. Severe fat build up. You were right. The centre of the labyrinth comes into view.

“What’s happening?” Oscar’s mother grasps for your arm as you scan over the results.

You help her into the chair, allowing space for Crus to sweep in behind you and take over stabilising the boy and assisting Hansen with the IV dosages. “I believe your son has developed Reye’s syndrome. It’s a condition in children and adolescents linked with use of aspirin after a viral infection.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers, hand flying to her mouth, as her husband sinks down beside her with an arm around her shoulders.

“The good news is we’ve caught it in good time,” you tell them hurriedly, trying to dissuade their panic, “and now we can work on reversing its effects. Oscar has some swelling to his liver as well as his brain, which is what we’re setting up the IV for, and we’re on standby with oxygen in case he has any difficulty breathing once his seizure eases up. I do have to inform you of the possibility of brain damage, but we’ll do everything we can and I’ll make sure we provide constant monitoring and any support you might need.”

A sob bursts from her mouth, and amid the bubble of frantic preparations you reach into the cabinet and pull out a box of tissues. “Thank you,” she sniffles into the soft paper, “and I’m so sorry. I had no idea, I should have told you about the aspirin when you asked but I didn’t think…” She trails off again with a wail.

Movement in the corner of your eye has you turning your head, to find Abbot in the doorway surveying the scene with a frown. “You weren’t to know, and you did the right thing bringing him in,” you assure the woman with a gentle pat to her shoulder before standing. “Please excuse me a moment, and ask anyone here if there’s something you need.” Then you duck out of the room, shying past Abbot’s looming form and steely eye.

You stand restlessly in the hallway, hands already tangling together in anxious ministrations and body rocking from one foot to the other even more than you normally see from Abbot. The man follows you out, leaning against the wall of the bay with his arms crossed.

“What’s going on?” he asks, still frowning.

You swallow twice and run your tongue across your chapped lower lip, desperately trying to force some moisture back into your painfully dry mouth. “Eleven year old boy brought in with vomiting and sluggishness, CT came back with a brain swell so I sent off for some more tests but he started seizing. I think it’s Reye’s syndrome.”

“Why didn’t you come and get me?”

Your jaw twitches, eyes dropping to your hands. “I’m sorry, I should have, I just didn’t want to get in the way while you were in the trauma and then there was no time to-”

“Hey.” He finally pushes off the wall and steps into your space, effectively forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze lest you be stuck staring at his waist. “I’m not mad,” he tells you gently.

You worry at your lip all the same. “But signing off on everything without checking-”

“You don’t need me for that,” he insists, slightly more firm but just as soft. “You’re a resident, you’ve got this. Doesn’t mean I’m not here for you, though.”

“I know,” you admit, your voice coming out as a cracked whisper. “We got it under control, but I… I should have been more thorough with my questions, should have caught about the aspirin sooner. If I hadn’t double checked his blood work or ordered the liver biopsy, he could have…” Your gaze drops again and your fingers twist together so tightly your knuckles start turning white. Tears burn behind your eyes.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, shifting his weight and brushing lightly against the back of your hand until you loosen your grip, and you know by that singular word that he’s not just talking about you fidgeting to the point of pain. “Don’t go there. You saved that kid’s life. You did that.” He pauses to allow the words to sink in, and by the way his eyes flicker you think he’s also debating whether to say what he does next. When he speaks again the corner of his mouth turns up just a fraction. “I’m proud of you, but more importantly you should be proud of yourself.”

You blush, still not quite meeting his gaze but finally releasing the stranglehold you have on your own hands. “Thank you, Jack- sorry, Dr Abbot.”

He smirks fully. “Just this once, Jack is fine, but don’t make it a habit or Shen will think you’re playing favourites.”

Your nerves are still on fire, pulse still racing; you don’t know whether that’s a justification for why you glance up with a smirk of your own, or whether it’s just an excuse to pretend you don’t feel your heart skip a beat at the return to his teasing, comforting and exciting all at once. “You’re just scared I wouldn’t choose you,” you tease.

“Mm,” he scrunches his face in disagreement, “you let me be your dance partner, I think you already did.”

As he turns to check back on Oscar’s progress, he nods for you to go and take five minutes. You would if your knees hadn’t turned to jelly, and you don’t think you can entirely blame it on the drop in adrenaline.

Later, Abbot finds you at the charting station, tapping rhythmically at the keys like it can help self-soothe your frayed nerves.

“Hey,” he says quietly. You startle, swivelling in your seat, and he holds up a hand to steady you and warn you of his presence all at once. “Sorry. If you’ve got a sec, can I get a consult?”

You blanch. “From me?”

He smiles, faintly amused. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

“No, I mean… are you sure you want my opinion? After what just happened?”

Something in his posture softens, shifting him even closer than he was already standing, and his voice lowers to a gentle scratch. “Definitely. But fine, not so much a consult, call it expertise. Please?” When you still hang back, he nods his head away. “Come on, just trust me.”

You do, of course you do, so you finally stand, and pretend to think nothing of the way his hand settles loosely around your arm as he steers you down one of the corridors. It’s nothing new, an old habit reawakened by your return to the night shift, and you admit you would be far less willing to go without the reassurance of his touch. He leads you to North 2, carefully drawing back the curtain. Inside is a girl, maybe seven years old, laid out on the bed with her ankle supported and covered with an ice pack. A young man is perched on the edge of the chair beside her, anxiously wringing his hands.

“Hi again,” Abbot nods to them both as he takes the lead into the space, you trailing behind.

“Is everything okay?” the man asks frantically.

“I’m afraid we’re still waiting on the X-ray results, but in the meantime…” he turns to you, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the comforting smile he gives, as much for your benefit as theirs, “I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Y/l/n.”

You offer a small wave, still confused why your input is needed for what appears to be a straightforward fracture or break. “Y/n, please.”

“Hi, y/n,” the girl replies shyly, “I’m Jessie. This is my dad.” The man offers a polite, if slightly baffled, nod, and introduces himself as Matt.

“Jessie fell down the stairs in the dark and hurt her ankle, and she’s worried about it affecting her dancing,” Abbot tells you, and suddenly everything falls into place. Without even realising, your shoulders drop, your jaw unclenches, and you take a step past him into the room. He continues over your shoulder, “Y/n is a dancer too, I thought it might be helpful to chat to her if you have any questions about the next steps, very loose pun intended.”

You catch the giggle halfway out of your mouth, swallowing it down as you cast him a backwards glance. His intentions are written across his expression, just visible enough for you to make out: it’s not just about giving this girl a distraction to keep her patient satisfaction up until her results come back, it’s an easily excusable way to give you a breather. A reset. Your chest clenches at the thought.

“Whoa!” Jessie exclaims, already brightening. “I didn’t know you could be a doctor and a dancer!”

You give her a wide smile as you settle into the remaining chair. “Sure you can! I’m not a professional dancer, it's just for fun, but I do competitions and stuff when I’m not working here.”

Her eyes widen. “You must be really good.”

“She is, she’s even teaching me,” Abbot says before you can respond, bringing a warmth to the tips of your ears. “Why don’t you ask about her trophies?” He gives a wink to the girl and a nod to you that silently says to take your time and call if you need anything, before he slips from the room.

“Do you have lots of trophies?” Jessie asks incredulously.

“I have six, which isn’t a lot compared to some people but I’m happy with it,” you admit. “How about you? Do you dance for fun, or are you training for anything?”

“For fun,” she nods, “but I just got my grade one ballet certificate.”

You offer a heartfelt congratulations, remembering fondly how excited you were when you got your first grades, and take in the way she lights up and her dad relaxes. Then, you spend the next 10 minutes answering every question either of them can come up with. Yes, she will still be able to dance, after a few weeks off. Six to eight, usually, but you can discuss it more once you see the results. Having a boot or a cast is a maybe, again it depends on the X-ray, but it doesn't look too bad for now. Yes, she can pick the colour if she does get a cast. Yes, their insurance does cover it if it comes to that. Yes you have injured your ankle before, no it wasn’t while you were dancing, and yes you did have to use crutches. Yes, you’re still able to dance. You couldn’t say for sure whether it will affect learning to go en pointe, you do ballroom dancing instead of ballet. Yes, she may need physiotherapy if it’s a break, but it’s just to provide the best exercises to care for her ankle while it heals. Absolutely, she can have a sticker from your secret stash.

You duck out of the room to fetch the stickers from your locker. Almost immediately, you catch Abbot’s eyes already lingering in your direction even as he’s speaking to Toomarian on the other side of the Hub. His gaze flickers away almost instinctively, the way it’s done every other time your eyes have accidentally met over the past few months, but then something changes. He looks back up. You mouth a thank you, watching the corner of his lips quirk up into just enough of a smile for you to see without alerting the intern beside him. He cocks his head to gesture you over, and you quickly throw up your pointer finger to tell him you’ll be right back.

Inside your locker is a small pouch of various stickers, mostly stars in metallic hues or rainbow circles bearing words of encouragement, but you always keep a few special ones for kids who have shown a particular interest. Some medical ones for the wannabe doctors, stethoscopes and X-ray charts and lab coats, a bundle of various sports ones, a sheet of horseshoes and cowboy hats and cacti, and… there. That’s the one you were after.

Jessie sits up a little further in the bed when you return, her dad gently adjusting the padding beneath her foot.

“I brought a few for you to choose from,” you tell her cheerfully. “There’s some stars and things if you want something smaller, but I thought you might like one of these.”

The moment her surveying eyes land on the pink sheet in your hand, she lets out a gleeful squeal and points emphatically.

“Manners, honey,” Matt prompts her softly.

“Can I have one of those, please?” she corrects herself instantly. You smile as you hold out the sheet, telling her to take whichever one she fancies, and she beams with pride as she affixes a cartoon pair of ballet pumps to her chest with a chirpy ‘thank you’.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” you finally announce, realising you should get back to whatever Abbot was nodding you over for, “but I’ll try and chase up those results and bring them myself if I can, or I’ll at least drop in to say bye before you go.”

Matt stands, angling himself slightly away from the bed as he holds out a hand for you to shake. “Thank you so much for this, really. I’m still learning how to handle all the dance stuff, all the other parents do their best to be supportive but it’s- it’s a lot.” It seems to lift somewhat of a weight off his chest to admit that, and you genuinely feel for him. It’s hard to gauge the situation exactly, and it’s very much not your place to pry unnecessarily, but it sounds like for whatever reason he’s on his own in this. Maybe talking has been more of a comfort for all three of you than you or Abbot expected.

“My pleasure,” you smile as you release his hand. “For the record, it looks to me like you’re doing a great job. Jessie is happy, and you brought her in quickly enough that she’ll be back on her feet in no time.”

Tears well in the corners of his eyes, which he quickly blinks away. “I… thank you. Can I- am I allowed to hug you? Is that okay?”

You nod, opening your arms to allow him into a brief but genuine embrace. When Jessie makes a small huff of protest, you pull back with a laugh and offer her a hug too, one that it eagerly accepted. Then, you remind them of the call button if they need anything before returning to the fray, feeling considerably lighter than you did twenty minutes ago.

Abbot is easy enough to find again once you emerge, his ever-calming presence an oasis in the controlled chaos of the Pitt. You almost forgot how magnetic that energy is from him, or perhaps it’s just that you forced yourself to forget to make the transition to days easier. Whatever the case, the last skittish creature running around in your chest settles at the mere sight of him, and you allow yourself a moment to take it in before moving towards him and catching his eye.

“Patient okay?” he asks when you arrive, in a way that you suspect suggests he’s not just asking about Jessie but knows you wouldn’t want him, or anyone, to make a fuss.

“All good,” you say in response to the questions both spoken and unspoken.

He gives a nod of acknowledgement. “Glad to hear it. We’ve got a single vehicle collision incoming in…” he pauses to check his watch, “about three minutes. You up for it?”

“Put me in, coach,” you quip, already reaching for the nearest box of gloves.

He grins as he taps at your shoulder to direct you ahead of him towards the ambulance bay.

The rush of the night blends seamlessly into the early morning frenzy that always accompanies the start of the day shift. It’s been a long time since you worked a double, not having done one since switching your schedule, and you find you’ve missed the burst of energy that comes from seeing the transition through. This time, though, you find that it feels different. You’re not moving onto the unfamiliarity of the day shift, you’re returning to normal. This time, there’s no promise of another night shift waiting at the end of it. The thought hurts more than it should. You had your own reason for leaving, got given a reason to stay away, so why does it feel like last night you returned to your natural state of being and today is the exception, not the norm?

A little after midday, there is a blissful lull in your workload. No new patients in urgent need of attention, no traumas flying in from the ambulance bay. It’s a rarity. You should rest - everyone has said to take ten when you get a chance - but before you do you pull out your phone.

Sleep’s overrated, you type. Send. Instantly, your mind goes into overdrive. What a stupid thing to have done. Of course he didn’t actually mean for you to tell him again when you got to hour 17, it was just him rubbing in about you doing a long shift. Joking, as always. He gave you his number for planning rehearsals, those were his exact words, not for texting him like you’re still friends and especially not when you’re supposed to be working.

Your phone lights up in your hand. You’re ridiculous. Oh god. Glad to see you’re still alive. Oh god. Your stomach performs a remarkably agile somersault. He’s not annoyed. He’s teasing. You don’t know which is worse.

Just about, you reply, accompanied by an upside down smile emoji.

We should cancel tonight.

You should. Definitely. Might as well use the room while it’s booked, maybe just a shorter session? You really are ridiculous, though not in the sense he means.

If you’re sure?

You fire back a thumbs up and slip your phone into your pocket as you crumple into a seat at the break room table. Head down, eyes pressed to your forearms, you almost manage to block out the surrounding world. If you’re lucky, you’ll get fifteen minutes before you have to get going again.

Every muscle in your body weighs a ton. Your eyelids need taping open. The short walk from the hospital to the studio has made your feet feel like they’re going to fall off. This was such a horrendous idea. You’re about to draft a very apologetic text when you spot Jack leaning against the wall beside the studio door, the heel of his right foot resting casually on the brick. He peels away as you approach.

“How was work?”

“Mm,” you mumble non-committally. You’ll give a better answer in a second, just as soon as your brain has caught up.

Before you can formulate real words, his eyes narrow. “Have you slept since yesterday?”

“Sort of.” He tilts his head, questioning. “Maybe an hour or two.” A deeper tilt. “Not all at once.”

He sucks in his cheeks, mouth scrunching to one side. “Have you eaten?”

“Two sandwiches, one last night and one today. And a granola bar.”

A silent war plays across his face as he observes you. Eventually he lets out a long, slow breath which makes his nostrils flare. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this.”

“Abbot, I’m fine,” you moan, too tired to remember that you’re not at work any more, that you’re past the point of formalities. “Let’s just do an hour, and then I’ll go and rest.”

“Nope. Come on. My truck’s round the corner.”

“I can walk, I don’t live that far.”

He shakes his head, already setting off at a pace you can match. “Food first. I want to make sure you get home without your stomach imploding.”

Even in your fatigued state, you manage to give him a withering look. “Is that your professional diagnosis?”

Even having slept enough to know better, he fails to hide his grin. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Can I ask you something?” Jack asks around a mouthful of pasta.

You’ve wound up in a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from the studio on his recommendation (proper home-cooked food and quick service, he claims, both top priorities when you're in need of sleep but becoming increasingly aware of just how ravenous you are). The room is small and cosy, a few candlelit tables dotted throughout under paintings of Italian scenery and artfully placed olive branches. It's quaint. Cute. Enough of a difference from what you’ve been used to with him recently to make the small talk while you wait for your meals not feel quite so forced. Thank goodness you changed out of your scrubs into loose cotton trousers before you left work, or you’d feel even more out of place. At least you’re not alone: Jack is also dressed for dancing in loose jeans and another old band T-shirt, yet he still looks more put-together than you feel.

“Sure.” The prospect of what question he's about to pose makes you somewhat apprehensive, but you're too focused on your pizza to give it much thought.

He sets his fork down. “Why didn't you tell anyone at work that you dance? It seems like a pretty big deal for you.”

You hesitate. It is a pretty big deal, and he could be forgiven for thinking your lack of forthcoming was out of an issue with trust or civility. That isn't the case at all. But as you study his expression, you realise he's not asking to imply anything. He genuinely wants to know why something that matters so much to you is a secret. Was a secret. “It sounds silly, but I just… Dancing is the one thing that I never have to connect back to whatever goes on at work. It's like my little safe haven from it all. Nobody means any harm, I know, but all it takes is for someone to say the wrong thing or make it a big deal without realising and that's it. Suddenly the lines are blurred and I lose the only thing I've been able to keep for myself.”

Another mouthful of pasta. A moment to process. “That doesn't sound silly,” he says, looking at you resolutely. “I'm sorry Ellis dropped you in it and stuck you sharing your one thing with me.”

You shake your head with a wistful smile. “It’s okay, I'm not mad at her. At least now I don't have to worry about people thinking I'm bragging when I bring it up.” Part of you wants to address the second part of his statement too, to tell him that ‘stuck’ isn't the word you'd have used. Sure, you probably wouldn't have chosen him as your partner given the option, but you can't say you're not enjoying getting to exist in his sphere again, that you’re glad it’s brought a version of him back to you. You can't say that at all. So you keep your mouth shut.

“How many trophies did you say you have again?”

He's giving you one of those not-quite-there smirks. You point your knife at him accusingly, grateful for the return to relative normality. “Hey, you're the one who brought that up.”

His hands raise in mock surrender, eliciting a laugh from you both. A fragment of the tension eases, both of you settling back into a comfortable silence as you eat. Around you, couples chat, families recount their days to one another, and a waiter wanders by to top up your water glasses.

“Do I get to ask you something too?” you begin after your next slice.

“Don't see why not. I'm not rationing questions.”

“Okay,” you nod, part acknowledgement and part self-encouragement. The nature of the question isn't a problem, just how to pose it. “Why are you doing all this? The whole dance thing?”

He eyes you carefully, something guarded passing over his countenance. “It's sort of an unwritten rule that Robby and I take part. Better for morale or something to have the attendings involved.”

You bite your lip. That’s not the answer you were looking for, but pursuing the right one feels like crossing a line you weren’t even aware you’d drawn. “You didn’t have to agree to do it with me though. You could have gone in the draw like everyone else.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Okay, then: why me?”

“I told you,” he replies in a measured tone, folding his napkin under his dish with an unnecessary amount of attention, “you're a dancer and I want that day off.”

Something tightens in your chest. This shouldn’t matter. “And that’s all it is?”

The air shifts around you both the moment the words leave your mouth. Change isn't something you ever thought you'd be able to physically taste, but between the rich tomato sauce and the tang of lemonade something bittersweet settles on your tongue. You need an answer. You don't want an answer. Jack looks like he's going to give one. He looks like he doesn't want to.

“Should there be more to it?”

Your pizza sits forgotten. His pasta grows cold. Your hands grip the tablecloth, his the base of his glass.

“No.” You don’t expect your voice to come out as quietly as it does. Hopefully he will just chalk it up to the exhaustion creeping back into your bones now that you have a full stomach; that’s what you’re doing. There's no reason for you to think otherwise. If there was more to it, you'd never have ended up here in the first place. You never asked for it to be any more than it is, even before all this.

A beat passes. Another. The couple beside you orders a second bottle of wine. A small child crawls under a vacant table. The scent of fresh garlic bread wafts past in the hands of a waitress. Your heart feels like it’s stopped beating.

After an eternity, Jack’s eyes leave yours, dropping to your plate. “Are you finished?”

You nod. It’s all you can do. He waves over a waiter and asks for the bill. When you reach into your bag for your purse, he shakes his head. His credit card is out before you can blink. The moment the waiter leaves, Jack stands and holds out an arm. It would feel almost patronising if you weren’t on the verge of collapsing. You have to hand it to him, this was a good idea - as much as it’s taken more time out of your evening than going straight to bed, you have little doubt that you’ll sleep far better.

“Thanks,” you let him help you to your feet with a hint of a smile, “and thank you for this. You didn’t have to.”

“So you keep saying,” he murmurs. What an Abbot response, a casual deflection with an edge of amusement. There’s something more to his tone that you might be able to put your finger on if you were any more awake. As it is, all you can do is cling to his arm as he leads you out to his truck and guides you into the passenger seat.

The drive back to your apartment block is short and quiet, or at least you think it is - your eyelids keep drifting shut, and you stopped processing the passage of time somewhere in the middle of dinner, so it could be anything from five minutes to half an hour before the dull roar of the engine cuts out.

“You still with me, Twinkletoes?” a low voice breaks through the fog, gruff but light. The sound of it gets to you more than the words.

A small, rasping groan breaks free from the back of your throat as you rouse, just barely. “Hm? ‘m here.”

He laughs quietly. “Okay, hang fire, I've got you.” In the time it takes you to process what he means, he's rounded the front of the truck and opened your door. His right hand takes yours and as you begin to slide from your seat his left hand comes to rest around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your head leans back against his chest, supported more by the solid muscle there than your own neck.

“Keys?” he prompts when you reach the door, glancing down. You tilt your head up and find him shockingly close. His lips are mere inches from brushing your temple. Your stomach resumes its gymnastics. Above, the porch light haloes him in a warm glow, turning the whiter strands of his hair almost as golden as the flecks in his eyes and the freckles across his skin. You wonder how long it would take to count them all. How many more are there that you can't see?

Right. Keys. You reluctantly loosen your grip on his hand and dig into your pocket, dropping the small bunch into his extended palm. He was probably waiting to take your hand again, but the thought of how many attempts it would take you to unlock the door when you can barely see straight is mortifying. “Gold one,” you instruct. “Number seven.”

He slots it into place with ease, nudging the door open with his foot as he takes your hand again and steers you cautiously up the stairs. When you reach your flat, you start to twist out of his hold and take your keys back from where he’s hooked them over his finger.

“What are you doing?” he frowns, following you to return his hand to your side.

You blink at him, perplexed. “This is me.” What did he think you were doing?

“Sweetheart, you’re dead on your feet. Can I at least make sure you get in okay?”

“Mmmnno, I‘ve got this.”

With a dubious look, he releases his grip and steps back. You sway slightly. The ground must be moving, because your legs don’t feel like they’ll hold you up much longer. It’s that first morning in the dance studio all over again. Running off that memory, you reach out for him. He’s there in an instant.

“Shit, okay, easy.” The keys are scooped from your flimsy grasp, and as soon as the door is open your entire body is swept up the same way, a hand hooked gently under your legs to bring you up towards his chest. He carries you down the hallway, peering through each door. His step stalls at the sight of your kitchen with hardly enough room to turn around in. “You weren’t kidding,” he mutters. You let out a sleepy laugh into the fabric of his top.

At last he finds your bedroom. You don’t see it happen; keeping your eyes open has become too much effort, but the cozy scent of the cinnamon candle on your dresser draws you in moments before you’re lowered onto the mattress. Out of habit, you snuggle down as your duvet is drawn up around you. Your phone screen is pressed against your thumb, followed by the sound of light tapping. Finally, a hand smooths back a strand of hair that has fallen across your face.

A noise hums somewhere behind your nose. You think it's an attempt at saying Jack's name, protesting the effort he's going to, but opening your mouth takes too much energy.

“Shh,” he soothes, “it’s okay. I've set your alarm. Go to sleep.”

If you had the wherewithal to do the maths, you'd realise you've been up for nearly 40 hours with barely a couple of naps in between. All you know is that you're rapidly slipping from consciousness while Jack Abbot lingers somewhere near the foot of your bed.

“Night,” you mumble, the word making space for the slow exhale that brings you to the brink.

“Good night, y/n,” he whispers into the darkness.

Your bedroom door clicks shut.

Jack holds out his arm to escort you from the restaurant. You beam, linking your arm delicately through his so your hand rests against the toned flesh of his forearm, exposed by his rolled shirt sleeves. When you reach his truck, he helps you into the passenger seat with hands on your waist. The drive back to your apartment is short and quiet, spurred on by the tension that has been sparking between you all evening. Ever the gentleman, he walks you to your door, arm slung low around your back to hold you to his side. You can feel the toned muscle of his pec against your cheek and the heartbeat racing behind it. For a moment you forget yourself.

“Keys,” Jack prompts, glancing down. You tilt your head up and find him shockingly close. His lips are mere inches from brushing your temple. Your stomach flutters. Above, the porch light haloes him in a warm glow, turning the whiter strands of his hair almost as golden as the flecks in his eyes and the freckles across his skin. He looks more attractive than ever, a feat you wouldn’t have believed possible until now. Your willpower falters, struggling fruitlessly against long-suppressed urges. Before sense can regain control, you rise onto your tiptoes and kiss him. His lips are slightly chapped and taste like fresh lemonade. Instantly, his hands fly to your hips as he pulls you flush against the bulge in his trousers with a low groan. The sound travels straight to your core, and you dig into your pocket for your keys without removing your lips from his. In fact, it takes you three tries to unlock the door with the way he trails hungrily down your jaw and across your pulse points, roving ever lower towards the low-cut neckline of your dress. Reluctantly, you break apart just long enough to lead him up the stairs - he follows with one hand in yours and the other settled at the curve where your hip blends into your ass. His lips return to your neck, teeth bruising the soft skin, while you fumble to get into your apartment. As soon as the door is open your entire body is swept up, a hand hooked gently under your legs to bring you up towards his chest. You sit up to kiss him, tongue running across his lower lip and eliciting another groan which you can almost taste with the way it rumbles into your open mouth. His tongue is agile, persistent, almost desperate in the way it finds yours to draw you into him. You squirm in spite of yourself, and he laughs softly.

At last he finds your bedroom. The scent of your cinnamon candle is drowned out by the intoxicating musk of his cologne as he lowers you onto the mattress and follows you down, settling between your feet. A noise hums somewhere behind your nose. A desperate whine you didn’t mean to make audible, but he’s sitting back watching you with infuriating patience when you need his lips and his hands and…

“Shh,” he soothes, “it’s okay.”

Tantalisingly slow, he pushes up the skirt of your dress, before leaning down and kissing up the inside of your thigh.

“Jack, please,” you almost beg.

He lets out a deep chuckle that has your insides twisting with a sudden pressure. When he speaks again, his voice is more gruff than before. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” With one more kiss to your thigh, he hooks a finger into your underwear and-

The shrill beep of your alarm snaps you awake with a jolt, banishing all thoughts except the noise. You roll over with a groan to silence it. Outside, Pittsburgh awakens with considerably more zeal, the streets alive with morning commuters under a brightening periwinkle sky painted with wispy clouds. That same sky seeps in around the edges of your curtains, filling your room with a pale bluish light.

You drag your phone towards yourself, confirming that it is in fact time to get ready for work once again. It feels like significantly less than the 10 or so hours since you were last there. Everything in between is a blur.

There are two unread messages in your notifications. The first is one you missed last night from Parker, thanking you for covering her shift and saying she hopes Abbot didn’t give you too much trouble. The second is from Abbot himself. Hope I picked the right alarm. Let me know you've made it up, or I'll warn Robby you might be late. My fault, if he asks.

The dream slams back into you so hard you almost drop your phone. Why the hell were you having that sort of dream in the first place when you were too tired to even function, and why did the subject of it have to be Jack Abbot of all people? Sure, you’ve been spending a lot more time with him recently, but you used to hang out all the time when you were on nights and you never- Okay, maybe there were tiny moments, lingering glances across the ER or a bar or his living room, sitting slightly too close together around the board of whatever game night offered, a shared reluctance to part ways when he walked you home once after a night out, touches that fell just the far side of friendly, but that doesn’t mean you ever did the whole misty-eyed, starstruck, stomach-flipping-

The memory of last night resurfaces. Now you do drop your phone. The exhaustion, the cancelled rehearsal, the restaurant. Frankly, you're amazed it's taken you this long to remember - it's not every day you go on a dinner date with your sort-of boss. No. That’s just the dream clouding your perception of what actually happened, and you need to set yourself straight before you forget what’s real and what isn’t. Not only is the thought dangerous, it's downright incorrect. He's not your sort-of boss, he is your boss technically, but last night he was just your dance partner. More importantly, it wasn't a date, it was a ‘get you some food before you keel over’. Never mind that he could have easily done that by getting you takeout or bringing you home and raiding your fridge. Oh god, he brought you home as well. Did he, though? In the dream, sure, but… No, he definitely did. The ghost of his hand still lingers on your back. The image of him, Midas-touched by the porch light as he gazed down at you, is about the last thing you remember. That much you know to be real, because while the rest is hazy and vague, even now he appears on your front step with such perfect clarity that you can make out every single freckle. If last night had been a date, you'd probably have told him he looked pretty like that.

Oh. Oh.

Shit.

You've been so busy focusing on how Abbot feels about you that you haven't even stopped to ask yourself the same thing, and it turns out your answer is significantly more intimate than you expected. Up until this exact moment, him tolerating your presence seemed like such a blessing compared to how much you thought he hated you; now it's devastatingly inadequate.

Your breath shudders through your chest, far too shallow, as you pick up your phone from the folds of the duvet. I'm alive. Sorry about last night.

A week has passed since your dinner with Abbot, and you’ve spent every day since trying to remember how to act like a normal human being. The dinner itself isn’t the problem, you hadn’t thought anything of it at the time (not that you were in a fit state to think of much) and there was a perfectly sensible reasoning behind it. No, the problem is that, since then, you’ve barely been able to look at the man without thinking of the dream you had afterwards and have repeated in various forms since. Really, you ought to have realised your feelings for him long before any of this ever happened - he’s undeniably handsome, the collapse of your friendship hit you far harder than it had any right to, and using it as an excuse for why you always get so nervous around him was flimsy at best. Even these past few weeks, there have been plenty of times when the penny should have dropped, from how on edge you became immediately after being paired up to how quickly you settled back into something like your old dynamic to the fact that you compared him to the moon orbiting your earth like that’s a reasonable thing to think about someone with whom you’re adamantly claiming to not be that close. Any of those would have been more appropriate times for an epiphany than the images you conjured so vividly that you can’t be sure they didn’t rewire your understanding of the interaction that spawned them. Some small, delusional part of you genuinely believes that dinner could have been a date, that the vulnerability and generosity and ‘should there be more to it?’ might have meant anything more than it ever would have done had you never parted ways. The simple fact is that you’ve missed him more than you thought, and you’re conflating his temporary return to your life with the arrival of your suppressed feelings and need for something more than the workings of your own fingers in the early hours when your dreams cut off and leave you begging for satisfaction. And now you’re on your way to another rehearsal where you’ll have to pretend not to be thinking any of this. Everything is getting wildly out of hand.

The cafe near the dance studio is a welcome respite from your inner turmoil. You’ve been here so often before or after a dance session that you know all of the staff by name, yet there’s still the sense of anonymity that comes from being just another customer. Here, you don’t have to be a resident or a dance partner or a walking disaster. You can simply just be.

“Morning, hon!” the server greets. They’re one of your favourites, a bubbly character who always has some sort of funky accessory to pair with their uniform.

“Hey Fliss,” you grin. “What’s the look today?”

Their head tilts excitably, showing you the octopus-shaped clip holding their auburn curls in place, coral-toned like their eyeshadow. “Felt like a beachy kind of day. So, what can I get you?”

“I’ll take a breakfast burrito, please.” Jack bringing you coffee without asking. Jack buying you dinner. “Actually, make that two.” Curse your relentless thoughts. “And a latte as well. Thanks.” You can drink the coffee on your way over, and make fresh if Jack wants one once he arrives.

“Ah,” they nod sagely, “it’s a double burrito day, huh? Work running you off your feet?”

“I’m, uh, actually meeting a- a friend.” Oh boy. This morning is not going to go well if you can’t even allude to Jack without stammering. “We’re doing a charity dance competition thing for work.”

Fliss brightens, seemingly unaware of your slip up. “Oh, cute! That’s your thing, right?”

You nod as you tap your card against the reader.

“Well, good luck! I hope you win!” they beam, giving you a small wave before whispering something to the barista behind them and turning back to their next customer.

A few minutes later, your burritos are hanging from a paper bag on your wrist and the barista is sliding two cups onto the counter. You frown, opening your mouth to query the error, when Fliss leans over with a mischievous smirk. “Oh, oops - I must have been thinking two burritos but told Logan two lattes. My bad.”

“Fliss,” you say lowly, shaking your head in disbelief. They hadn’t missed your slip up after all.

They shrug. “We’ll only toss it if you don’t take it. Store policy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hey, even if you don’t win the competition, I’m pretty sure this will score you some brownie points with your… friend.”

You can’t help the smile that bunches up your face as you pop off one of the lids to pour in three sachets of sugar. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

The cups are as warm in your hands as your cheeks as you step out into the bright morning.

Jack arrives early again. This time, he doesn’t knock. Instead, he walks in to find you splayed out on the floor like a starfish. Fliss was right: it is a beachy kind of day. It’s a silly position, but it helps bring your nervous system out of the overdrive it’s gone into at the thought of presenting him with the stuff from the cafe. You’re still thinking about the emphasis Fliss put on ‘friend’. You hope he is that, his former status restored after weeks of diligently dismantling the invisible wall he’d put up between you, but the implication that he could be more when you know how hard you’ve worked just to get back to this point stings more than you expected. Then again, two weeks ago you wouldn’t have believed you’d even make it this far. Anything could happen… if you’ll let it, which you won’t. You can’t risk ending up where you started all over again.

“You look how I feel,” he jibes.

If how he feels is overwhelmingly bashful, then sure. “I’m stretching,” you lie.

“Mhm.” You pray he won’t press the matter; he doesn’t. “What’s the plan? Warm up first?”

You sit up, nodding to the bag and cups on the table. “Breakfast first.”

He looks inquisitively between the coffee and you. The words ‘you didn’t have to’ visibly begin to form on his lips (which you should definitely not be paying such close attention to) before he senses his own hypocrisy and swallows them. He still fights for a response.

“Cafe accidentally made an extra,” you explain when you stand and hold out one of the cups. It’s an unneeded explanation and not entirely true, but all the same it seems to put him at ease as he takes it, fingers brushing yours against the cardboard sleeve. Would he not have accepted it from you otherwise? Maybe, given the way he eyes you warily when you take one of the burritos from the bag. “It’s a burrito.” Like that’s his problem with this.

To your surprise and relief, he doesn’t reject it straight away, just raises an eyebrow. “How do you know I’ve not already eaten?”

Because I know you, you think. You say nothing, just give a defiant stare. After a moment, he reluctantly takes the offering and follows your lead when you sink to the floor, legs outstretched and back against the cool surface of the mirror. When you take the first sip from your cup, you let out an undignified gagging sound as the bitter sting of unsweetened coffee hits your tongue. Wrong cup. Beside you, Jack stills, his own drink raised halfway to his lips. He lets out a deep chuckle at the noise you make and, to his credit, realises straight away what it means, as he wordlessly holds out the cup for you to swap.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are the crinkling of papers being unwrapped and the soft chewing of your first mouthfuls. Thank goodness the food is still warm; your coffee is perfectly drinkable too. A little of your anxiety lifts. You’ve not messed this up yet.

“How was work?” you ask on instinct. It’s become almost a routine, a measure of stability. Unexpectedly, Jack gives a more detailed answer than usual. He tells you between bites of his breakfast about some of the cases they had, how one of the R3s came close to beating your record for number of intubations in one night (you force yourself to act like your breath didn’t catch at the fact he remembered that happening in your third week of the night shift, a little over six months ago now), and how Lena has been trash talking him more and more in the lead-up to next weekend’s showcase.

Partway through, he pauses. “Hey, do you mind if I…” he nods sheepishly to his right leg.

You shake your head. “God no, of course not.” You hold out a hand, secretly thrilled when he understands your intention immediately and passes you his burrito. As he rolls up his trouser leg and carefully removes his prosthesis, your gaze follows the movement of his hands. “There’s no rush to do anything if you want more of a break, by the way,” you tell him quietly. “We’re in a pretty good place, unless you think Lena is as much of a threat as she’s making out.”

He chuckles, setting the foot down next to his coffee and reclaiming his half-eaten burrito. Your fingers brush again. The sparks it sends up your arm make you twitch. You really need to stop putting yourself in that position before you do something you regret. “It’s Dana I’m worried about. Pretty sure she was a ballerina in a past life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I think we need to be more concerned about secret underdogs. I’ve heard Santos complain about how much Whitaker dances around their apartment when he thinks she’s not there.”

The mental image of that induces a grimace as it passes across Jack’s face. “How about Shen? I refuse to believe you’ve forgotten what he was like on that night out in December, because I definitely haven’t.”

You mime gagging. “Oh, that’s permanently seared onto my brain. The dance floor didn’t know what hit it.”

“Plus, if Emma bribes him with Dunkin’ he’ll do pretty much anything.”

You laugh, head hitting the mirror with a thud. If you weren’t wincing, you might have spotted his concerned glance out of the corner of your eye.

Neither of you seem in a rush to get going, even though you had a plan to get started adding music to your routine today. Your burritos are growing cold, your coffee almost drunk, but there’s no urgency to finishing them. On your part, it’s definitely reluctance to get back to the distance you’ve been mulling over from last time. Like this, you’re both carelessly open, shoulders bumping as you chat, and you’re intimately aware of how long it’s been since you heard him speak this much. Why would you want to hurry towards forced proximity and barely-there touches when you can bask in the comfort of his space and the therapeutic drag of the gravel in his voice? You just need an excuse to stay there for a few more minutes.

“Okay,” you muse, “opinion: is a burrito a sandwich?”

Jack side-eyes you with a scoff. “That’s not an opinion. Of course it is.”

You shake your head. “But what kind? A regular sandwich is carbs on top and below. Burrito is on all sides, unless you leave an end open.”

“But you still eat it with your hands, like a sandwich.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He looks at you like you’re talking utter nonsense, but still can’t help asking, “Well, what would you classify it as?”

“If it’s fully sealed, calzone.”

The laugh that bursts from him is sharp with a sort of delighted disbelief. “What?”

“Yup. And if one end is open it’s a quiche. Or some people would say a bread bowl, but they’re wrong.”

“That’s insane.” He furrows his brow, both in contemplation and annoyance that he’s giving it any more consideration. “What if both ends are open?”

“Sushi.”

He laughs again, drawing an echo from your chest. You can’t remember the last time you were able to make him produce that sound so easily. You don’t remember it giving you butterflies last time. “You’ve thought too much about this.”

“I like knowing whether people agree with my objectively correct categorisations,” you tell him snarkily.

He studies you for a moment. You find yourself shrinking under his observant gaze. He can’t possibly know your reason for this absurd conversation, and yet… “Fine. Give me another one.”

“Pie.”

“Calzone if it has a lid, quiche if it doesn’t.” There’s a moment of consideration. “Upside down toast if it’s one of those stupid pies that doesn’t have pastry underneath.”

You fight back a giggle. “Now who’s giving this too much thought?”

“Hotdog,” he challenges. “Can’t be a sandwich, the bread isn’t top and bottom.”

You give him a smug look. “Too easy. That’s a taco.”

He huffs in defeat and drains the last of his coffee. “Okay. Coffee?”

“Soup.”

His elbow jabbing playfully into your side makes you yelp. “You never told me that was an option.”

“So is salad,” you inform him.

“And an example of salad would be…?”

You ponder, until the perfect example falls into your lap. “Stir fry.”

The look he gives you is filled with pretend disgust. “How dare you? I’m never cooking for you again.”

When you try to protest, he makes a show of refitting his foot and helping you both to your feet. The conversation lulls as you set up your phone into the sound system and start running your playlist. You’ve picked a few different songs to try and see which Jack follows the easiest. With it being over a week since you last danced together, you expect him to be more hesitant than he is. Instead, his hand takes yours firmly and he follows your lead with ease. If you weren’t so scared of ruining the moment, of saying the wrong thing and having him pull away again, you’d ask if he’s been practising. The thought makes you happier than it has any right to. When the music fades into Open Arms by Journey, his eyes light up.

“Now this is a choice I can’t argue with,” he murmurs, glancing down with an approving smile.

You squeeze his hand marginally tighter, to distract from the heat colouring what feels like every inch of your face. To try and tell him what you can’t bring yourself to voice: I’ve missed you. I'm glad you're back. I-

That evening, you’re on your couch with a glass of wine and a rerun episode of some old TV show you used to love when your phone lights up. 6:24: text from Jack Abbot. He should be getting to work, not messaging you. You open it anyway. Chicken soup: soup. Chicken burger: sandwich. Chicken roast: salad. Fried chicken: bucket, salad;  single piece, sandwich (calzone).

Your traitorous heart does something stupid, a dizzying flutter, and you have to retype your response several times to fix the mistakes made by your trembling fingers. Objectively correct. Congrats.

The way your pulse buzzes under your skin feels like you’re dying. Everything about this hurts. You’re right back to where you wanted to be, and it should be enough. It isn’t. It has to be. You can’t ask him for more in any other words than the thinly veiled teasing you’re hiding behind. You have to tell someone before your chest caves in under the weight of it.

Wednesday morning brings thick grey clouds and a chill in the air, an oddly fitting turn in the forecast. Your mood is similarly overcast: more flickers of dreams came to you last night in the wake of the rehearsal and the unprompted texting, these more innocent than the others. They didn’t succeed in easing any of the tension you’ve been holding since the first, only in confirming that the ones since then haven’t just been your mind’s way of tending to your unsated need. You’re in love with Jack Abbot. This is a problem. The most pressing reason is that, despite how much more he has opened back up around you, you have no evidence that your feelings are even remotely reciprocated and still have another week and a half of trying to pretend they don’t exist. The second reason, less immediately critical yet infinitely more difficult to handle, is that Jack isn’t the only one you have to keep your feelings hidden from - if anybody in the department finds out, it’ll be around the building quicker than a wildfire, and the only thing more devastating than the thought of the pitying look Jack might give you if you let your mask slip is him seeking you out to let you down gently after hearing it from somebody else. So as much as you thought you needed to get this off your chest, you realise as you stride back into the Pitt that your only option is to keep your mouth shut.

As if the universe isn’t testing your willpower enough, you wind up alongside Robby as you check the patient board. If anyone is going to notice something going on between you and Abbot, not that there is anything going on, it’s him. You make a slightly exaggerated display of scanning down the list of names.

“Jack mentioned you two are practising for this dance thing tomorrow night,” he informs you in place of a greeting. It’s spoken casually, slightly too casually.

“Yep,” you nod. “My friend has a dance studio we’ve been using.”

You feel him shift beside you, and turn to see him with his head cocked to one side. “This isn’t your first rehearsal?”

Your heart thuds once, aggressively, against the underside of your ribcage. “No it’s… Hasn’t everyone else started?”

“I think Ellis and Mel met up last night, Whitaker said something about his day off on Friday, and Mateo has roped Santos into throwing something together over the weekend.”

“And you?” you say, mouth suddenly dry.

“Eh, we’ve got our idea sorted, don’t really need to practise it.”

Your insides feel like you’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster. Nobody else is taking the event anywhere near as seriously, and here you are scheduling rehearsals twice a week like it’s an actual competition and dragging Jack along for the ride. Never mind that nearly all of them so far have been at his suggestion; you’re too busy second-guessing yourself to make that connection. All you can think is that you’ve been blowing this from the get-go and now you have barely a week and a half to get over yourself before things go back to normal and you have to put up with only seeing him in passing again.

Ever observant, Robby gives you a look not unlike you’re under a microscope, and you know before he opens his mouth that he’s sensed your internal crisis. He waits while Langdon passes, then his voice lowers, both in volume and tone. “Is everything okay? I know something happened between you two when you transferred, and I never got the details but if anything is bothering you then-”

“No, it’s fine,” you interrupt a little too hastily. “Nothing’s bothering me, we’re chill. I’m chill.” Way to course correct. If this conversation was a ship, you’d have just steered it away from a tiny shark and directly into the nearest rock. Maybe you do need to talk to someone about this before you keep running your mouth, but it’s certainly not going to be your attending and the best friend of the man this is all about. Your own best friend is the only safe option, even if she is the reason you’re in this mess. Not that it’s a bad mess, it’s just… more than you expected. The situations, the feelings, the- Shut up before you say something out loud.

“You sound very chill.”

Weirdly, the sarcasm is calming. It gives your mind something else to latch onto, at least. “I just mean we’re good with each other.”

The smile he gives is just knowing enough that it makes you question exactly what he knows, or thinks he knows. So much for calming. “Good.” His gaze flicks back up to the board before dropping to yours, not quite an afterthought. “I hope it stays that way. You're good for each other as well.”

You fend off the rising shyness with a roll of your eyes. “Can you go back to being sarcastic, please?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Can you pick a patient, please?”

You do, speeding away before he can chastise your slowness or, worse, try to pick apart your expression more.

Parker Ellis has been avoiding you.

This is not a realisation you reach over the course of the past weeks, growing ever more suspicious of why you never see her at handover or why you're not spending your days off together. Bumping into each other at work is more a luxury than a fact of life and you’re both busy with your respective dance partners, plus she was ill; none of this is cause for suspicion. No, this is a realisation you reach in the same manner as running round a corner and straight into a lamppost: unexpected and instantaneous. You reach it when her eyes widen at the sight of you by the lockers the following morning, earlier than usual, and when she makes a small noise of protest as you drag her into the nearest room and practically slam the door behind you. The beat of silence that follows is deafening.

“I can't believe you'd do this to me!” you start, brimming with a twisted sort of outrage that has been simmering all night - none of the fire but all of the desperation.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Either she's not very good at feigning innocence, or she's not trying very hard.

You let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I'm talking about volunteering Jack fucking Abbot to be my dance partner.”

“I just looked at him, and neither of you objected.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t half glare at you and Shen afterwards. The fact you two even had to conspire to do that in the first place, because there's no way it wasn't rehearsed, just proves how forced it was. Like, are you forgetting how many weeks it took him to even talk to me after I left the night shift? Or the weird tension that's been in every room we’ve had to share the past few months?” You're on a roll now. “He looked away every time he caught my eye across the ER. He flirted with literally everyone in the department except for me. He-”

The curl of Parker's lips and the raise of her eyebrow stops you in your tracks. “Oh, so you want him to flirt with you, is that it?” Your dream rushes back to you, and your eyes flare like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god, you’re into Abbot.”

You're almost certain you've turned an unnatural shade of red. “No,” you say unconvincingly. “It’s just weird going back to being sort of friends like none of that ever happened.”

“So then what’s the issue?” The question is slow, measured, legitimately confused. “I thought you’d be glad things are okay.”

“Because I feel like I’m going to ruin it again,” you mumble, regretting ever starting this conversation. The telltale pinprick of tears begins to gather behind your eyes. “I don’t know how to be around him, in case I scare him off or do something that I didn’t even realise was why he stopped talking to me in the first place.”

“I’m just saying, if you’d done something so wrong, he wouldn’t be going to this much trouble to patch things up. I thought you wanted to be close again?”

“Not if I knew it still wasn’t going to be enough!” The words explode from you with a sob.

Parker’s breath falters. “What?”

“It's always one-sided. He stopped caring about me, but I didn’t. Now he’s back to liking me, while I…” Your voice trails off to a defeated whisper. “I think I love him.”

“Have you told him?” she asks gently.

You let out a wry laugh. “Did you miss the part where I said I was scared of ruining it?”

“Yeah, I was too busy focusing on the part where you think he stopped caring.”

You chew on the inside of your lip, remembering how quick he was to settle back into having you in his life, how his first instinct was to invite you for dinner. “Promise me you won’t tell him about any of this?”

“I promise.” She pulls you into a brief hug before shoving you gently towards the door. “Now go do some work before Robby wonders where you’ve got to and starts asking questions.”

You give a wobbly smile, already halfway out the room. “Actually, I think he might already know.” Then you retreat, leaving Parker with an odd sense of satisfaction and an overwhelming sense of deja-vu.

“What the hell was that about?” Abbot hissed the moment he found Ellis alone in the ambulance bay after the announcement.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she shrugged nonchalantly.

“I'm talking about you volunteering me for a dance event with y/l/n.”

“Technically, that was all you. I just looked at you.”

“Pointedly.”

“So?”

“So why are you trying to set me up with her?”

Ellis raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip quirking upwards. “Who says I'm trying to set you up with her?” When he said nothing, her grin grew. “Oh my god, you actually are into her, aren't you?”

“No,” he said unconvincingly. “I just think it’s weird that you were so insistent when you know I have to take part anyway.”

She made a mental note of the hesitation in his voice, scribbling it down on the same list as the way he holds himself back around you and the way he tenses ever so slightly when your name gets mentioned. “So then why is it a problem? At least you know you’re paired with someone you like.”

“I just said I'm not into her.”

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself. I’m just saying, I know how close you two were.”

“Then you also know why we’re not any more,” he said with a little too much force.

“No, I don’t,” she replied, equally assertive. “She transferred to days, it’s not like it was anything personal.”

“It was when I was falling for her and she still left!”

Ellis’ breath faltered. “What?”

“You can't tell anyone about this,” he urged, waiting for a nod of confirmation before continuing. “That’s why I pulled away.” His voice dropped, and he ran his thumb absently over his ring. “I thought it would be easier to let go on my own terms.”

“And have you? Let go?”

“Of course I haven’t. I tried, but she’s…” He gestured vaguely, finding words inadequate. 

“Have you told her?” she asked gently.

“Oh sure,” he huffed bitterly, “I’ve spent months believing she left because of me, trying to keep my feelings in check for both our sakes, and watching her accept it like I never meant anything. Sounds like a perfect opportunity. I know I fucked up, but I can’t expect her to just forget the whole thing because I decided to stop being an idiot.”

Ellis raised an eyebrow. “So now you're going to spend all your free time together just so you have an excuse to be around her again. I'm sure there's no way she'll get suspicious.”

“Wait-”

She patted his shoulder, patronisingly comforting. “Solid plan, boss.” Then she walked away, leaving Abbot with an odd sense of resolve and an overwhelming sense of dread.

Jack senses the change in the atmosphere the second he sees you approaching the dance studio, the ache of it even more immediate and far more prominent than the one he gets in his knee when the barometric pressure drops before a storm.

“Hey,” he smiles, praying he's mistaken. When the smile you give in return wavers, his heart sinks so fast he almost forgets the cardboard tray in his hand. “Three sugars,” he announces as he turns one of the cups towards you. It’s from the same place as last time; not that he’d ever admit this, but he spent nearly twenty minutes checking every single coffee shop in the vicinity online until he found the one with the logo he’d memorised from the bag you brought.

You're a star is what you'd have said months ago. You didn't have to is what you'd have said a week ago. “Thanks,” is what you murmur around your first sip as you type in the code to the studio entrance. At least he gets a soft, solid smile when you glance up at his haste to hold the door open for you, with your coffee in one hand and your work bag in the other. That tides him over just long enough to not immediately drop to his knees and beg you to talk to him about whatever has got to you.

Inside, the pressure is just as low, so much so he has to physically adjust himself to not shrink back from it. He'd thought - hoped - that things were improving between you. It seems he may have been mistaken. Maybe he should have told you that first night why he’d suddenly gone from nothing to inviting you round for dinner, but that would mean telling you about his conversation with Ellis making him realise he had a second chance, which would mean admitting why he’d blown the first chance (if he even had one to begin with). What's worse, he's so far gone that to bring it up now would mean admitting why he's still so determined all these months later, that he never stopped caring and that pushing you away to stop himself from unrequitedly falling for you was only ever a temporary solution and a failed one at that. What if you already know? What if you've realised what the playful nickname and the remarks and the cautious touches and the excuses to text and dinner at the Italian (god, the dinner, the most absurd decision he's ever made that he would make again in a heartbeat) really mean and you're letting him down gently? What if you've found out that nobody else is putting in as much effort to this competition and now you're freaking out that he's taken advantage of the situation? It's not like that at all, but he can't shake the feeling that he's watching you slip through his fingers all over again. The thought alone makes him nauseous. Then, as if he couldn't spiral any further, another thought occurs to him with the same impact as a sledgehammer to the ribs. What if you've not realised at all, and this has nothing to do with him?

“How was work?” he asks, all too aware of the way the question has morphed over the past fortnight, which doesn't feel like nearly enough time for this situation to have grown the way it has. Two weeks ago, it was an olive branch, offered with the hesitation of it being the only common ground he knew the two of you still shared. Now it's a plea, a desperate attempt to find any reason not to believe the fears worming their way into every fibre of his being.

“Been better,” you say quietly. The relief at the explanation for your distance pales in comparison to the concern washing over him.

“Anything I can do?” Whatever it takes, whether it’s having a word with someone in the department or offering you some comfort now, he’ll do it.

You think for a moment, then raise your cup. “Just… maybe give me a minute to reset?”

He nods in understanding, finally having a mouthful of his own coffee to soothe the rising dryness on his tongue. You opt to lean against the wall instead of sitting, and he joins you hesitantly, praying he’s chosen the right distance to give you space but not feel like he’s avoiding you. Thankfully, you say nothing. Neither does he, taking in the hum of the air conditioning and the soft sigh you let out after a particularly long sip. Your entire body slumps slightly further into the wall with the release, and you finally grace him with a proper smile.

“Thanks,” you sigh again, standing upright once more with less stiffness than when you entered, “and thanks for the coffee, you-”

“Didn’t have to, I know,” he finishes with a half-smirk. That might have been true when he was queueing in the cafe, but now that he’s seen the change it brought about he feels like he knew he had to even then. Some part of you, however exhausted you’d been, must recognise the echo of the conversation held over dinner when you’d used those words like he was ever going to do anything other than care for you, because his reminder brings a light flush to your cheeks that makes him weak at the knees. He passes it off as tiredness, drawing in a slow, steadying breath before pushing himself off the wall and following you through a few quick stretches. The whole time, he does his best to focus on loosening his own muscles and not on the sliver of skin across your lower back that is revealed when your top rides up. One brief glimpse has already made the front of his jeans tighter than they were a minute ago.

The routine is solid. If anyone had asked him just over two weeks ago, Jack would have laughed at the idea of him being able to waltz, but now he manages the entire duration of Open Arms without so much as a stumble. It’s good, it’s classy, but is it enough? If it were just for him it is, without a second thought, but will it win you both the day off? He has plans for it - well, wants to have plans for it - and the not-so-small stubborn part of him wants to have something to show for all of this even if it doesn’t bring about the outcome he’s invested in. Besides, he knows this is what you’re good at, knows you can do so much more than what you’ve managed to teach him, and he is desperate to show you that he’s serious about being invested in your passion. That he’s serious about you.

“I think we’ve got it down,” you say as you step away when the music fades out, and he tries not to mourn the loss of your touch and your warmth and the comfort of the times you’d held onto him a moment too long. “Do you want to give it another go?”

He thinks carefully, pretending to recall the words you used that first night like he hasn’t been replaying every conversation ever since. “You mentioned jazzing it up,” he ventures, watching the way your eyes widen a fraction. “Is it… is it too late?” For that. For him to make amends. For things to be how they were, or how they could be, or anything other than the reality of you retreating from him again.

Your cheeks puff into a semblance of a smile, the movement creasing the corners of your eyes. Jack can’t help but think you’ve never looked more beautiful. “It’s worth a try.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs, as he holds out his arms for you to step back into his embrace. Your grip in his is light, a little shaky, but it’s there and it’s real and you’re not shying away. As you begin to talk him through a simple turn, one where he repeats his usual steps while you spin under his arm, he oscillates between two states. The first is a rigid focus, learning what to do with his hands and mentally recording every single detail: the bright lilt of your voice that only appears when you’re teaching, the waft of berry shampoo that seeps through the ever-present sting of hospital disinfectant when your hair flicks outwards with the turn, the delicate touch of your fingers tethering you to him, the soft words of encouragement when he gets it right, the way you melt more and more into his touch with every beat. The second is a more gentle state, a watercolour blend of golden contentment and deep blue melancholy; an awareness that he’s only categorising these sensations safely away in his mind out of a fear that after next weekend, he won’t get to experience them again, and that by doing so he’s missing out on the opportunity to truly savour the moment as it happens. Does he hang on to the memories, or does he let them be the brief, bittersweet thing they ended up being when he fell for you the first time? Is anything different in hindsight? Has he learned how to make it different? Can he make it so, or does he just have to… let it be what it is?

Afterwards, he drives you home. You try to tell him it’s fine, it’s not far to walk, but the sun has already set and the second he quietly, almost shyly, announces that he’d feel better knowing you got home safely, you follow him to his truck without another word. The quiet that settles over you is less cloying than earlier, makes him feel less like he’s done something wrong. His mind is buzzing with the new moves you’d so diligently taught him - up until now, you said, you’d just been doing variations on the box, but today you’d expanded his repertoire to the underarm turn, a walking step called a streamline, and an open roll where you pass back and forth across him. The frantic energy is soothed, however, by a far more comforting thought: in spite of everything he has done, you’re still here, sitting in his passenger seat and humming softly along to the radio like there’s nowhere else in the world you’re meant to be. It makes him wonder if perhaps this is how it was always supposed to work out, that if he took away the hurt and the perceived betrayal and the distance and the atonement then he would see that he’s right back where he started, hopelessly in love with the woman who has taken up a space that was made for her and only her. It feels selfish to ask for more when he’s already been given exactly what he wanted. You. In his life. Letting him into yours. Blurring the lines. Now, if only he could figure out how to do the same without tearing it all down again.

When he pulls up outside your apartment, engine idling, he turns to see you already swivelled in your seat to look at him. “Thanks for the lift,” you smile.

“Any time.”

“And sorry if I was acting like an asshole before.”

He turns the engine off. “Hey, no, you weren't an asshole, but if work is getting to you then I'd get it if you were.”

“You don't deserve for me to take it out on you, though,” you tell him softly.

“Maybe next time you can talk to me about it instead?”

“Deal,” you smile warmly, before your gaze drops and your fingers twist together in your lap. He recognises the gesture. “So, one more week.”

“One more week,” he nods in sombre agreement. “It's gone by so quickly.”

“And then it'll be like nothing ever happened.”

He spots the hitch in your voice from a mile away. Before he can consider the implications of his own actions, he reaches out and slides a hand between your two, parting your anxious grasp and linking his fingers with yours. “No it won't. Sorry, Twinkletoes, but you're stuck with me now.”

He expects you to pull away. Your hand squeezes his, and the faintest smirk creeps into your lips. “Does that mean I can get one more rehearsal out of you?”

You could get a hundred out of him if there was enough time. He’ll make time if he has to. “I've waived my night off for the event, but if you're up for wasting your day off with me…”

“I wouldn't call it a waste,” you smirk. “All in the interest of the PTO, right?”

It's gone so far beyond that, he thinks, but he agrees all the same.

Your expression softens. “Okay then. If I don't see you, I'll text you.”

“We've got a few days, if you don't see me then something's gone horribly wrong.”

You laugh, bright and sweet, and for one heart-stopping moment he thinks you're about to lean across the centre console and kiss him. For another moment, he thinks he might if you don't. Then you hoist up your bag and reach for the door handle. “Good night, Jack.”

“Sleep well, y/n,” he murmurs.

You shouldn’t be as disappointed as you are to only have one rehearsal left. You’ve known this was coming for three weeks, so really it’s your own fault for letting it mean so much, but it’s not just about the dancing and you know it. In fact, it’s not about the dancing at all. It never has been.

After last week, you’re unsure what to expect from Jack. Your conversation with Parker has flipped everything you thought you knew so utterly on its head that you’re no longer sure which way is up. She was so confident that he’d never stopped caring about you, despite all the prior evidence to the contrary, but then this whole thing has been telling a different story. You’d decided at the last rehearsal to start pulling away the same way he had, to make the ending easier for both of you (or at least just you, if you were being honest), but then the moment you’d so much as tried to meet him with anything less than your usual devotion he’d turned downright jittery, and the heartbreak in his gaze had shattered your resolve with all the force of a bullet. Maybe pulling away wasn't so much about worrying Parker was wrong, maybe it was about worrying she was right. After he had dropped you home, you lay awake and replayed every little detail of the past three weeks, filing them all into categories for and against proof of his feelings that grew messier with every addition. He's been eager from the start; for. His instinct was to invite you for dinner; for, unless that was just to make up for ignoring you. The fact he ignored you for months; against, unless there's a reason you're unaware of. Parker seemed pretty convinced there was more to it; for? The question of why nothing had happened if that was the case; against, a very hypocritical one. Everything that had happened on the night shift; for. ‘Should there be more to it?’; inconclusive. ‘You're stuck with me now’; even less conclusive. The way he'd pulled away from you in that second rehearsal; against. The utter devastation when you'd pulled away a week later; for. For, for, for.

You've been an idiot.

So much time spent convinced that because he'd cut you off he must hate you, and all the evidence cannot have amounted to anything more than a begrudging friendship, when you've been blind to the fact that there are as few limits on how far his feelings can go as there are on your own. You know for a fact that yours have grown far beyond your expectations; why shouldn't his? But hindsight is a fickle thing. You need to go into this final rehearsal with eyes and heart open. It's the only way to know whether to keep carrying the crushing weight of your own thoughts.

The rehearsal is a little later today; Jack had something to deal with at home in the morning, so you agree to meet in the afternoon. The weather is unseasonably warm in a heavy, stifling way. You should have known to check the forecast. The heat is far too thick and the sky far too dark for you to attribute your lack of outer layer to the sun. You’re halfway to the studio when the heavens open and you break into a mad dash. Jack is waiting outside, umbrella raised, when you skid round the corner; he darts forward to offer you shelter, ushering you into the sliver of space at his side as you punch in the door code. As soon as it opens, his hand brushes across your sodden back to guide you inside while he shakes off the umbrella onto the pavement and props it against the wall.

“Well, shit,” you huff, trying in vain to wipe the droplets from your face and bare arms.

Jack laughs sympathetically as he unfastens his jacket. “You okay, or should I be worried about hypothermia?”

“Maybe, I might have to call Robby.” When he shoots you a glare of mock outrage, you laugh. “I'm kidding! If I start dying you'll be the first to know, but I wasn't out there long, and I think there are some spare clothes in the office.”

While Jack lets himself into the studio, you grab a pair of tight gym shorts (the only thing available that's not child-sized) and duck into the bathroom to change and wring out your hair and clothes. It doesn't help much, you still appear half-drowned, but at least you no longer have the feeling of wet fabric making your legs itch. You sneak self-consciously back to the room, where Jack's eyes roam over your crinkled top, lingering a moment on your bare thighs before snapping up to give you a sceptical look.

“You sure you're alright? You're going to freeze.”

“I'm fine.” You shake your head, but it continues involuntarily into a shiver. Jack's expression turns smug, but he digs into his bag and pulls out his scrub top. Oh. You should have thought of that. A tiny sound, a squeaky inhale, escapes you before you can stop it when, instead of handing you the top, he strips off his own T-shirt to reveal a flash of shoulders spattered with freckles and tosses it to you before pulling on the scrub one himself. When you hesitate, he turns to face the wall, and you quickly peel out of the damp fabric and envelope yourself in the warmth of his. God, it even smells like him. It's getting harder by the day to think about maintaining your distance. He's actively making it harder. Does he know what you're doing? Does he know what he's doing?

Jack wishes he could say that offering you his T-shirt was a purely pragmatic decision. It's already warm from his own body heat, and it saves you having to change again once he goes to work if he'd have given you his scrubs. That's the logic. The rest of it is the fact that seeing you in his clothes is doing something dangerous to his pulse, and he's enjoying every second of the garment fitting so oversized on you that it almost completely masks those tiny shorts you'd changed into. He's half-tempted to confess his feelings right then and there, if he didn't think under the circumstances it might come off wrong. He's come too far to risk it. Even so, he can't help but wonder if that's just him holding back again. The storm outside seems to have replaced the one you were giving off last week, whatever hesitation you'd been harbouring replaced by your usual banter, and he could have been mistaken but he swears you reacted when he stripped. An unintended but not unwelcome side effect. He steps closer, taking in the way you watch him approach, and allows his fingers to brush yours as he takes your wet clothes from your grip to put them on the heater. This time you definitely react, flinching like you've been given a static shock. He hopes that's a good thing, but he can't be sure.

After a quick warm-up, you launch back into the routine. Maybe it's just that he's more confident with it now, but Jack is sure he feels a difference between the two of you. His grip is solid on your back, yours soft against his bicep but not reluctant. He no longer has to look down at his feet, leaving him with the pleasure of observing every miniscule expression you make. Mostly, it's your concentration face, giving this the same dedication you give to every patient with whose care you are charged. Sometimes, once you start getting into the extra steps you added, you relax into more of a blissful joy. Seeing you genuinely enjoying yourself makes him more happy than he'd ever thought possible, and he's already delighted just to be here. Occasionally, something else weaves its way into your expression, only visible in the flush of your cheeks, the glimmer behind your eyes, and the gentle curl of your lips. It's the sort of look that, if he was absolutely certain it meant what he thinks or hopes it does, would change everything. Perhaps it already has.

If there was ever a time you were more in tune with every single millimeter of your body, you can't recall. You've run the dance once, twice, three times, each more smooth than the last, with you making the tiniest adjustments as you go. Normally, that's all the focus you need, but now you're intensely aware of Jack's hands on your body and eyes on your face. His smile is there more than it is on his lips, encouraging you to unmask your own small grin as you gaze up at him. You wonder if his means what you think it does; you wonder if he knows yours means the same thing. When the music fades out for a third time and you pull apart, he's still watching you, smirking faintly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask cheekily, unsure if you want the real answer.

His gaze roves slowly down your body and back up. “I was thinking you should wear that on Saturday.”

“Oh yeah?” you give a twirl, leaning in to the flirtation to see if he responds to it, and miss the way he swallows thickly when his T-shirt shifts over your hips at the movement. “You think this screams’ sophisticated gala dinner’?”

“Mhm, you look so stunning right now.”

The tips of your ears turn pink, even though it was you who prompted it. He's almost definitely flirting, and god you want him to (exactly like Parker suspected), but it still doesn't prove anything. He flirts like this with everyone. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, though, we should figure out what we're going to wear. I need to know whether to dry clean my suit.”

“I don’t think anybody’s taking it that seriously,” you scoff. “Robby said he and Walsh aren’t even rehearsing.”

“And that’s exactly why they’re not going to win,” he says as though it’s obvious. When you still seem questioning, he gives you a look that falls perfectly between playful and solemn. “I refuse to believe you don’t have some fancy ballgown stashed away somewhere just begging to see the light of day.”

“That’s what my actual competitions are for,” you retort, but then one particular dress comes to mind, tucked in the back of your collection and always waiting for an excuse to be worn. You try not to let the realisation show on your face.

It doesn’t work; Jack grins. “Aha, see? I know you far too well.”

You both freeze for a moment at his words, an admission neither of you expected. A joke that lands a little too earnest.

“Well then,” you say, trying to keep the tone lighthearted and your voice from breaking, “if you know me so well, what colour is it?”

He studies you, that alone being far more thought than you expected him to give it, looking not just at you but through you. It would be flattering if you didn’t feel quite so exposed. After what feels like an eternity, his gaze settles into one far more confident than it has any right to be. “Red. Not bright.”

You force your expression to remain neutral, while inside every fibre of your carefully maintained existence is screaming. “Interesting guess.”

“You're blushing.”

“Am not.”

He steps in. It's not as close as he stands when the two of you are dancing, and yet somehow it feels far more intimate. He still has to crane his neck down to lock eyes with you, one eyebrow raised and dripping with cockiness. His voice lowers. “Whatever you're picturing, wear it. I want to see which is more red when I'm proven right, you or the dress.”

You are so completely and utterly screwed. How are you supposed to tell whether he's being genuine when he comes out with lines like that? How are you supposed to remain objective when just the act of him pushing the boundaries you've both been walking like a tightrope has your insides turning to mush?

Jack is all too aware that he's crossed an invisible line, but he's beyond caring. The worries of you retreating from his measured affections are a distant memory; not only did you respond positively to his attempt at genuine connection in the truck, but now you're teasing back in a way he never expected - you weren't even this flirtatious the first time he thought he stood a chance. Now he’s more certain than he’s ever been that your feelings are as real as his and that he’s a fool for waiting this long. Still, he’s come this far; a few more days to do this right won’t hurt. It gives him time to be absolutely sure and make his declaration more meaningful, gives you time to keep building things to whatever level you’re comfortable with… and gives him the security of knowing that if he has somehow misinterpreted, he’s not about to ruin the one thing he knows without a doubt means something to you.

“Be prepared to see neither, Dr Abbot,” you reply, not backing down from the intensity of his gaze.

He folds his arms across his chest, noting how your eyes dip down to the vein that bulges across his forearms. You’ve followed him over the line. There’s no turning back. “Oh, it's Dr Abbot now?”

“It is when you've got a shift to get to.”

He glances down at his watch, giving you an excuse to stare at his arms again. You take it, to his satisfaction. “If we finish now, I've got enough time to swing by that cafe and grab food first.”

It's not a question, not even an offer, but he hopes you hear it underneath the words anyway. “You did teach me the importance of preventing stomach implosion,” you smirk.

He mirrors the expression. “Hardly seems a fair trade for you teaching me an entire artform, but I can make it up to you with some form of sandwich. Unless you're wanting to carry on here on your own.” There's the offer. He's not calling it a date, leaving you to decide what category will allow you to accept; the same strategy as he used when he took you to that Italian, except this time you get to actually be present for it. This is as close as he comes to putting his cards on the table.

You look at him curiously, then nod. “Give me two minutes to change back into my stuff.”

Your leggings, which were somewhat sheltered from the downpour, have dried, but you recoil at the feeling of your still mildly damp top. Jack notices, because of course he does. He's been picking up every detail about your movements since the day you joined the department. He never imagined it would end up with him being able to practically read your thoughts except for the one he wants to know.

“Keep my top, I can live without it for a couple of days,” he shrugs, turning to collect his bag. That's true. It's also easier to say that than admit how much the idea of you in his clothes is affecting him. Between that and the teasing, he’s relieved for the opportunity to turn his back and stop you seeing the physical evidence of exactly how much. If he holds his nerve, lets things keep developing the way they have been, he might get to see you in his clothes again. Maybe on an actual date. Or maybe he'll get to see you in no clothes at all. He scrunches his eyes shut, willing the mental image away before it manifests elsewhere. God, he's not making this easy on himself. 

You miss a step on your way into the cafe, Jack immediately resting his hand on your shoulder to steady you.

“You're not going to fall over on me again, are you?” he mutters.

Your faltering has nothing to do with clumsiness and everything to do with the grinning face of Fliss behind the counter. You thought they only stuck to the morning shifts.

“What's today’s vibe, Fliss?” You greet when you reach the front of the queue, trying to divert focus from the man standing slightly too close over your shoulder. It's just because of the line behind him, you reason, even though reason went out of the window days ago.

They quickly show off their toadstool earrings, but quickly pivot back to you with a mischievous gleam in their eye. “How's your dance prep going? Is this your partner?”

Once again they lend the word far more weight than it warrants. You tense, throwing them a warning glance, but the contraction of your panicked muscles only makes you more aware of the firm chest pressing against your back, the hand hovering by your waist. “Ye-, uh, yeah. Jack, this is Fliss. They're responsible for the coffee mix up that time.”

“Oh,” he shifts behind you, “then it's definitely nice to meet you.” The words are his usual charming self, but you detect an edge. He's holding back.

“You too. It's great to put a face to whoever has been making my favourite customer so happy.”

The noise that bubbles up from your chest is shocked, disbelieving, but not disputing.

Jack's breath fans across your temple. “I do my best. On that note, we'll take two lattes and… what do you want to eat?” He leans around you to meet your eye.

“Oh, uh… surprise me.”

There's only a moment of hesitation. “Two of the loaded fries please.” When Fliss turns away to put the order through, you feel his face move closer to yours as he whispers, “Salad.”

“You're ridiculous,” you hiss, turning to give him a judgemental look only to find him inches away and impossibly smug.

“Tell me I'm wrong.”

“You two are adorable,” Fliss says, pulling you back to the real world, but not before you notice the flush springing into Jack’s cheeks as he straightens and takes out his card to pay. “Grab yourselves a seat and I'll bring it over.”

When you and Jack settle on opposite sides of a booth, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to do this more often. Whether you’d already be doing this regularly if you hadn’t put yourself on a schedule so far apart from his. Whether it was worth it. No, if it brought you to this moment, it was still worth it.

The lobby of the Priory Hotel is too quiet and too loud all at once. There are the chattering receptionists, the occasional trill of the phone, the relentless stream of guests travelling in and out; it’s enough to be overwhelming, and yet not enough to silence your racing thoughts. Jack should be here by now. Everybody else is already in the hall. You know this because you already checked three times, just to make sure he hadn’t slipped in while you were changing into your dress, which the staff were kind enough to keep in luggage storage since you dropped it off that morning on your way to work. The room is lavish enough to make your paycheck cry: a few round tables with sleek black covers dotted around the sides of the room, gold centrepieces matching the white columns and their ornate gold standards, and a small raised stage bearing a string quartet playing background music and a DJ for later in the evening. In the centre of the room is a dance floor, smaller than you’re used to but the perfect size for holding each couple in turn. The board and their loved ones are all in attendance, dressed in sharp suits and billowing gowns. Even the other members of your team have made an effort, to your surprise: Mel is in a soft floral day dress that is complemented by the green of Ellis’ shirt; Whitaker, Henderson and Mateo are all in smart shirts and trousers or jeans; Shen has donned a full suit with a patterned shirt while McKay and Emma are in sleek dresses, McKay’s cut high up her leg; even Robby has traded his usual hoodie for a crisp plaid shirt. The one thing missing from the room is that ever so familiar head of silver-brown curls.

“He’ll be here,” Ellis had told you softly yet firmly, the second time you poked your head in and sent him another worried text. “Abbot’s not one to let people down without warning, especially not you.” That last part lodged itself somewhere deep within the fog of your thoughts, where it could wait for you to calm down enough to acknowledge it.

The soft whoosh of the front doors opening and the rush of traffic passing by outside draws your attention. Your heart leaps and instantly settles at the sight of Jack, face flushed as he hurries in. His suit is a rich blue, like the spring sky at two in the morning from the roof of the Pitt, and a bow tie hangs loose around his neck. A small boutonnière adorns his lapel - a simple, deep red carnation with white frilled edges, set against a few seeded eucalyptus leaves. His jacket hangs open and draws your attention to the way his shirt sits tightly across his broad chest. The sounds of the hotel die away, replaced by the thrumming of your pulse in your ears. God. Smart yet ruffled is a look you should have known would suit him a little too well. His pace falters when he catches sight of you, and his eyes crinkle. It takes him a moment to regain his composure before he approaches.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he huffs, lips scrunching. “It’s been a while since I wore anything like this, and I couldn’t remember how to…” He holds up the ends of his tie like they’ve personally offended him. “Tried damn near 15 times, then went looking for a regular tie, but I don’t think I have any so… tada.”

You give a reassuring smile, noticing in the front of your mind the way his arrival has calmed your racing heart and in the back of your mind the way his breaths are already slowing to match yours. “It’s okay, they’re still eating. We’ve got time.” Your hand finds his, something that has become nearly second nature while dancing but feels completely foreign in this moment, as you lead him to a quiet corner away from the thoroughfare of the entrance. He follows without question, and it isn’t until you reach for the strips of fabric that he reacts with a barely audible inhale.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “May I?”

He nods. Slowly, the scent of woodsy cologne fills your senses as you step into his space and once again feel the gravitational pull that keeps you coming back to him like this. Your hands work methodically through the loops, keeping your attention on the tie so you don’t have to think about the way he’s looking down at you - or just watching for his own education - and the complete lack of breath across your forehead as his chest stills beneath your touch.

“It’s a little more complex than tying off a suture, huh?” you joke softly. It earns you a sort of laugh, a quiet exhale through his nose that tickles across your scalp.

“Should have known you’d be good at this. Everyone says you’re the person to go to for getting stitches done.”

“Thanks,” you smirk, “but there are better ways to spend time with me than getting yourself cut.”

“I know,” he says, far too sincere for the cautious teasing and casual flirting you’ve both been sticking to. You risk a glance up; his face is cast in sharp shadows by the light behind his head, highlights picking out the curve of his jaw and the flash of copper-white stubble across it, and his hazel eyes are wide in the dim light and unmistakably trained on yours, or rather just below. Your attention quickly drops back to your hands as you finish the tie. “You look incredible, by the way,” he adds suddenly, low enough that you don’t know whether you’d hear it if you weren’t standing so close.

Your heart thumps hard enough to make you breathless. There’s not an ounce, not even a speck, of his usual playfulness in the words. “Thank you,” you say again, more hesitantly. Despite the temptation to change your mind out of spite, you did settle on your initial choice of dress: a simple burgundy gown with a flowing skirt that you don’t wear as often for competitions compared to some more intricate designs. Of course you’re aware it doesn’t look bad by any stretch, but you’re so used to seeing yourself in rhinestones and chiffon or feathered sleeves that this feels less than… well, incredible. And of course, there’s the fact that it is indeed red, not bright. Just like the flower affixed to his chest. He chose the colour of it; he knew he was right. He knew. Your cheeks grow warm, as he predicted, and your hands shake slightly as you pull away to admire your handiwork. “So do you, now. Not that you didn’t before.”

“I’m just glad it still fits,” he deflects as he tests the fit of the tie, fidgets with his cuffs, fastens and unfastens his jacket. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was nervous. Maybe he is. This is so different to anything you’ve known him to do, but he’s always so collected that you hadn’t considered that this might be what gets to him. “I haven’t worn it since…” The rest goes unspoken. You both know why. “Well, I only wear three S’s and ‘suit’ isn’t one of them.”

You frown. “Three S’s?”

He makes a face, a small twitch of embarrassment that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. “Scrubs, sweats and SWAT gear.”

You let out a laugh of genuine shocked amusement. “That’s so you,” you tell him in the unfiltered wake of the statement. It’s not something you’d have ever had the confidence to say until right this second. It’s hard to believe it’s only been a few weeks since you felt like you no longer knew him at all, and now you recognise the details that make him him far more easily than you would have ever done before. It’s a strange sort of agony to realise so late that you never stopped collecting those details, only that you had nowhere to put them except for the jumbled collection of feelings you were too scared to categorise. Now it feels like you’re offering them up, waiting to see if he’ll take them from you and knowing deep down that he’s already bearing the weight. All you need is for him to hold out his own in return, to confirm your near-certainty that he has feelings to give.

You reach out once more to tuck his shirt collar back into his jacket. This time he doesn’t flinch. “I think you can add a fourth S to your list. This really… suits you.”

He rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

You allow a smile of your own to take hold. “We should probably get in there before anyone notices we’re missing or I say something else dorky.” Or something far more intimate.

You’re halfway out of the corner, all too aware that until now you’ve barely moved from where you were standing so close, when he catches you by the wrist. “Y/n, wait!” He seems as taken aback by the urgency in his voice as you and his hand quickly recedes to scrub at the back of his neck, a gesture he’s no doubt picked up from Robby. “I, um…” In place of words, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small box, offering it to you with overly practised ease just as he would a bandage or a pair of shears. Whatever it is, he’s trying to seem more casual about it than he is.

You carefully pop open the lid, and your breath hitches. Inside, nestled against deep blue tissue paper, is a corsage, sage green eucalyptus leaves with a fluffy red and white carnation at its heart. It’s only the threat of ruining your makeup before the dance that stops tears from springing to your eyes. “Oh my god…” you gasp, gaze flicking up to where his is carefully trained on the flower.

“Is this still something people do for dances?” he asks tentatively. “Or am I just old fashioned?”

“No it’s…” A lump has formed in your throat that you can’t bring yourself to swallow. “Jack, it’s beautiful.”

The tiny nod he gives is more to himself than anything. With slightly trembling hands, he reaches into the box and lifts the band, fingers warm against your skin as he turns your wrist to tie it in place. “Too tight?”

“Perfect,” you beam, linking your arm delicately through his so the flower stands out against his sleeve. He glances down at it once more before meeting your eyes. There’s a tenderness to his gaze, unexpected yet familiar, and for a moment it seems like he’s going to say something, but then he blinks and leads you towards the doorway of the hall.

Jack shouldn’t be as disappointed as he is by how quickly the two of you are tugged apart once you enter the room. Really, this whole thing has been more time with you than he could have hoped for, especially having it be just you and him alone, so he can’t begrudge you time with your friends when you’re swept away by Mel, Santos and Whitaker. He simply watches you go and relishes in the apologetic backwards glance you give him. Maybe he should have told you everything while you were out there, goodness knows he came close with the way you looked up at him. You probably already know - you must have felt his heart pounding when you stood so close you might have even heard it. The confession will have to wait once again, because it isn’t long before his own bubble is broached by a familiar presence easing itself into the space beside him.

“You don’t scrub up half bad.”

He turns, met by Robby giving him an approving once over that masks something else. “Yeah, this is-”

“I know.” His friend places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Of course he knows, he helped pick out the suit in the first place. Anything other than black - it’s an anniversary dinner, Jack, not a fucking funeral. That came later. He still has that suit too, but it’s not one he’ll ever wear again. “Really pulling out all the stops to win this, aren’t you?”

Jack shrugs dismissively. “It’s a fancy dinner.”

Robby gives him another look, the thing behind the first one rising closer to the surface. Scepticism, amusement, an understanding far too certain for Jack’s liking. “Sure, blame the dinner we’re not even eating. I’m sure it has nothing at all to do with the goddess who was on your arm five minutes ago.”

“Fine, it was her idea. This whole thing is her world, man, and she was so excited about it.” Neither of them mention him forsaking his own comfort to make you happy. They don’t need to; one look at the bright smile on your face as you twirl your dress for your friends compared to the tight set of Jack’s jaw as he adjusts his jacket again is enough. This isn’t something he’s made for, not something he thinks he will ever settle into comfortably, while you make it look like carrying the attention of the whole room is the lightest burden in the world. He knows without a doubt that Robby called you a goddess just to make a point rather than out of his own interest, but he’s absolutely right. Even in the depths of the Pitt, hair a mess, scrubs rumpled and makeup replaced by exhaustion, he’s always thought you were pretty, but tonight? You look positively radiant. Ethereal, even. Your hair is styled in waves loosely pinned back, your jewellery catches the light in a way that makes you almost glow, and the fabric of your dress might as well have been painted onto your torso with how well it fits. How he’s going to make it through the dance, let alone the night, without tripping over his own feet just to get another glance at you, he has no idea.

“And the matching corsage? There’s no way that’s a thing they do past homecoming.”

“People still wear corsages,” Jack mutters defensively.

“Okay, maybe. Then at what point in the last three years did you finally learn how to do a bow tie?”

“Piss off,” Jack mutters offensively.

“Sorry,” Robby grins, eyes glittering in a way that suggests he’s anything but. “Wouldn’t want to put you off your dance. You know, the thing you agreed to with practically no other incentive? We both know that y/n taking part is not mandatory, and Ellis has been around long enough to know that too. She didn't have to suggest it, and you didn't have to say yes.”

Jack says nothing.

“You’re not just in it for the day off, are you? This is about her.” the other man’s voice dips, just the right side of caring to not be so sly.

He turns to his friend with a deadpan stare. “You’ve been talking to Ellis.”

Now it’s Robby’s turn to shrug dismissively. “Didn’t need to, but good to know it’s not just me.” After a moment, he relents. “You seem happier.”

Jack meets your eyes across the room, and can’t help the smile that begins to spread as you give a shy wave. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “It’s been good, spending time together again. It’s just getting harder not to slip up after I’ve spent so long trying not to-”

“Jack.” Robby’s voice is firm but not harsh.

“What?”

“You’re allowed to have feelings.”

His gaze drops to his shoes. “No, I know, I know.” He’s heard it all before: his life isn’t over, he deserves to find love again, it’s what his late wife would have wanted, and so on and so forth. He made his peace with that as soon as he realised how much more letting you go had hurt than the potential heartbreak keeping you might have caused. He’s been allowing himself to feel for months, but he still needed to find the right moment to- His train of thought grinds to a halt as Shen drifts past, placing a glass of champagne in Jack’s hand before he can protest. Still, he grips it like a lifeline as his eyes find you again, now deep in conversation with McKay and Javadi.

“So what’s to slip up about?”

The words leave him in a low hiss before he can stop them. “Because I don’t need everyone realising I’m in love with her before I can even work up the nerve to tell her that!”

Robby’s eyes widen. “Well, fuck.”

A tiny part of Jack relaxes, giving him enough space to throw up the shield of his usual dry wit like it can in any way protect him from the damage he’s already done. “If that’s your reaction, I can’t have been doing too badly at hiding it.”

His friend recovers far too quickly. “With respect, brother, you’re an idiot.” Understandably, that statement is met somewhere between denial and indignation. “Holding yourself back around her hasn’t been fooling anyone, and the sudden switch these past few weeks? I’m surprised people haven’t started placing bets. I mean, if you think you’re in too deep, you should see the way she looks at you when she thinks you can’t see.” That gets through to him. He’s been trying so hard to keep his feelings contained that the one person who needs to see them is the only one who hasn’t been given the chance. Robby continues, half-joking, “Just tell her or so help me I’ll transfer her back to the night shift until you get your shit together.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Robby shakes his head in exasperation, forehead creasing. “Why do I even get involved?”

Jack raises a brow. “Because you’re a masochist and a nosy bastard.” In spite of himself, he looks for you again in the crowd. If his secret is out there, if everybody suspects, there’s no reason to keep hiding. Now he can take every opportunity he can to drink you in. Instead, what he sees is Ellis at the bar whispering very animatedly to Shen, who immediately glances at the other two attendings. When his eyes meet Jack’s, he looks away a little too quickly. Great.

Shen finds Ellis alone near the bar and clinks his glass of champagne (one that is definitely above the ‘one per person’ stipulation of the welcome table) against the neck of her fresh beer bottle. The room swirls around them both, the chattering of a dozen voices and the low trill of background music creating a bubble around their hushed conversation.

“So what do we reckon?” he ponders aloud, leaning back against the counter. “What are the odds of y/n being lured back to the dark side, or has Abbot scared her off for good?”

Ellis sucks her teeth. “Oh, you do not want to be betting against me on this one.”

He turns at her tone, eyes bright. “You know something, don't you?”

“I know she's into him.”

A reel of emotions flickers across his face: amazement, vindication, realisation, shock. “Is that why she moved to days? Did something happen between them?”

“Nah, it was just better hours for her dance stuff. She didn't even figure it out until this whole thing.”

“Damn,” he shakes his head, “I thought for sure they were a thing, I mean you saw what they were like with each other.” He pauses, sets his glass down. “Wait, he is into her, isn't he?”

Ellis feigns decency. “I swore I wouldn't tell anyone.”

Shen grins. “So that's a yes. I told you. Oh, I totally called this.”

“Yeah yeah, fine, I'll pay for your coffee this week. Just keep your voice down.”

“Nobody else knows?”

“Pretty sure Robby’s figured it out. If not, I think he might be finding out.” The pair of them glance at the older attendings across the room, quickly looking away when they catch Abbot’s eye.

“Do they know?”

She shakes her head.

He processes that bombshell for a moment, then leans in conspiratorially. “Twenty bucks says they realise once it's over that they're gonna miss spending time together and confess.”

She smirks. “Thirty, and they're gonna very clearly clock each other mid-dance.”

“You're on.”

The evening is progressing rapidly. The board have had their starters; some of the heads of department have been brought in to present a list of deeply uninteresting statistics about the hospital from the past year; the main course has been served, with a small buffet set up to one side for you and the other dancers; now, Gloria is standing in front of the stage with a microphone to introduce the pre-dinner entertainment. You and Jack finally managed to gravitate towards each other over your food, and you stand at each other’s sides on the edge of the crowd of your coworkers. Javadi is the only one not amongst you - she and a couple of friends she’s roped in to help with the filming are around the dance floor, setting up phones on tripods and checking in with the DJ. The whole concept is being explained again for the benefit of the board, or rather their families who won’t have already heard it at work. Charity fundraiser, day and night shift, tiktok, engagement, optics, community image, yada yada yada. The words fade into a meaningless blur, not least because it’s all corporate nonsense but moreso because of the panic that is beginning to claw its way up your spine and into your hands, weaving themselves together.

“I don't know if I can do this.”

You've never been nervous before a dance, not like this. The stakes are low, there's no trophy to add to your mantle and you can survive without the extra day off, yet the intensity of the situation is through the roof. You know without a doubt that once you set foot on that dance floor you will be utterly in the zone, that the only things left in existence will be you, Jack, the hardwood beneath your feet, and those godforsaken cameras capturing every moment of your rapidly developing crisis in high definition. In that moment, you aren't sure whether you'll be able to look at him without your feelings being laid bare across your face. Everyone is going to see. Jack is going to see.

“If you can't, there's no hope for the rest of us,” the man murmurs beside you.

You shake your head, feeling your earrings brush against your neck at the movement. “I’m serious, Jack, I-”

“Hey,” he says in that grunt your brain considers synonymous with the night shift, “we’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

Your racing pulse stutters, the pounding of it leaps into your throat, and you gasp in a tiny breath. When his knuckles tap delicately against your hand, you reach out and lace your fingers into his with a squeeze. He squeezes back, not letting go. Not caring who notices. You don’t care either. He’s noticed you, and that’s all that matters.

The range of dances presented is certainly interesting, by which you mean that there is a significant disparity in how seriously the different pairings have taken the competition. As you expected, Dana and Lena have gone all out on a chic ballet-esque routine, and Jack gives you an ‘I told you so’ look when Shen and Emma perform something remarkably well choreographed, while Ellis and Mel are unexpectedly good at their little swing number. Most of the others have more fun with it: Whitaker and Crus produce cowboy hats and boots from somewhere to line dance to Shania Twain, while Robby and Walsh take the comically indifferent approach of giving twin deadpan stares to the camera as they perform the Macarena to a short medley of songs (none of which are the actual Macarena). By the time Gloria takes the stage for the final introduction, the atmosphere in the room is electric, everyone else’s worries eased and yours elevated.

The sound of your name ringing out through the microphone brings you crashing back into the moment. “-one of our residents and a competitive dancer, accompanied by night shift attending Dr Jack Abbot.” The room fills with cheers and applause echoing off the curved ceiling. This is it.

Jack leads you to the dance floor with your hand atop his, feeling every single spark of electricity the contact sends up his arm. The sensation grows stronger when he positions his other hand as usual, wrapped under your arm to rest on your shoulder blade, and discovers that the way your dress dips means that, instead of fabric, his fingertips rest against your bare skin. As his breath catches, the nerves you've been feeling finally making their way across into his system, you glance up through your lashes and squeeze his hand. He prays it’s not the last time he gets to feel you doing that. The two of you begin with the slow pace of the music, moving as one round the space. You’re still leading - Jack never quite got the hang of how you give off all those little signals even if he’s learned to read them like it’s second nature. Maybe it’s just that he knows how to read you, has done ever since you first joined the night shift. Not for the first time, he wonders if you’d consider coming back, no longer in spite of him but because of him. It feels like too much to hope for even as you’re in his arms, guiding him with the same wordless confidence with which you assisted him through the hundreds of procedures you performed together. He’d give anything for more of that. More of this.

The room is almost silent save for the music and the rhythmic tapping of your feet on the wood. Everyone is transfixed, none more so than Jack. He's barely aware of the cameras, the faces around him are blurring into the background, and all that is left is you. The way your dress brushes against his left shin as you press into each turn, the sweet heady mist of your perfume in his nostrils, the warmth of your hand in his and seeping through his sleeve, the contented smile making its home on your glossy lips, the low tickle of your voice against his cheek as you whisper steps.

“Underarm turn,” you instruct, more a reminder of what you’re about to do than anything. Your hand loosens on his bicep and he shifts his own from your back as you spin out, twisting through his adjusted grip to swirl under his arm and back into his waiting embrace. The crowd of your peers alights with cheers and calls of encouragement, but he takes no notice. In fact, he barely even notices the ball of pride that is bouncing around in his chest at having successfully accomplished his first move of the night. All of his attention is on the way your face lights up until you’re practically glowing. Where he is the earth, you are the sun, so bright it sometimes hurts to look at you. Hurts more to look away, he's found. Whatever he tries, shutting himself off or telling himself this is just a temporary reprieve for his overflowing feelings, he knows he has been helplessly tied to your orbit since the day you set foot in the ER as much as he is physically in this moment.

You’re watching him curiously, something in your expression more intense than the concentration he’s grown used to every time you dance. He worries it’s because this is the first time that he’s fully given up on trying to look like he’s not hopelessly in love with you. He hopes that’s why.

The first chorus is about to start. “Open roll, ready?” you murmur. So now I come to you- He nods, already releasing your hand. -with open arms. More cheers erupt as the music crescendoes and you gracefully open out towards the hand on your back, spin across his chest into the other and back. He’d cheer too if he wasn’t so busy making sure his feet keep in time with your own and his body follows behind. As you settle back into position, he fights to keep his pulse steady in preparation for what he’s about to do. It’s risky. Quite possibly the most risky thing he’s ever done, and that’s saying something considering he does SWAT shifts for fun. That questioning look returns to your face, set in place for the whole next verse as you slip back into a normal travelling waltz.

It’s a good job he’s known this song by heart for years; now it diverts almost nothing from his focus to pull you a breath closer and sing along, quiet enough that nobody but you will ever hear. “But now that you’ve come back, turned night into day, I need you to stay.”

He knows his eyes are shimmering with everything he’s no longer holding back, but he doesn’t expect to see yours meeting his with the same shine. The question painted across your face breaks open like the dawn, realisation and relief and something far more raw all at once. He can process that more once this is over, in any of the hundred times he already knows he’s going to replay the memory of tonight, but for now he has barely two bars to execute the risk. Nothing like overwhelming pressure to tip him over the edge. That’s where his soul lives.

“Alternating roll,” he whispers firmly. Your eyes widen, but there’s no time for you to object. So now I come to you- He releases your hand, feeling the press of your back against his splayed fingers as you follow instinctively. -with open arms. Whereas before you had spun back across his chest to settle in his other arm, now he follows your movement to pass across your front and turn into your touch. Your eyes are on his, your jaw slack, as you continue the roll across him again before returning to your original position.

The room erupts.

The cheers are so deafening that you completely miss the next line of the chorus, clinging to Jack to keep you both in what you’re pretty sure is time with the temporarily non-existent music. You have to assume that your sense of tempo is as good as you believe, because between this and the way your heartbeat is thundering behind every pulse point you have, you can’t be sure. You’re not even aware of the cameras, any more. All you know is that Jack is looking at you like you’re the only other person in the room, and that for all that you were convinced you’d finally figured him out he continues to be full of surprises.

“I never taught you that one,” you say breathily, when what you mean is am I reading this right?

“I watched a YouTube video,” he says evenly, when what he means is yes you are.

“I can't believe you thought about it that much,” you let out a laugh that's more of an exhale, when what you mean is I can't believe you cared that much.

“Of course I did,” he gives a smile that's more of a sigh, when that's exactly what he means.

The music slows and fades. Jack runs his tongue over his lower lip as he slides his hand down to your lower back and drops you into a low dip. It's unrehearsed, instinctive, gentle… romantic.

Jack gently brings you back to your feet and releases your hand, watching your dress billow around you like a rose in bloom as you twirl into a curtsy, and he follows your lead with a modest bow. Gloria returns to the microphone, spouting something about voting until Wednesday and enjoying drinks and a disco in the meantime, but he barely hears her. How could he when you return, unprompted, to his side and smile up at him with more pride than he’s been shown in a long time? It takes all his willpower not to kiss you right then and there, even with everyone watching. But he knows he won’t hold out for long, not with you looking at him like that, and he’s not about to miss his chance to finally, truly fix what he should have done months ago. So he takes you by the hand and leads you off the dance floor. The first few people, Ellis and Robby and Shen, clap you both on the shoulders with shocked congratulations, parting to let you into the crowd. He keeps moving. Mel gushes about how amazing you were, Santos makes a remark about you being hot, which Jack silently agrees with, but still he ploughs on. Eventually, the others catch on, and the whole group parts until he pulls you, unprotesting, through the double doors and out of the room.

Compared to the ballroom, the corridor is deathly quiet, so much so that you can hear your pulse thundering in what feels like triple time. One beat for the exertion of the dance, one beat for the adrenaline of having performed for the first time in front of the people you are most close with, and one beat for the way Jack is looking at you like you've just taken the world apart and rebuilt it around him.

“Ellis told me why you left the night shift.”

You falter. Whatever you expected him to say, that isn't it. “I'm sorry, I should have told you at the time.”

His brows furrow as he steps closer. You watch the way his chest heaves, still coming down from the dance, and how his eyes are fading from wild to focused. “No no, you didn't owe me an explanation, but I do owe you an apology. I had no right to take your decision personally, and I should have just spoken to you about it instead of pushing you away. My bullshit excuse was that I was protecting myself from another heartbreak,” he explains, subconsciously fidgeting with his ring, “but losing your friendship hurt just as much and what's worse is I hurt you too and I am so sorry.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Jack…” you exhale, voice coming out barely above a whisper. Seeing him so vulnerable is almost overwhelming: it feels like seeing him for the first time yet also rediscovering the version of him you first fell in love with even without realising that was the word for it. Any resentment you held is long gone, but in the wake of his confession all you have left is regret that you never even considered his change in demeanour coming from any place other than anger. Your heart breaks a little even as it swells.

“I know these past few weeks hasn't been nearly enough to make up for how I treated you, and I'll understand if you don't want to go any further than this or even go back to how things were, but letting you leave without telling you how I feel was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made and I'm not about to make it again.”

“Then kiss me,” you say even quieter.

His lips are soft.

You hadn't expected that to be the most surprising part of this; that honour should have gone to the kiss itself, but in the whirlwind of the evening and everything that has preceded it you find yourself considering it a sort of inevitability, not something you were hoping for but waiting for. It had taken you until the dream to realise you'd wanted it, longer to realise you'd been allowed to want it, but the relief that washes over you at the sensation makes it clear it's been building for a lot longer.

Jack pulls away after the first feather-light kiss as though giving you a chance to react, to walk away or to-

Your lips meet his again, deliberate and determined. His hands lift from where they've been hovering at your side to pull you in by your waist, while yours cling to his arm and rest on the back of his neck to keep him close. The moment you do so, giving unspoken permission, is like lighting a match. Suddenly he's pressing into you, kissing fast and deep and hungry, enough to make you gasp.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You hum your assent, leaning up to kiss him again, but he slows. One hand leaves your waist to cup your jaw, thumb stroking tenderly across your chin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he sighs against your lips, the sensation making you shiver.

“I think I’m starting to realise,” you smile into him.

“Ever since you set the intubation record.”

You think you physically feel your heart skip a beat. He’d met you before then in day shift crossovers, sure, but at that point you’d barely worked two weeks on nights with him. You grip his arm a little tighter and wind your fingers into the short curls at the nape of his neck. “Seriously?” you ask breathily, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze without leaving his hold.

“And when you came in dressed up for Halloween,” he continues, “and when you brought in turkey sandwiches and apple pies so that anyone who couldn’t go to family for Thanksgiving didn’t feel like they were missing out, and when we went on that night out in December and you wore that hot little dress, and when we had that games night and you couldn’t stop laughing at me trying to cheat at Clue and then you and Shen got so competitive in Pictionary that you nearly launched your pencil at his head, and when you stayed up half the night with that five year old boy with appendicitis to wait for his parents to arrive, and-”

A sharp inhale from you cuts him off. “That was after I switched back to days.”

He leans down and kisses you again, just once. “I know, that’s what made me realise I was wrong to think I could ever get over you.”

“Ellis did try to tell me you never stopped caring.”

“She’s right,” he says, hand sliding up from your jaw to wrap gently around the side of your neck. Suddenly, he pauses. “When did she say that?”

“Last week.” Oh. Hang on. “When did she talk to you about me?”

He makes a face, like he’s been caught out. “Right after she got us paired up. I made her swear not to tell anyone.”

Your jaw drops, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling up from your throat. “Not much wonder she was so unsurprised when I said I was in love with you!”

“Oh you are, are you?” he says teasingly, tugging you closer by the waist.

You roll your eyes and kiss him again in response. He returns the gesture, subtly providing pressure until you part your lips with a breath, and his tongue gives a testing flick against the opening. When it meets yours, you devour the taste of him - first the lingering buzz of champagne, then the ingrained tang of late night coffee, and finally something warm and sweet that you know is simply Jack. He drinks you in too, every sensation from the hint of berry in your lip gloss to the sugary lilt of whatever cocktail you were sipping before the dance to the salt from the buffet fries. He kisses you like each one is worth ten he could have given had he only admitted his feelings from the start, and you reciprocate with forgiveness in every touch and an apology of your own for ever believing he might have hated you. The pace picks up until you’re practically levitating, raised onto your tiptoes and back arched to meet him as he pressed down into you with growing fervency. Your hands drift anywhere they can: through his curls, across the firm muscle of his chest, up the curve of his jaw, around his ass to pull him impossibly closer. When you do so, he half-growls into your mouth, and that sends even more heat pooling in your core than the feeling of him pressing right where you need him, noticeable even through the several layers of fabric surrounding you.

“Unless you're desperate to get back to the dance floor,” he pants as you break apart for air, his breath fanning across your face as warm as the rest of him “what do you say we get out of here? Head back to my place?”

The implication of his words is not lost on you, not when paired with the slight strain in his trousers and the way he's barely holding himself back from grinding it against the front of your dress. The thought makes you twitch, but practicality wins for once. “Or mine? Some of us do have work in the morning,” you chide playfully, “and I'd quite like to turn up in something other than today's clothes or a fucking ballgown.”

He laughs quietly, the sound scratching an itch in your chest. “Oh come on, don't tell me you're not a little bit tempted to see how Robby would react if you showed up in this. And you're going to kick me out at, what, six in the morning?”

“No, of course not, you can just… stay,” you trail off with all the nervous energy of someone hearing the word ‘quiet’ on shift, like just by speaking it into existence you've doomed it. He gazes down at you softer than ever before, while you take in the way he shifts his weight that you know has nothing to do with trying to relieve the pressure on his leg. “If it makes a difference,” you offer hesitantly, wondering whether out of everything this is somehow what crosses the line, “I have a set of crutches at home from an accident a couple of years ago. In case that's why you wanted to go to yours.”

Jack feels like he might explode from how considerate that is. Not that he'd have expected any less from you, but it still takes him by surprise in a way that makes his stomach flip. How he managed to keep his feelings under control all this time, he no longer remembers. He kisses you, once. Hard. When he speaks again, his voice is more gruff than before. “I've got spares in my trunk.”

“But if we're going to mine anyway-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head and a look that's darker than the sky beyond the distant window. “Here's what's going to happen.” The shudder you give at how easily his voice slips back into its casual authority makes his cheeks warm. “You're going to go back in there, make my excuses for me, and spend some time with your friends. I'm going to grab my crutches and play whatever card will get us a room upstairs.”

Your jaw drops. This is actually happening. “I- why?”

“Do you want the nice answer or the honest answer?”

“The nice answer.”

He smiles and places a gentle, languid kiss where your jaw meets your neck. “Because the music and the dancing and you looking absolutely divine have got me feeling romantic, and after all the effort you've put into this you deserve to be looked after.” He trails his lips down to your exposed collarbone for emphasis.

Your nails scratch contentedly against his scalp as you sigh, before pulling back and raising an eyebrow. “And the honest answer?”

“Is that I've been thinking about this for months, and-”

“It's been three and a half weeks.”

“Months,” he corrects just firmly enough to show how much he means it, slotting his hips back against yours so you can feel how much he means it too, “and I've not spent all that time losing my mind over you to settle for spending our first night in your apartment's double.”

The look you give him is obstinate, almost offended, but the gleam in your eye and the way your breath catches gives you away. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my bed!”

He shrugs as he leans down again, boxing you against the wall with one arm and lips hovering just out of reach of your skin as they drift up your jawline towards your ear, voice dropping so low it comes more from his chest than his mouth. “I don’t doubt it, but since we're here it seems a shame to pass up the opportunity. Just you and me, room service, and a king size bed so we can really…” his knee finds yours through the layers of your dress and nudges them apart, “spread out.”

You buckle.

Instantly, his hand tightens on your hip and the other leaves the wall to wrap across the back of your shoulders. Yours find his chest and the pulse cantering at the centre of it.

“Easy, Twinkletoes,” he hums, “can't have you falling apart before you get back on that dance floor.”

“You're enjoying this,” you say with a dry amusement.

“Of course I am, I mean look at you.” He does, like you're a rainbow after a storm. A fondness seeps into the inky black desire filling his eyes, and his touch softens.“And you’re okay with this? I promise it’s not a problem if-”

“Jack, please.” You don’t mean for the word to come out in as much of a whine as it does, but you’re breathless and bewitched and not above begging.

He smooths his hand over your hip, ruffling the fabric of the skirt. “Alright, good. Your phone is on vibrate, right? Give me 15, 20 minutes and then I'll send you the room number.”

Your dress has pockets. He knows this; he watched how excitedly you showed them off the moment your friends complimented it. So when you give him a coy smile and slip your phone down the front of your dress until it's flush beneath your cleavage, he fails to bite back an involuntary groan as much as he fails to stop the blood rushing south of where it's been colouring his cheeks. “Fuck,” he gasps roughly through the sound breaking out of his chest, “make that ten minutes.”

Your mind is in such a euphoric haze that you barely even notice Parker waving you over when you slip back into the hall. In fact, it takes her standing right in front of you for you to even process that you’re back.

“Where’s loverboy?” she grins.

“Oh he, um, had to go.” A valiant but utterly terrible attempt at making his excuses, as he put it.

She raises a brow. “No comeback for ‘loverboy’, huh?”

You’d huff if you weren’t so far above cloud nine. “You know full well I’ve got nothing.”

“Oh I know,” she laughs, leading you towards the dance floor. “Shen owes me thirty bucks.”

The man in question pretends to glare at you as you slot into the group, but he’s clearly delighted. “You’ve been oblivious for months, you couldn’t have waited five more minutes?” he shouts over the music.

“Are you kidding?” Parker yells back. “That shit was hot, I fell a bit in love with both of you and I wasn’t even involved!”

You all burst out laughing, and for a while you allow yourself to bask in the loud music and the procession of hugs from your friends and the freeing sensation of finally having the weight taken from your shoulders. The group has spread to accommodate almost everyone, and as Shen drifts away to get another round of drinks you find yourself in the centre of the cluster with Crus, Santos and Whitaker.

“I didn’t know you could dance!” you tell your former night shift teammate.

Crus smirks. “And I didn’t know you had the hots for Abbot!”

“Yeah, right,” Santos scoffs beside you. “I think the only person who didn’t know was him.”

Whitaker nods, moving surprisingly fluidly to the music. “You’re a really good dancer,” he tells you with a smile, and you’re grateful for the appreciation of your skills rather than the gossip about your relationship status.

“So are you!”

“My mom dragged me to a few classes when I was younger.”

Your relief at the normality of the conversation is short lived, when Santos leans in again. “That’s two things you guys have in common.” You both frown at her. “You can both dance, and you both want to fuck an attending.”

Whitaker turns bright red and splutters out a protest.

Santos playfully punches his shoulder. “I’m messing with you, Fuckleberry. You on the other hand…”

You’re almost certain you’ve turned at least pink, but thankfully not as much as the poor boy opposite. “Is it even worth me trying to deny it?”

“Nope.”

As if on cue, your phone vibrates against your chest. Nobody else hears it over the music, they can’t possibly know for sure, but it’s clear none of them believe you when you mutter something about an early night before work. Parker in particular gives you an all too knowing look when you go for a hug goodbye, telling you to thank her for her interference in the morning.

By the time you make it to the third floor, your jewellery is in your pocket and your heart is in your throat. It’s mostly excitement, the satisfaction of all your longing finally reaching fruition, but there’s a touch of that trepidation you felt arriving outside Jack’s house that first night. What if, while you’ve been gone, he’s changed his mind? What if he changes his mind afterwards? Your steps slow.

Jack is waiting in the doorway of the room when you approach, silhouetted by the soft light of the bedside lamps. He’s ditched his jacket and shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and has been visibly running a hand through his hair. Were it not for the bow tie still immaculately in place, he’d look so attractively relaxed. He still looks attractive, of course, enough to make your knees grow weak. Looks like he’s not having second thoughts yet, at least. The moment you close the door behind you, he's pressing you up against it, chest heaving against your own.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets, voice low and gravelly.

“Hi,” you murmur, silently cursing the shy wobble to such a small word. You pray he doesn’t notice.

He does. “Everything okay?” he asks gently as he pulls back, taking one of your hands in his. You twist your fingers together without realising, and he latches on to the gesture and its unspoken meaning immediately. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” His thumb soothes over your knuckles. “I won’t hold it against you if you’ve changed your mind, we can have a drink and go to bed, or I can go or-”

The startled huff of silent laughter that spikes up from your lungs takes you both equally by surprise. “I was worried about you changing your mind,” you admit, the burden of doubt already less heavy on your chest. “I don’t want you to regret…” you fight for the right word as you wave your free hand between you bodies, at the room, at the situation as a whole, “...this.”

“Are you kidding?” he shakes his head affectionately and presses a kiss to your forehead. “My only regret is not doing this sooner. That I’m less confident on,” he hitches a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the bed, where you catch a glimpse of a bottle of champagne on ice and the glint of a metallic condom packet on the side table, “but that’s nothing against you, I’m just out of practice and I, well, I want this to be good.”

It’s overwhelmingly endearing to hear him speak so candidly, even now. Especially now. You squeeze his hand where it’s woven in yours. “We can go slowly, if you want.”

He smirks, gaze darkening in a way that makes your stomach flutter and your lips part involuntarily. “Not this time.”

He brings his lips to yours with all the hunger of before, one hand cushioning the back of your head. The combination of the impact and the raw, unrestrained passion makes you gasp, and this time he wastes not a moment in seizing the opportunity to glide his tongue over yours. You’re suddenly grateful for the solid wood at your back to keep you upright. You moan his name into the kiss, at once overcome yet desperate for more. When he pulls back, smile light but eyes dark, you reach for his bow tie.

“Couldn’t figure out how to un-tie it either?” you tease, fingers toying with the wings.

“Didn’t want to spoil all your hard work,” he bites back.

“Well then,” you say in a low voice, “allow me.”

You work slowly, tugging apart the knot so deliberately that even your own self-restraint begins to waver, but it’s worth it to see the way each movement brings Jack closer to the edge of falling apart beneath your touch. By the time you move onto the buttons of his shirt, he’s slack-jawed and barely breathing, his hands twitching at your waist where he’s steering you towards the bed, and the hazel of his eyes is almost entirely eclipsed by his pupils. The second you undo the last one, he shrugs out of the fabric at an impressive speed in order to return his grip to your sides. Finally, you have an answer to the question you posed yourself weeks ago: how many freckles does he have that you can’t see? The answer, apparently, is more than you could possibly count without losing track. Just the glimpse you got on his shoulders in the dance studio would take you all night, let alone the familiar constellations of his face and arms, but now you also get to see how they also spread all the way down his back and across his chest. You’re transfixed.

“Sit,” he commands gruffly, and if you hadn’t already been willing to comply the sound makes your legs give out beneath you. You've barely hit the mattress before he's sinking to his knees in front of you, making your breath hitch. The look he gives is just the right blend of amused, smug and affectionate as he pushes your dress up layer by layer.

“Fucking hell, you're gift wrapped,” he chuckles. You expect him to keep going, to move closer to the need building rapidly at your centre, but to your surprise he simply starts to unbuckle your heels and massage your ankles.

“I am capable of taking off my own shoes, you know,” you say, trying to hide your excitement behind your sarcasm.

“I know,” he replies plainly, “but I want to do it. I…” he hesitates for a second, gaze dipping, “I meant what I said about you deserving to be looked after. The last thing I want is for you to think I'm just here to have sex and move on.”

You shake your head, torn between being flustered by his ministrations and moved by his continued sincerity. “I don't think that at all.”

“Good,” he smiles, stripping out of his suit trousers to detach his prosthesis. You get a brief, enticing glance of where he’s already half-hard again in his boxers, before he settles back into position, hands skimming up your legs to rest on your thighs so he can lean up and kiss you softly. “I'm not always good at knowing where to put my feelings, and it's been a while since I've even had those kinds of feelings to put somewhere-”

Your thoughts drift to the smooth metal of his ring against your skin, and you bring a hand up to tenderly cup his cheek. “Jack, it's okay, I promise. You don't have to justify yourself, not to me.”

His cheek nuzzles into your touch, lips pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. “I do if it means I get to tell you I love you.”

That earns a small sigh from you, a relief you didn't realise you'd been waiting for. “Oh you do, do you?” you echo.

Your breath is stolen again at the way his resolve hardens in his gaze and in his grip on your thighs. “Let me prove it.”

“You've been doing a pretty good job at that already,” you tease. “I mean, you bought me dinner twice, I'd say we're even.”

He lets out a guttural groan; the sound of it ripples through the quiet of the room, debasing the luxury of the surroundings and heightening the tension that has been building between you for the past few hours, weeks - months, even, if you'd taken the time to notice. You fight the urge to squirm. “Oh, sweetheart,” he intones, “that doesn't even come close to being enough. I'm gonna show you exactly how much you mean to me, even if it takes all night.”

Jack parts your thighs with soft but persistent fingers, but once again he makes no move towards the growing damp patch in your panties. Instead, he slots himself into the space he has created and leans forward, pressing slow, biting kisses across your exposed collarbone as he wraps his arms around to unzip your dress, just as tantalisingly patient as you were with his tie. As much as you enjoyed teasing him, being on the receiving end is torture. You’re practically vibrating beneath his touch when he finally lifts your hips away from the mattress to slide the fabric down your body. In fact, you’d normally be shy about being so exposed, stripped down to your bra and panties, but you’re more focused on trying to guide his hands across your body so you can feel the electricity of his touch thrumming beneath your skin.

“Easy, angel,” he grumbles affectionately, the new pet name sending a shiver through you that he watches with a smirk. “Told you I’d look after you, didn’t I?”

You let out a small noise of disapproval and watch his resolve quiver across his expression. “Jack,” you whine again, this time intentional and only slightly ashamed - if it gets him to cave and finally touch you where you need him, it will be worth it.

To your frustration and excitement, he sits back and raises an eyebrow. “Be patient.”

Pleading isn't going to work. Perhaps a new approach. “Make me,” you retort.

He flips you onto your back so quickly you gasp. When he falters at the sound, you nod enthusiastically for him to keep going, longing and desire sitting too thick in your throat to form words. Your hands are pinned above your head, encased in one of his, while his other rests on your stomach.

“Hear me out,” you start breathlessly, “if you really want to look after me, you need both your hands free.”

“Nice try.”

You wiggle one hand, and he takes the hint to let it loose. Satisfied, you reach out and hold up his discarded bow tie like a trophy.

He laughs quietly, breath hot against your skin. Even in the dim light, you can see his cheeks colour when you don’t drop it. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I was that you couldn’t handle the jive.”

He gives a slight tug on the silky strip as he winds it around your wrists, just sharp enough to make your breath stutter as it passes your lips. “You’re being very bold for someone in your position, making fun of my stamina.” The way he ties off the fabric is messy, nowhere near as refined as your earlier attempt, but it works: loose enough that you could reach down and undo it if you need to, tight enough that you both know you won't. When he's done, he returns them above your head and his now free hand comes to rest on the mattress by your cheek to hold him above you.

“I’m being exactly the right amount of bold,” you counter, “for someone who engineered this position.”

“Aww,” he croons, slightly too mischievous to be sweet, voice devilishly low as he leans down and kisses a bruise into your sternum, teeth skimming over your skin, “it’s cute that you think you’re still leading.” Oh. That's what it's like to be flirted with by Jack Abbot. The sensation, the deep, unshakeable burning it provokes, is one you're startled to recognise from your early days. Suddenly all the remarks he's made to others that you interpreted as flirting seem trivial, mundane. He really does treat you differently after all, but in the opposite manner to how you thought. Unable to properly grab him, you drape your connected wrists over his neck to hold him to you as you buck your hips up into his, still trying to prove your control of the way things are rapidly progressing. Not that you're not happy to let him take the lead - between the low comments and the dark gaze and the way you can almost see his rapidly beating heart straining against his pecs as much as his cock against his underwear, he's commanding and vulnerable and real and unfiltered and hot. He proves this when he pauses his affections with a stern look and a hand on your hip to hold you down.

His kisses drift up towards your ear, and a modicum of sincerity seeps back into his tone. “You’ll tell me if you need me to stop, yes? If I’m going too far?”

“I will, I promise,” you sigh, “but unless you're planning on doing something with that hand, I can tell you you’re not going far enough.”

Finally, finally, he relents.

The sensation of his hand sliding under the waistband of your underwear is almost enough to unravel you on the spot. The first warm fingertip dragging through the slick gathered at your entrance is more so. A high, desperate moan escapes you before you can stop it. Jack's stifled laugh rumbles against your skin where he's trailing kisses between your breasts, but when you disentangle your wrists from his neck to bury your burning face in your forearms, the hand by your head reaches to pull them away with a tug at the knot holding them together.

“Don't go shy on me now, sweetheart,” he scolds lightly.

The thought of retribution sends a shiver up and down your spine. At one end, it sparks into your hips as they buck up against him. At the other, it blossoms into a wicked little notion at the back of your mind. You meet his gaze defiantly and firmly clamp your lips shut.

Jack tries so hard to look frustrated, but his frown keeps flickering upwards and his eyes are glimmering with poorly concealed ecstasy. For one agonising, delicious moment, he looks like he's ready to pounce. Then he does, but not in the way you expect. He peppers kisses across every tender expanse of your skin, nipping in small bruises, nuzzling his nose into each sensitive point, flexing his jaw enough to scratch his stubble against you. You squeal, trying to squirm away from the ticklish sensation and lean into it all the same. When he pinches his teeth into your side, your hips twitch up and through the barrage of stimulation you barely feel him slide your underwear down your legs and off your ankles. His lips continue their relentless attack, leading across your stomach and lower until his nose presses into your clit while his tongue unfurls inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” you exhale sharply, hands flying in tandem to twist into his hair.

“That’s more like it,” he grumbles; the low vibrations of his voice and the flick of his tongue as he emphasises ‘like’ leave you almost mewling. The sound devolves from pleasure to protest when he retreats, only to revert in an instant when he replaces his tongue with two fingers.

At the first curl of his fingers, the pads brushing against the spongy spot that makes your stomach flip, your breath catches and you throw your head back against the pillow. You clench around him, eliciting a strangled noise in the back of his throat that he quickly swallows down. “Now who’s being shy?” you tease.

Jack silences you with a kiss, the lingering taste of yourself on his lips unfamiliar but not unpleasant. “Are you trying to make me regret calling you angel?” he asks between kisses, one eyebrow raised playfully.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” you reply innocently, moving your hands from his curls to rest by the headboard where he’d placed them to begin with. For additional emphasis, you flutter your eyelashes, watching with glee the way his own subconsciously mirror the action as he shifts, rolling his hips into the mattress. Even at this angle, with your head tilted back and view partly blocked by his arm, bicep tensed and veins bulging as he continues to plunge his fingers deeper between your folds, the strain in his trousers is more prominent than ever. As a final push, you tighten again, relishing in the way it makes his fingers jerk slightly,

“Fuck, okay,” he groans, “you really are an angel. So perfect.”

His speed increases, driving into you with expert precision. From all the times you’ve seen him at work, you expected nothing less, but being on the receiving end of his skills still takes your breath away. All the while, he whispers praises in your ear, sharp enough to pierce and soft enough to soothe. As the invisible string extending from your core to his fingertips grows more taut, you begin to tense along with it. Noticing it as he does so many things with you, Jack sits up slightly, shifting his weight enough to be able to lift his other hand from where it has been supporting him. He roams it down your body: tracing your collarbone, brushing across your bra, pressing into the soft flesh of your stomach.

“Jack,” you whimper, almost pleading, “I’m-”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

His hand joins the other one, thumb rubbing smooth, firm circles against your clit. Your orgasm washes over you with blinding ferocity and a muffled cry of his name. He works you through it, easing you back down to reality with far more care than you could have possibly anticipated from someone who had been so relentless in pursuing your high.

When your eyes refocus around the tears that formed in their corners, he’s sitting over you with a soft, satisfied smile, already reaching out to untie your wrists.

“You okay?” he asks when you meet his eyes sheepishly. “Need anything? Water, washcloth, a breather?”

Your eyes flicker to his erection, thick in the confines of his boxers, and with your newfound freedom you hook your thumbs into the waistband and tug him down towards you.

He chuckles in vague disapproval, but allows you to bring him close enough to kiss. “That's not what I asked.”

“Need you.”

The rapid dissolution of his remaining stoicism from just those two words is breathtaking to witness. Where your neediness has found a cure, his has been growing more critical all evening, and now the desperation with which he invited you up here in the first place is magnified tenfold. 

“Been waiting so long to hear you say that.”

“Want you, need you, love you,” you purr, tugging down his boxers. The sight of him, hard and leaking, has your thighs parting and your hips twitching. “Begging you.”

He falters, throat bobbing as he incredulously takes you in. “Please tell me that was a Cheap Trick reference.”

“Knew you'd get it,” you smile sweetly up at him. “Makes me think of you.”

“Begging me to beg you, huh? That's what you're thinking about?”

With another saccharine smile, one that you can tell is making his insides twist, you lean over to the bedside table and pick up the thin packet. You say nothing, simply wave it temptingly.

His Adam’s apple dips more vigorously than before. You have a sudden urge to feel it between your teeth. “Please, sweetheart,” he pleads suddenly, voice already wrecked, “please.”

Jack is putty in your hands and he knows you're as aware of this fact as he is, but he's so far beyond caring about you using this fact to your advantage, mostly because it's very much working out in his favour. It's been a long time since he's felt this passionate, this desirable, this young, but you're looking at him like the stars themselves and all his worry about his performance (be that on the dancefloor or in the bedroom) has been replaced by a youthful excitement that has had him rutting into the sheets ever since that first retort fell from your perfect, kiss-swollen lips. He'd expected you to be playful, after all the comments that had passed between you over your time together, but the edge of brattiness was surprising and new and definitely doing it for him. Part of him wonders how far he can push you; the rest of him knows that's something he can test another time, if you'll allow him that, and not a risk he should be taking when he's so dangerously close to falling apart the second you lay a hand on him.

“Please.” He hears the word slip from him, as desperate as he feels, and if anyone else were listening he’d be mortified but you want to hear him beg for you so he’ll do it a hundred times over if that’s what it takes. You want to know he wants you; he’s not foolish enough to miss his opportunity again.

To his delight and no small amount of relief, his brazen display of neediness doesn’t put you off. Instead, you bite your lip, already twitching beneath him for the return of his touch, and tear open the condom with the same ease with which you unwrap sterile surgical equipment. When you roll the thin rubber down the length of his shaft with a light squeeze, he lets out a strangled groan.

“You okay, baby?” you ask innocently.

The casual pet name nearly rends him in two. He’s been dishing it out for so long that he didn’t even consider how it would feel to be on the receiving end. It feels phenomenal. “Not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he huffs.

That mischievous gleam returns to your eye. “You’d better get to it then.”

He eyes you up, taking in the betrayal of your own motives when he doesn’t immediately move to slide into you and you pout. With a hand on your lower back, he sits you up just enough for his other hand to finally unclasp your bra. What a miraculous invention, he thinks, to make you look so perfect when you’re in it and even more perfect without it, breasts still full but spilling to the sides slightly. He leans forward, delivering firm, appreciative kisses to the valley that has appeared between them as he carefully lines his cock up with your entrance and begins to ease in.

The gasp you let out snaps up against his lips, and for a moment he hesitates before you wind a hand into his curls, the other clutching the sheets, and tug. “Don’t you dare stop,” you insist breathlessly.

He’s all too happy to oblige, memorising every sensation as your walls tighten to draw him in until he bottoms out, hips flush with yours. At first, he starts out slow, letting you both adjust to the sensations of him gliding in and out of you, until your soft moans seep into his very bones and set his whole body alight. His kisses drift of their own accord until his lips latch around one of your nipples. The sound you let out is unholy, but Jack worships it anyway as he brings a hand up to toy with the other, rolling the firm nub between his thumb and forefinger in relentless ministration. You mumble his name over and over, praise and a curse all at once, the word coming out broken and halting but no less fervent. Every repetition brings him closer to the release that has been kindling inside him and threatening to become a wildfire.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, sitting up to kiss you as he drives in harder.

Your eyes roll back slightly, and he’d mourn the loss of your gaze if he wasn’t so pleased by the evidence of your arousal. When your chin follows suit, tipping back to part your lips and tangle your tongue with his, the movement carries down your spine until your hips lift a fraction. The new position allows him to slam even deeper inside you, hitting a spot that he suspects has you seeing stars with the way you whimper and clench around him. He sees the final spark igniting where your bodies meet, feels it scalding hot in the thick vein that runs up his length, catches it simmering in his lower belly.

“Shit, I’m close,” he grunts, only slightly irritated by how quickly he’s reached the edge. There should be more time, but he’s desperate and worn out and aware there’s not a single thing you could do right now to delay the inevitable. He tries to picture what might make him hold on just a little longer, anything either of you could do to allow him to pleasure you for a few more minutes. Even one more minute.

Not a single idea has come to mind, but it doesn’t matter, because what you do is so completely unexpected that he could never have accounted for it. You swallow down your own impending orgasm, uncurl your white-knuckle grip on the sheets below, and cup his cheek, thumb stroking across his stubble. “It’s okay,” you tell him, voice thick and slightly hoarse but tone soft and encouraging.

His release hits him at the same time as the realisation, or maybe that was the final push he needed to get there: he’d been sincere enough about not wanting this to just be about sex, but he hadn’t quite known what ‘more than sex’ would entail or how to go about figuring that out, and then here you were, more tender than ever, meeting him where he was the same way you’d been doing ever since you first met. It didn’t bother you that he was a widower and an amputee and a mediocre dancer and an emotional fool and an erratic lover and that he was still working through his issues. You’d stayed through all that and more, you were here now, and if the consideration in your touch was anything to go by then you’d still be there for the comedown and the morning after and whatever came next. For the time being, that might just be curling up in this obnoxiously large bed, limbs woven together as you drink the champagne he ordered the second they handed him the room key. That'll be enough.

The pulsing of Jack's orgasm inside you tips you into your second of the night. You’re all too aware of both, your heightened nerves picking up on every single sensation, but Jack seems almost like he’s elsewhere. His body trembles with each wave and his face is still nestled in your palm, while his gaze is affectionate yet glassy. You offer supportive murmurs into the narrow space between you, caressing his cheek as the roll of his hips stutters and slows. Eventually, you see him return to himself.

“Are you still with me?” you prompt with an understanding smile.

A bashful yet assured smile of his own spreads across his face. “Not getting rid of me that easily, Twinkletoes.”

“Good,” you hum, “I’ll bear that in mind for next time.”

Neither of you acknowledge the expectation of there being a next time; like so much else about this, it seems like an inevitability. Jack simply leans down and kisses you, before gently pulling out and swinging round to sit on the edge of the bed. You sit up, following him across to wrap your arms loosely around his waist and make a start on what you hope will be an ongoing project of kissing every single freckle across his shoulders. When he realises what you’re doing, he lets out a low chuckle that vibrates against your lips.

“Here,” he offers, handing you a freshly poured glass of champagne. “I’m just gonna go, uh, get cleaned up. You relax.”

Reluctant but contented, you sit back against the headboard and sip your drink while he grabs his crutches and makes his way to the bathroom. Once the door shuts, you fumble to plug in your phone and set your alarm for the morning. It’s later than you’d normally go to sleep before work, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Your thoughts are on only two things: the perfect, perfect man in the en suite, and the barrage of notifications glaring back at you from your lock screen. A message from Mel gushing about how good your dance was and how happy she is for you ‘that you and Dr Abbot are close again’, one from Santos which is somehow the most explicit part of the whole night, a thread from Shen which ends with a dancer emoji and a wink, and one from Parker that makes your heart skip a beat. ‘Not to say I told you so, but… [1 Attachment: Told_You_So.jpg]’. You can practically hear your dance friends’ voices in your head, rolling their eyes at your visceral reaction to the idea of viewing a photo of the dance, already talking about you burning the negatives before you’ve even seen it. That usual part of you agrees, is tempted to ignore the message, but you know this time is different and not because of you. Your hand shakes as you tap the notification and unlock your phone. You almost choke on your mouthful of champagne.

The photo has no right to be as stunning as it is. You weren’t sure what you expected: rushed and probably slightly grainy, definitely a little unflattering, something that would make you question ever agreeing to participate. Instead, you’re met with remarkably high quality and beautiful composition, almost like she took multiple shots and has picked out the best one. You’re mid-dip, angled in just the right way to catch both your faces. You’re gazing up at Jack, awestruck, with your face framed beautifully by a couple of loose waves and your necklace glimmering above your heart. The chandeliers overhead have caught you just so, basking your face in a warm glow and bringing a world of depth to the deep red contours of your gown. In turn, Jack’s gaze is locked on you, cast slightly more in shadow. You’d been so worried about him seeing your feelings that in the moment you’d barely even noticed his expression, but now the evidence is undeniable and utterly unmistakable. Not much wonder he’s taken to calling you angel: he’s watching you like you’re heaven on earth, basking in your radiance like it’s that of a deity. The reverence of it all is so foreign to you, but the look in his eyes is so deeply familiar that you can’t bear to stop staring at it until the real thing walks back into the room.

“Sweetheart?” You’re met by the look in question, this time tinged with concern. “Everything okay?”

You nod, blinking away tears you didn’t realise had formed. “Ellis sent a photo of us. I… have a bit of a reputation, I don’t normally like seeing my dance stuff.”

He leans his crutches against the bedside table as he settles onto the mattress beside you and produces a damp cloth, which he presses between your legs to gently clean you up. “And? Is it that bad?”

“No,” you say hurriedly. “No, it’s…” Words fail, so you turn the screen towards him.

His eyes reflect the warm hues of the photo as they scan it before meeting yours. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

You awaken at your alarm to the calming darkness brought about by high quality blackout curtains, and the warmth of a pair of broad arms around your waist hugging you to a firm chest. Both are a new experience, but the latter is far more important.

“Jack?” you mumble over your shoulder.

The arms tighten, and stubble scratches against your neck as Jack presses a sleepy kiss to your bare skin. “Mm,” he groans, the sound low and thick as it rumbles from his chest and up your back. “Ten more minutes.”

“I need to go home and get ready for work,” you say, already hearing the reluctance in your words, the slight whine in the tone.

He kisses you again, nudging down the collar of his T-shirt to reach the crook where your neck meets your shoulder, and one of his hands quests lower over your stomach. “Shower here and wear yesterday's clothes. Nobody's gonna notice once you're in scrubs, and if they do I doubt they'll be too surprised.”

You roll your eyes, but allow yourself to relax into his touch. “Fine, but I still need time.”

His hand slips between your legs, and you let out a moan that definitely doesn't help your case. He chuckles against your neck. “I'll drive you. That's another ten minutes.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Dr Abbot.”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans again, somehow deeper than before, and sits up to bring his lips to yours. “Keep that up and you're not making it to work at all.”

You roll over, deepening the kiss as you open yourself up to him. “I'll tell Robby it's your fault.”

He drags his teeth across your lower lip as he runs his fingers through your folds, inhaling the gasp both sensations elicit. “Oh, I'll gladly take the blame for this.”

When you go to get cleaned up again, this time with a proper shower, Jack follows you into the bathroom and you worry that your inability to resist him is going to make your morning routine run even further behind. It doesn’t help that he’s muttering a string of flimsy excuses over the soft tapping of his crutches: it’ll be quicker than showering separately, it saves water, he wants to see you in the light… However, when you both set foot on the tiled floor, something in him falters.

“Jack?” you say softly. “What’s up?” You watch him try to shrug it off, but his eyes flicker to the sleek white tub. Oh. “Would a bath be easier for you?”

He hides his self-consciousness with an easy smile. “Much as I’d love that, we don’t have time. I’ll just wait until I get home.”

To his surprise, you shake your head forcefully. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

You gesture to the edge of the bath, and he sits and shimmies off the sweatpants while you peel his T-shirt from your body. Then, you clamber into the tub and set the water running. Once it’s pleasantly warm, Jack swings round. You hold out your hands. For a moment, he hesitates. This is the most intimate your relationship, or whatever you want to call this, has got. Then again, you holding your hands out in the same way that first evening in his kitchen felt like too much, and look how that worked out. He grasps your hands and allows you to pull him up and into the stream. One by one, he shifts his grip to your waist to steady himself, leaving you free to run your fingers through his hair and your own until you’re both well saturated. You guide him to sit back on the edge as you massage shampoo through his curls, and kneel down so he can return the gesture. Together, you both stand back up, collapsing against each other in fits of laughter when it’s you who almost slips, and rinse off.

“Thank you,” he sighs as you step out, passing him a towel and his crutches before wrapping yourself up. “Really.”

“Of course,” you reply warmly, your face lighting up in that beautiful way it does when you get sincere and bashful all at once, “I hope I didn’t overstep or anything.”

“Not at all.”

“You sure?”

He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, discarding his crutches and reaching for his prosthesis. Before he can even ask, not that he would after everything you’ve already done for him, you crouch down with the bottle of lotion he’d put on the nightstand and wait patiently. He lets out a breathy laugh. “Okay, I’m definitely sure, but shouldn’t you be getting yourself ready?”

You look up at him through your lashes, and tell him with simple, unwavering certainty, “You deserve to be looked after too.”

The next few minutes are spent torn between trying to focus on your feather-light touch across his skin and figuring out whether there is a reasonable excuse he could give Robby for you showing up late and flustered.

Jack drops you outside PTMC with barely 5 minutes to spare, smiling fondly as you give him a peck on the cheek and a hurried wave over your shoulder. You fly through the doors, fumbling with your ID in your haste to retrieve a set of scrubs from the dispenser before anyone sees your crumpled clothes or questions why you haven’t brought a set from home.

“Good night last night?” a low voice asks over your shoulder. You almost drop the scrubs as you whirl around to fend off whatever insinuation is being made and nearly send a mug of coffee flying from Langdon’s grasp. “Whoa, jeez!”

“Sorry, Langdon,” you huff, “didn’t realise it was you.”

“Oh, so who were you planning on throwing hands with? Did the dance go that badly?”

You swallow, desperately trying to decrease your spiking blood pressure. “No, it went alright, I just thought-” You can’t finish that thought. Gossip will already be circulating without you adding more fuel to the fire. You swerve. “How was the night shift?”

He groans and takes a deep swig of his coffee. “I don’t know how you managed it.”

I had Jack, you think to yourself. “Yeah, it’s not for everyone.”

“Would you ever go back to it?”

Huh. “Huh. Maybe. I guess I’d consider it,” you say, as nonchalantly as you can for someone who is considering it rather fervently.

“Morning!” Whitaker greets, breaking your train of thought. The smile he gives you is cheerful, friendly, but there’s a slight edge to it that you don’t quite see coming. “Sleep well?” Right. There it is.

Beside him, Santos fights back a laugh. “Cute top.”

“Thanks…”

“Wait, did I already say that yesterday?”

Your eyes widen, made worse by the questioning look Langdon throws your way. You force yourself to resist the urge to scamper away, instead making small talk for a few moments before using your change of outfit as an excuse to retreat to the bathroom for some much-needed privacy. When you emerge, a smug-looking Dana just happens to be standing between you and the very full patient board. So it’s going to be that kind of day.

That afternoon, things finally calm down somewhat. The patient load is still overwhelming - a neverending flow of the usual cases plus a host of bizarre injuries from the unconventional things people get up to over the weekend - but at least most of your coworkers have got their initial comments out of their systems, leaving you with a cloud of gossip following you around the floor instead. You've almost started to relax, almost, until you return from seeing your latest patient to the sight of Robby beckoning you into a quiet corner. Your heart leaps into your throat, pounding heavily as you make your way over.

“Everything okay?” you ask, aiming for lightness that doesn’t quite land.

He tilts his head slightly. “That's what I was going to ask you.”

“Oh.”

“Well? Is it?”

You blink rapidly. “Right, yes. Yeah. I'm good, just… trying to avoid being the centre of attention.”

He barks out a laugh. “Bit late for that.” When you groan, he softens a fraction. “They'll move on, eventually. Can't blame them for running with it though, I've known Jack for years and even I was surprised.”

You wonder if he's going to elaborate, tell you what exactly was surprising about last night's events. Surely it can't just be about the fact you got Jack dancing. It has to be on a more personal level. Does that make it better or worse?

“He's a surprising guy,” you murmur, just to have a way to respond.

The look he gives you is, as always, far too knowing, but he masks it with a professionalism that you know he's forcing for the benefit of not being yet another person prying. “As long as it's not affecting your work. Any of it.” You know exactly what he means by that. It's not just about the barrage of enquiries and teasing remarks you've been fielding all morning, he's checking that whatever has been brewing between you and his friend has resolved… one way or another.

You offer him a smile, small but bright. “I am a paragon of professionalism, Dr Robby, I assure you.”

He nods and makes to leave when you catch his arm. He raises a brow.

“Speaking of work,” you start before you can talk yourself out of it, “I was wondering what the likelihood would be of me being allowed to transfer back to nights? Hypothetically.”

A smirk wavers at the corner of his lips, as much as he tries to hide it. “Is this for hypothetical personal reasons?”

You feel yourself flush. “Maybe. I don't know for definite, hence the hypothetical.”

“Then hypothetically, you'd have to get approval from HR, but I'm assuming in this imaginary scenario you'll have to talk to them anyway. Then you'd need to get an okay from your current attending, which is me, and your potential attending, which will have to be Shen for obvious hypothetical reasons.”

You twist your hands together. “Say I did decide to go through with it, would you clear it?”

His expression morphs into one slightly more earnest. It brings out the lines around his eyes. “I'm reluctant to lose such a good doctor, and you'll always be a valued member of the team whatever you decide, but if I said no I don't think you'd ever forgive me, and I know for a fact Jack wouldn't.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “You can't tell him yet. Please.” You know you should have asked him first, but the idea has been nagging you all day, probably even longer, and you want to know whether it’s an option before you get his hopes up. Besides, there's a small part of you that won't quite admit you’re scared. What if, by the time he arrives for his shift, he's returned to reality in more ways than one?

Robby, refusing to cease his observations, nods solemnly. “Not a word. For the record, if he had a say, I reckon you'd be back there already.” He's gone before you can even process what he said, let alone thank him.

Shen is the first to arrive from the night shift, sauntering in with the Dunkin’ iced coffee you don’t ever recall seeing him without.

“Evening,” you greet wearily. It’s been far too long of a day for you to entertain the amount of pep in his step.

“Rough day?” he asks knowingly, receiving a half-hearted shrug in response. “At least you’ve got that day off to look forward to.”

“Very funny,” you sigh. “You know there’s still like three days left before they announce the winner, and social media is fickle. Anything could happen.”

He gives you a look of increasing satisfaction. “You haven’t seen Javadi’s tiktok, have you?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been constantly refreshing with all that free time I’ve had today.”

“Right. Well, just… prepare yourself.”

You open your mouth to ask what he means, but he’s already drifted away to find Robby.

Your phone grows heavy in your pocket, weighing you down with every second that you don’t check it. You’re desperate to. You can’t. In the meantime, you watch the others start to drift in as your cohort leaves, taking in the shrewd looks Crus and Lena send your way from across the Hub. Finally you catch sight of silvery curls and a camo backpack and scamper across the room.

“Have you been on Javadi’s tiktok?” you ask urgently, voice hushed.

“Well, hello to you too,” he smirks. “And I’m flattered you think I’m hip enough to even have tiktok. Why, what about it?”

You bite your lip. “I don’t know, Shen just said something about it and he seems pretty convinced we’ve won already even though it’s only been a day.”

“And? Have we?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t had time to look!”

He cocks his head to one side, a silent question, and you roll your eyes and drag him by the wrist into an empty bay, quite possibly the only one in the department given how fraught the day has been.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “or people will start asking questions.”

“Like you said, nobody's going to be surprised.”

Warmth and the bright citrus of the hotel shampoo envelopes you as he steps in close against your back, deft fingers massaging the tension of the day from your shoulders as you finally pull out your phone and tap away at the screen. Social media folder. Tiktok. Search bar. Dr J. Your thumb hovers over the profile, marked by a photo of Victoria in scrubs, posing with her stethoscope. You click the icon.

All the dances are there, thumbnails carefully selected to showcase the best view of each couple. You find the first video, one you’ve already watched multiple times, of Javadi in the ambulance bay explaining the fundraiser and how best for viewers to show their support, and work your way back up the list. Then your eyes finally start taking in the numbers. McKay and Nazely are sitting at a very respectable 6523 views, only slightly ahead of Santos and Mateo’s 6471. Shen and Emma are up to nearly 8000. Everyone else has garnered more attention: the ballet community have rallied behind Dana and Lena but even that has only just pushed them past 12 thousand; Ellis and Mel are up to 18.5k and a quick look at the comments tells you it’s largely down to the sapphic community; Robby and Walsh’s inexpressive Macarena has captured the hearts of nearly 23 thousand, while Whitaker and Crus have blown up on the country side of the app and emerged as unexpected contenders with 31.7k and counting. Then there’s your video. Javadi has selected the most perfect cover photo, one that makes a lump form in your throat. You’re midway through the underarm turn, dress swirling as you emerge from under Jack’s arm, and even though the image is small you can see the megawatt smile on your face and the utterly besotted expression on Jack’s. Finally, you force yourself to look at the number in the corner.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you mutter incredulously.

“What is it?” Jack moves his hands to wrap around your waist as he leans over your shoulder to get a better view of the screen shuddering in your grip.

142.8k.

“That’s impossible,” you breathe. There must be a glitch. Refresh.

142.9k.

With trembling hands, you click the video. It really is breathtaking - Javadi and her friends have done an amazing job with the editing, and the video quality is spectacular. You thought you'd be as reluctant as always to watch the recording, too busy scrutinising every little mistake you perceive yourself as having made, but this? You can barely tear your eyes away. You look… happy. No, not just happy, content. At ease in a way you haven’t seen yourself in a long time. Overcome, you draw in a wavering breath. Jack seems to sense your thought process, as he tightens his grip and leans around to press a brief kiss to your cheek. You lean into his touch as you open the comments.

There are a few names you recognise, friends and co-competitors from the dance world cheering you on (with only one or two, the people you’ve performed alongside for years, remarking on how amazed they are that you’ve allowed the video to go public). You spot a heart and a dancer emoji from the official account of the USA Dance Nationals, another supportive comment from Carnegie Classic. Even Derek Hough makes an appearance. Most of them, the thousands that are pouring in even as you watch, are from total strangers. Many are appreciative of the routine, from professional and amateur dancers to couples reminiscing on dancing with their significant other at special events or simply round their kitchen. Then there are the others…

Saving lives in the ED, ending lives on the dance floor

Do these two know they’ve literally invented romance?

Most attractive thing I’ve seen in weeks

Idk who either of these people are but I’m in love with them

When did ballroom dancing get hot?

I can feel the tension from here

Is that a matching corsage and buttonhole? Adorable

Couple goals

Suddenly you feel Jack tense, his chin catching on your shoulder as his breath hitches. You see exactly why a second later.

If this isn’t or wasn’t the first dance at their wedding then what is even the point?

“Shit,” you say softly. His hands are already shifting across your stomach to fidget with his ring, and you’re not even sure he realises he’s doing it. “Are you okay?”

“I’m-” he starts, and suddenly his hands still. They part, move, land lightly on your hips. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m good.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, and when you twist in his hold you see it, light but sincere, on his face. “Thank you,” he says for the second time today, hoping you can see every meaning he’s pouring into those two simple words. Thank you for checking. Thank you for caring. Thank you for everything you’ve done this past month. Thank you for opening up a space for me in something so personal to you even after I’d made myself undeserving of it. Thank you for coming back after I was foolish enough to let you walk away the first time. Thank you for being the reason I can so much as think about weddings again.

“I should probably let you get to work,” you mumble, blushing furiously.

Your retreat is halted by a gentle tug from the hands still lingering on your hips. “Shen can survive without me for two more minutes.”

Even as you scoff, you can’t resist the opportunity to settle back into his touch and rise to bring your lips together. He melts against you, tongue running across your lower lip where it’s slightly chapped from the relentless shift. You let out a soft sound that ripples across the boundary between you, and he smiles into the kiss.

When you break apart after what feels like minutes but in reality is probably only thirty seconds, you playfully shove him towards the door. “Go on, before you get distracted,” you urge.

“Oh, I’m going to be distracted regardless,” he grins, which you both know is untrue. As soon as he gets into work he is by far the most focused person you know. It’s one of your favourite things about him. The list keeps growing.

Jack does manage to make it through the night without his concentration being too impacted, but as seven a.m. creeps closer he becomes restless. Being focused doesn't mean he hasn't had time to think. He won't pretend he's not worried about the adrenaline wearing off and you realising the implications of being with him and all that entails, but mostly he's been planning. It's been a while since he's done anything more than existing day by day, and when he agreed to partner with you it gave him a few weeks to look forward to. Now he's not just existing but living, and he's got a whole future to consider. The idea of it seems far too substantial for something that has only been actualized for maybe thirty four hours, but that’s never stopped him before.

The moment you arrive for your shift, your eyes find his across the room. It makes sense that you'd seek him out, but somehow it only then hits home how often you've done so, how many times he's missed the way you looked at him like he was the only person who mattered as you quickly averted your gaze. Your face lights up when he hastily pulls away from his conversation with Robby and Dana, earning affectionate eye rolls from both of them. Hopefully they can spare you two for a few minutes.

“Good morning, Dr y/l/n,” he greets with overly forced formality, glancing at one of the nurses as they rummage in their locker for their bag.

To his relief, you play along. “Ah, Dr Abbot. Do you have a case for me?”

“I was hoping you could perform a vitals check. Is our tiktok stable?”

You shake your head gravely. “Tachy at 327k.”

He gives a low whistle. “That's high. We might need to start considering our options.”

“Do you have a treatment in mind, doctor?”

“Well,” he pretends to consider the question, watching the lone figure in the area finally leave, “if the numbers keep climbing I think our only choice is to decide what to do with our day off. I'd be interested to hear how you'd proceed.”

“That's easy,” you smirk, “I'll be prescribing a bottle of wine and a long soak in a bubble bath.”

“That's it?” he asks, the stretched metaphor falling away to reveal something far less jokey.

You move closer, gaze darting about to make sure nobody else is watching (though even if they are, you don't much care any more) before you run a hand up his arm. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I do,” he settles a hand on your waist. “If I pull some strings, bat my lashes at management, I reckon I could get our downtime lined up so we have my night off, a day in between, then your day off. If we both took the in-between day as our prize, we'd get a straight 48 hours together. Two nights.”

A smile creeps onto your face. “Told you you'd be distracted today. I take it you have a plan for those two nights?”

“You know me so well.”

“And you're keeping me in suspense.”

He laughs. “Let's get out of Pittsburgh - a city break or a cabin in the national forest or, hell, is there somewhere with a dance museum? Wherever you want to go, I'll take you.”

You sigh contentedly, resting a hand on his chest. His heartbeat thrums beneath your fingertips, nearly in time with your own. “Really?”

His hand comes up to rest over yours, curling around it with a squeeze. “If you'll let me. I want this to be something, in whatever capacity you're comfortable with, but that’s not something you have to decide right away. I’d be happy just making up for all the time I’ve missed out on spending with you.”

You melt into him. Your lips brush over his knuckles where they envelope your hand. “This is something. You're stuck with me regardless,” you smile softly, “but we can decide what that entails together. I know this is a big step, so I want you to be comfortable with it, too.”

“Yeah?” he leans down and brushes his nose against yours.

“Yeah,” you echo, “and that’s exactly why we’re not going anywhere with a dance museum.”

You both laugh, the sound lifting the weight of beginning to consider what this is. There aren’t enough words to summarise it, and yet in the soft light of day, or rather the unchanging glare of the fluorescents, it’s also incredibly simple.

Jack watches you worry slightly at your lower lip, as though you're debating whether to say what's clearly on your mind but wanting to allow yourself a beat more respite in the sanctity of this moment before you risk shattering it.

“What are you thinking?” he asks with a frown, impulsively reaching up to pull your lip from between your teeth.

“I, um, I was thinking we'll have to do this soon.” He quirks an eyebrow, a smile already breaking through at the idea of you being so eager to spend your free time with him, and it encourages you to continue. “Your plan hinges on us leaving after my day shift and coming back after my day off, right? So we have to do it before I move back to nights.”

His jaw drops, delight and disbelief blending into such a potent expression that you look almost startled by the intensity of it. “You're coming back?” His tone is exhilarated but soft; he's been hoping for this so long that he's not sure he's allowed to believe it’s actually happening. Maybe this entire thing has been a fever dream.

“I already checked whether it would be an option, in case-” Your words falter, but he understands instantly what you mean: in case we decided to make a go of whatever this is. “We'd just need to talk to HR and I'll probably have to report to Shen.”

His hand pinches delicately at your side, playful yet possessive. “It's not like you ever listen to me anyway.”

You scoff. “Name one time.”

“I had to quite literally tie you down two nights ago.”

You swat at him in an amused panic, shushing as you hastily glance about for eavesdroppers, but he's too busy grinning from ear to ear at the memory and the thought of having you back in his life in every possible way to be embarrassed. There's nothing to keep you apart any more: not his idiocy, not your opposing schedules, not the fear of rejection or of being too much or not enough or anything other than satisfied with where you both are. You'll no longer be restricted to passing glances across the ED. You can go back to unplanned dinners at his, game night (well, day, really) with Ellis and Shen, spontaneous group trips for breakfast after a tough shift, but now there's also the option of dates, curling up together on the couch with takeout and a movie, falling asleep in each other's arms when the rest of the world is barely waking up. It takes an unbearable amount of restraint for him to not ask you to move out of your tiny apartment and into his house right then. Instead, he grins.

“I can't believe you're going to HR about me.”

You giggle, which is of no help to his fragile resolve. “You're just such a menace.”

“And you're-”

“Ridiculous, I know.”

He's lost track of how many times he's said it, but it holds true. You tease him about the most unexpected things, you have more trophies than you can hold from performing in packed ballrooms but were too modest to even tell your friends that you dance, you put food in arbitrary categories, you have more conviction in your categorisations than you do some of your own diagnoses despite the latter being far better founded, you can read him without a word but couldn't figure out his feelings even when he was making no effort to hide them, you're intelligent and clueless and thoughtful and unthinking and selfless and restrained and sweet and sinful and utterly unaware of how incredible being a walking contradiction makes you. You're ridiculous, and he's ridiculously in love with you. He tells you as much, because he suspects he might combust if he doesn’t. At this point, he’s well aware he’s building a bonfire out of his reputation as the cool, collected one, the picture of stoicism against the dramatic nature of the Pitt, but you don’t seem to mind. If anything, it’s making you far more affectionate than he expects you’d be if he maintained his carefully constructed persona, and that’s hardly a side effect he’s going to complain about.

Pittsburgh ought to be a postcard-worthy picture of snowy winter delight by now. Instead it’s just cold and wet and miserable. The nights are drawing in earlier by the day, and long gone is the joy of seeing daylight before and after work; it’s still dark when Dennis and Robby arrive at PTMC and the sun has set by the time Jack arrives to take over in the evening. It’s their first time experiencing this cycle together - the older men have been through it all before several times throughout the duration of their marriage, but Dennis only became a part of the relationship in mid-spring. Since then, they’ve enjoyed the rare opportunity to get out in the sun when their days off line up (Jack is always willing to forego sleep to spend the time with his guys) or share relaxed dinner dates on Jack’s free evenings after the other two return from shift. It was a good time to start things, to navigate a style of relationship that was new to them all and find their feet under the gentle lightness of the soul that is provided by summer. Now, however, they’re learning how to keep upright through the lull, through the internal darkness that rears its head with the return of its exterior counterpart.

“What are we doing for the holidays this year?” Jack asks from the kitchen. Robby and Dennis have settled onto the couch, unwinding from another gruelling shift, while Jack - dutiful husband and boyfriend - takes advantage of his evening off to cook for them and is currently putting the finishing touches on the pot roast he’s been slowly braising all day.

Dennis, snuggled against Robby’s side, hums thoughtfully. “What do you usually do?”

“Suffer through the work’s Christmas party,” the man beside him grumbles.

The enticing waft of the roast accompanies Jack’s laugh. “Might not be so bad this year now we’ve got you, normally we end up dragged into some deathly boring conversation with management but you might be our excuse to stay drinking with everyone else.”

“I knew you had ulterior motives for asking me out,” the younger man laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Jack continues, “we should mark the occasion somehow. We always do a little something for Chanukah, and then if you have any Christmas traditions to work in we can do that too.”

The laughter dies in Dennis’ throat. Christmas traditions back home are several hours spent in church followed by more prayers over his mother’s overcooked roast turkey, and up until now his tradition since moving away has been a microwave chicken dinner for one and a slightly stale gingerbread from the nearest supermarket. Neither of those are suggestions he’d like to offer.

“You’re working Christmas Day, right?” Robby prompts with a nudge.

“Right, yeah.”

“Dinner when you get back then,” Jack says decisively as he summons them to the dining table and presents three plates, sitting down to remove his prosthesis for some relief while he eats. “And Boxing Day? We could go out somewhere.”

Suddenly, Dennis finds himself very invested in his food. He tells himself it’s just because it’s so delicious, as is all of Jack’s cooking, and that he’s imagining how much better the turkey will taste this year. It definitely has nothing to do with the text message that has been burning a hole in his pocket since he received it a little over a week ago.

“Sounds good to me,” Robby agrees after the silence stretches on a little too long. “Dennis? Anywhere you’d want to go?”

He swallows thickly, blaming the dryness in his mouth on the rich gravy. “Actually… My mom wants me home for Christmas this year. I told her I was working, so she said to be there for Boxing Day.”

Robby sees how the rest of this conversation will go before either of the other two say anything more. He can’t claim to relate to the Dennis’ need to appease his family even after all they’ve put him through (and he’s well aware of how little he knows of that, it’s a jumbled image pieced together from snippets of stories and offhand remarks), but he gets it. The kid’s always been one for validation, ever since he first set foot in PTMC, and if there’s even an inkling that he might get some this time then he’s bound to chase it. Jack, on the other hand, is famously unflinching in his belief that loyalty must be earned, and from the murmured conversations the older men have had whenever Dennis lets something particularly concerning slip about his upbringing, it’s clear he doesn’t think the family are owed anything. Quite the reverse, in fact. He watches that conviction manifest across his husband’s face in the tick of his stubbled jaw and the darkening of his hazel eyes.

“So you’re going?”

Dennis, despite being one of the most observant young doctors in the ED, misses the tightness with which the words are spoken, too busy staring shyly into his potatoes to see the glower that accompanies them. “Well, yeah. They want me there.”

Robby tries to salvage the situation. “Is that what you want?”

“I-” he starts. Stops. Finally meets the eyes of the two men watching him - one expectant, the other cautious. Drops his gaze again. “I don’t know. I’d like to celebrate with you both too, but… I’ve not been home in years and-”

“Does that not tell you something?” Jack interjects. Immediately, his face falls slightly like he didn’t mean to say it so harshly, perhaps not at all, but it’s too late.

Dennis rounds on him, cheeks burning. “What? That I’ve been too focused on my studies and neglected my family? That just because I kept saying no they’re not allowed to ask again?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Each word is snapped out, dripping with a quiet rage that none of them have ever seen the younger man display. Normally, his emotions build in a slow, easily recognisable way: the creeping overwhelm, the twitches of happiness when he allows himself to relax, the sadness constructed moment by moment like a brick wall. This is not only new, it’s different. It appears out of nowhere. “And you’re wrong.”

Robby watches helplessly as the words pierce into Jack, who raises an eyebrow. Any regret from his first sarcastic question fizzles away. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Good. I’ll write you a card to take from us, then. Would your mother appreciate a hamper?”

“Don’t do that,” Dennis hisses.

“Do what?” Jack bites back. “I’m just saying since they’re clearly okay with you now, we should-”

“Don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing!”

The atmosphere in the room has turned sour, any warmth lingering from the stove or the food ebbing away with the waves of frost rolling off Dennis, mirroring the air outside.

“Is that what you think this is?”

Both of them turn to their other partner for input, Dennis gesturing frustratedly like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I think what Jack is trying to say,” Robby begins diplomatically, “is that we don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Dennis reels, a bitter scoff bursting from his lips. “They’re my family.”

“We know, but that’s kind of the point.”

Jack tries a new tactic, reverting to his softer state of authority, the one that usually calms even the most volatile patient. “We trust your judgement, you know the situation better than us, but from what you’ve said-”

“Yeah, I do know the situation better than you,” Dennis cuts him off, chair scraping across the floor with a piercing squeal as he rises hastily. “You’ve never even met them.”

“Do you think they’d want to meet us?” Robby tries for lightheartedness, undercut by the implication he knows they’re all thinking about. The disapproval, the scrutiny, had been mentioned long before the relationship was even on the cards.

“Jesus Christ. This has nothing to do with you!”

Jack stands now as well, crutches retrieved from where they rest against the wall. “It does when we’re part of the fallout.”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to have said. Dennis flushes a deeper shade of red and pales all at once, body shifting with the ripples of his anger like he’s torn between puffing out in defiance and folding in on himself. “Right. Of course. I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m going through shit.”

“Dennis, wait-” Robby joins them on their feet, all three moving disjointedly through the house. They’re so used to moving in an easy dance around each other’s space that this feels wrong, like none of them know where to stand except for the younger man who is marching determinedly towards the front door.

“No, don’t,” he almost snarls. “I’m going to get some air. Gives you both time to process whatever your problem is with this, and for me to get rid of the fallout.” He grabs his coat almost violently from the rack in the hall and bursts out into the darkness of the evening, slamming the door behind him with echoing finality.

Jack is halfway to the door when a hand, warm and firm, settles on his shoulder.

“Give him a minute,” Robby grumbles.

In spite of himself, he still lets his fingers drift towards the handle. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him.”

“He’s a grown man, he can handle it. Don’t tell me you weren’t like that at his age, because I know I was.”

This is true. He’s never not been headstrong, just got better at hiding it - or, rather, controlling it. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling tugging at his stomach like a snagged fishing lure, the one that whispers it’s a mistake not to go after the kid. Adult. Boy. Fucking hell.

Dennis realises his mistake the second the door thuds shut and he wriggles his arms into the long sleeves. He hasn’t grabbed his coat. There’s no fuzzy lining, no thick padding, no hood. He’s met with light cotton and a narrow collar. It’s the jacket he’s been meaning to put back into storage for weeks, the one Robby gave him in the spring when the weather was getting warmer and he’d made an offhand complaint about it being too warm for his coat but too cool to go without. He could have bought his own jacket, of course - there were perfectly decent ones at the thrift store that wouldn’t have eaten too much into his monthly budget, but the next day Robby had shown up and offered the soft navy corduroy with a forced casualness. He’s barely ever worn it, he’d said, hasn’t touched it in years so it probably wouldn’t fit even if he did want to try and it’s not Jack’s style, they figured it might as well go to someone who would get the use out of it. The garment was very clearly brand new. They’d gone on their first date, the three of them, a little over a week later.

He clings to that memory as the bitter sting of the wind lashes against his skin through the thin fabric. Really, he knows they have his best interests at heart, always have - he doesn’t need to have said much for them to have figured out just how utterly vitriolic his parents and brothers can be, and that’s not even getting into the more distant relatives who have no familial bonds to restrain their hateful outbursts - but he’s stubborn and riled up and he’ll be damned if he’s going to go back in there and let them have the win just because he’s been too busy to put away a fucking jacket. Besides, right now he’s scared that if he goes back he’ll say something worse, something that brings this whole perfect situation crumbling around him if he hasn’t done so already. It’s not worth the risk. It’s definitely worth the slight chill that will come from a quick walk around the block to cool off (both figuratively and, unfortunately, physically). Five minutes, ten tops.

One minute and seventeen seconds later, the heavens open.

By then, he’s already halfway down the street. Turning back now would not only admit defeat but also emphasise his foolishness even further. It’ll pass. He carries on.

His teeth are chattering by the time it stops, only a few moments later though it feels like half a lifetime. Such a brief downpour was enough to soak him to the bone, droplets running down from his sodden hair, carving their way across the furrowed lines of his brow, down his slender nose and into his parted lips. He spits. The action brings on another bout of tremors. He hugs his arms to his chest, trying in vain to hold onto any remaining warmth. He’s halfway around the block. Halfway home.

In the soft light of the house, Robby sits by the window and stews. The air around him feels less sharp than it did but no less heavy, still uncomfortably alien. He knows Dennis has every right to be angry, that his relationship with his family really is none of their business, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to be mad at him for storming off. Now he’s stuck with a very antsy husband flitting about the house like he can bring the young man back by wearing a hole in the flooring, the thud of his crutches shifting in pitch and volume as he moves from the carpeted living room to the wooden floorboards of the hallway and back.

“Will you give it a rest, Jack?” he sighs. “He’s only been gone ten minutes.”

Jack throws him a look that’s borderline disdainful, which he tells himself is merely the remnants of the heated energy boiling over. “You heard the rain! It’s not good for anyone to be out in that, never mind that it’s fucking freezing.”

“He took his coat.”

“Not the point.”

Robby relents, nodding to the space beside him on the couch. “Look, just give him some space to clear his head, half an hour or so, and if either of us are still worrying then we can do something about it. Drink?”

With a reluctant huff, Jack drops unceremoniously onto the couch and settles against the cushions. Robby returns with two glasses filled with generous measures of whisky. It’s no weather for chilled beers, and no mood for it either. If only their boyfriend were here to share it too.

Oh. Oh no.

The front door is in sight, the welcoming orange glow of the lamp in the front hall a beacon to guide the now violently shivering Dennis to the safety and sanctity of the warmth beyond. He’s clumsily extracted a hand from where it was thrust deep into the pocket of his jeans, to pull his house key from his jacket. All that meets his touch is soggy cotton. He tries the other pocket, already knowing the outcome. His keys aren’t there. They’re in the coat that remains on the rack. So is his phone.

When he was on the farm, there was a rule: if you were careless enough to leave home without your keys, you either found a way to make yourself useful until everyone was called in for dinner, or you waited on the porch so as not to disturb the more sensible people out doing the hard work. It’s been years since he’s lived under the enforcement of that rule, longer still since he found himself in a position to obey it, yet somehow it appears at the forefront of his mind, sharp and prominent enough that it pushes away the instinct to knock. It doesn’t take much of a push, to be fair. He’s dreading having to go back, tail between his legs. For one thing, he’ll have to admit the truth - that they’re absolutely right, that his family are cruel and judgemental and  that his motives for returning are not to experience the domestic ceasefire that he always hoped would appear around the holidays even though he was yet to see it happen, but to indulge in the purely selfish desire to stand before them as the living proof that he’s far happier being everything they tried to keep him from becoming. It’s more than that, though. He got so caught up in the fantasy of his own vindication that he let it come between him and the reason he’s seeking it in the first place - Robby and Jack. Neither of them deserve the anger, the misplaced hatred, that he hurled at them for the simple crime of caring about him. Naturally he’s worried that they’re still mad about the argument and his immature reaction, but he fears the prospect that storming off without any preparation will only have made them more mad. He can’t lose this. What he can do is just sit for a while until an opportunity presents itself for him to get back inside without too much scrutiny.

Maybe it’s just the raindrops still clinging to his lashes, but the world is a wash of speckled light, the rich blue of the night peppered with bursts of gold from the houses around him and the streetlights overhead. Making himself useful doesn’t feel like an option to pass the time right now: he can’t see straight; his arms are too heavy to even swipe the mess from his vision, let alone tend to the garden or lift hay bales; his legs are shaking far too much to carry him around the cowshed or control the pedals of the tractor. His only option is to wait until one of his brothers comes back, or his mother summons them for whatever pot pie or casserole she’s preparing. With unsteady steps, he fumbles his way up onto the porch and collapses onto the swing bench.

“This is insane,” Jack practically growls around his second whisky. “I’m just going to text him.”

He’s gone through a rollercoaster of emotions in the past half an hour (or slightly less, he knows, thanks to his agreement with Robby) - worry about overstepping, frustration about the conversation getting out of hand and Dennis’ reaction, back to worry about the kid, and now at frustration once again. This time it’s aimed at both of them. All three of them. Dennis shouldn’t be staying out in this weather just to prove a point; Robby shouldn’t be as calm about this just because he thinks he knows the man better for having worked with him longer; Jack himself shouldn’t be waiting a goddamn half hour to check on someone he cares about just because he’s told it’s what he’s supposed to do. He fires off a quick text.

Hey Den, you okay?

It’s delivered almost immediately, so at least his phone isn’t off and he’s still somewhere with signal. But where could he have wandered to on a night like this? It’s been too long for a simple walk around the block. Shit, it’s been too long.

I’m really sorry, he types frantically, I shouldn’t have said what I did or acted like it wasn’t something you could handle. Can we talk about it?

Delivered. Five minutes pass, taking them well past the half hour mark. Five more.

Please, Dennis. I’m worried about you. We don’t even have to talk yet if you’re not ready, but at least come home before you catch your death. Four more minutes. Or if you’ve gone somewhere, just let me know. Are you with Santos?

The steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece is deafening, and jarringly out of rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The hands look wrong. It can’t possibly have been that long. “Mike…” he starts, low and warning. Sharp. Jagged. As wrong as the late hour.

“Yeah.” His husband’s voice cracks on the word, his own anxiety betrayed by the sound. “I know.”

Robby tastes the acrid tang of regret in the back of his throat as he lifts his phone from where it's charging on the coffee table. He's maintained since the offset that it's important for Dennis to have his independence within the relationship, that it will help to reinforce the sense of maturity that he'd worried would be a barrier to him feeling like an equal partner alongside the two older, more established men. It seems this time he's taken it a step too far: it's been nearly an hour, and the fear of seeing Jack spiral at the realisation is the only thing keeping him from letting his panic fully show. Nevertheless, his fingers fly over the keyboard.

Worried out our minds here, Den. Please will you come home, or tell me where you are and I'll come get you. He pauses. Love you.

When he looks back up, Jack is fitting his prosthesis. No words pass between them; long gone are the days where that was necessary. Robby watches his text flicker from ‘sending’ to ‘delivered’, stares at it for far too long, willing it to transition to ‘seen’, tries not to let the dread settle too heavy in his stomach when it doesn’t. Before he can let either of them slip even further into the abyss, he clicks the phone icon. Two numbers sit, as always, at the top of his ‘recently contacted’ list - Jack’s and Dennis’. Pretending his thumb isn’t shaking, he hits the latter.

The lack of shivering, Dennis thinks, isn’t supposed to be a good sign. A tiny voice at the back of his mind is screaming that it’s definitely not good, but it’s muffled by layers of frost-coated cotton wool and the comforting dullness that comes after the incessant rattle of his teeth reverberating around his skull. He’d been shivering more because he was getting colder, so it stands to reason that if he’s no longer shivering so much then he’s no longer so cold. He can see the signs of it, sure: the tiny wisps of dragon smoke curling from his lips with every shallow breath, lingering in the porch light just long enough for him to watch them drift away into the night before he takes his next slow inhale; the glint of the puddles left behind on the tarmac, already freezing over into something dark and lethal. It’s dangerous to be out on the roads on a night like this. Thank goodness he’s not out there; he’s here, not shivering, waiting in the glow of the farmhouse for one of his brothers to come back and make a fresh flask of coffee to take to the fields. No, that’s not what he’s waiting for, is it? He’s sitting here until the shame subsides or an apology arrives. But what is it he’s ashamed about? What does he need an apology for? Or is it that he needs to give one? The sleeves of his jacket are damp against his arms, hair clinging in messy curls to his forehead, but they’ll dry off in moments once he’s by the stove in the kitchen. Maybe his mother will light the fire in the living room while he curls up in the armchair. There’s a comfy armchair inside, the one Jack sits in when he pretends he’s not still listening to the police scanner. Jack. That’s who the apology is meant to be from, or for. They hurt each other, over… something. If only he could make it to the door, envelope himself in the man’s broad arms and let the embrace ease heat back into his weary muscles. They’re all so heavy, even the ones fighting to keep his eyelids up. Surely there’s no harm in letting them rest, just for a moment…

Relief washes over Jack so hard it nearly takes his weight from under him. Between his frantic gasps and the rustle of fabric as he pulled back his trousers to refit his foot, he must have missed the sound of the front door. Or perhaps Dennis crept back in quietly, anxious and ashamed. The thought tugs at his chest. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Robby is standing on the other side of the coffee table, phone pressed to his ear, and an unmistakable ringtone is chirping back at him from the hall. They exchange a look, a silent “easy, let’s not startle him”. The moment Robby hangs up, Jack takes his husband’s hand and leads them both out of the room.

The hand in Robby’s tightens as suddenly and forcefully as his own lungs at the sight of the front door. They shouldn’t be able to see all of it like that. There should be a figure, bashful or defiant but almost definitely slightly soggy, blocking the way. For one horrid second, he wonders if he imagined the ringtone, conjured it over the incessant dial tone that was practically mocking him as it looped down his ear. But no, Jack heard it too. Or did he just want to hear it? He retrieves his phone from his pocket and clicks the name that now sits at the top of the list. This time, he doesn’t bother bringing the device to his ear. He listens. There it is. Clear as day. Coming from the coat rack.

Jack reacts first, diving towards the mess of garments with desperate, clawing hands. He identifies the origin of the sound almost immediately, holding up a navy coat with a deep hood and padded body like it might burn him. Nausea bubbles through his throat. By the look on Robby’s face, he’s experiencing the same.

“He didn’t take his phone,” he states. It’s blindingly obvious, but it’s all he can think to say.

Robby’s jaw twitches beneath his beard. “Or his coat.”

Jack teeters. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck, Michael, he’s- fucking-” He never uses that name. It’s always Robby or Mike or a sweet yet practical pet name. Never Michael.

The other man notices immediately. “Let’s go.”

For the second time that evening, Jack’s hand is halfway to the handle when he’s stopped. “Come on!” he urges. Every second that passes is another second that Dennis might be-

“Coat.” It’s not often Robby brings out his authoritative tone at home, but it does the job. Jack relents for the eight seconds it takes him to yank his own thick coat from the hook and wrestle into it. He barely even looks as he scoops up the boy’s coat with one hand and the keys to his truck with the other before barrelling into the night, Robby hot on his heels.

Outside, the icy air sucker punches him, knocking the air from his lungs with both the fierceness of it and the knowledge that Dennis is out there somewhere in this. That thought alone almost makes him crumble, but he draws in a breath and draws on every scrap of training he’s ever received. Assess, look for any signs that might indicate where the younger man has gone, any evidence that will let him feel like he’s searching with purpose instead of driving the neighbourhood in fruitless circles, even just a tiny hint of-

There is a figure sitting on their swing bench.

It takes a moment for Robby to convince himself his heart hasn’t just stopped. The boy on the bench is barely recognisable as Dennis. His Dennis. Their Dennis. In place of unruly sandy curls are dark strands hanging limply. The near-permanent blush is long gone. All life and colour has been leeched from those blue-green eyes, leaving them almost grey. The blue of them is beginning to tint the thin, trembling lips below. The two men stand over the figure, both as frozen as the remnants of rain that now lie slick across the wooden decking.

“We need to get him inside,” Robby hears himself say, though the words taste wrong in his mouth.

“Are you out of your mind? We need to get him to the Pitt!” Jack snaps.

Reality rushes back in. Doctor mode switches on. The other man is right… sort of. “He won’t ma-” He can’t say that, can’t risk speaking it into existence. “The roads are too dangerous to get him there in the time he needs, and if we jostle him in this state we risk triggering cardiac arrest. We’ve gotta warm him. Now.”

Jack is already springing into action, crouching down in front of their partner. “Den? Dennis, it’s Jack.”

Glassy eyes try to meet his, steady but unseeing. A name slips, mumbled, from Dennis’ mouth. It’s neither Jack’s nor Robby’s, nor anyone they know, but it sounds familiar. The memory of a story about his brothers swims to the surface, and Jack balks. “Waiting f’ you,” Dennis slurs out. “No key… ‘s the rule.”

The men exchange worried glances. He’s not quite talking nonsense, but he’s far from lucid. Waiting… Nausea ripples through Jack again, higher than before, at the realisation that he’s been out here the whole time.

“Okay, Dennis,” Robby murmurs soothingly, dropping down at his other side. “We’re here. You ready to go inside?”

The nod that gets is slow, laboured. “Dinner? …Mom?”

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Another nod, this one more understanding, spurred on by what Robby has had the sense to realise must be the sacred rule of washing the filth of the day away before being allowed at the farmhouse table. The familiarity of it brings Dennis just enough comfort that he makes no protest when the older man scoops him up, clutching him to the warmth of his chest.

Once again, no words need to be exchanged for Jack to rush ahead, gathering blankets and makeshift warm compresses. He returns to find the other two in the bedroom, Robby gently yet hurriedly peeling their boyfriend out of his damp clothes. The moment he’s stripped down, Jack takes over with a whole armful of soft blankets, draping them around him while Robby steps away to fetch a thermometer from the bathroom cabinet. Jack works carefully, torn between the instinct to smother the boy and the knowledge that he has to be slow and methodical to avoid inducing arrhythmia. The one thing he does know is that the whole time he’s muttering soft words of encouragement, as much for his own benefit as the other man’s. Moments later, Robby returns with the thermometer and swears under his breath at the reading.

“How bad?” Jack asks quietly.

Robby won’t meet his eyes. “Eighty-four.” He swallows thickly and steps back to crank up the radiator.

Fear, guilt, anger, determination… they all twist in Jack’s stomach like potent toxins. How cruel that his own cure lies in providing someone else’s. How fitting, when he holds himself accountable for it. “Not for long,” he mutters. “Den, baby, I’m gonna lay you back and give you some packs to warm you up, okay?”

“M’kay.” Under the cosiness and weight of the blankets, the boy has become pliant, soft, lethargic. Jack can’t focus enough to remember whether that’s a good thing. When he peels back the fabric, Dennis shivers. That is a good thing. “‘S cold.”

“I know, baby, I know. We've got you.” The compresses slip between the layers: two on his chest, one at the back of his neck, one tenderly applied over his groin. “You’re okay now, you’re gonna be fine.” He wills himself to believe it.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack recoils as if he’s been shot; actually, somehow, this is worse. Here he is, wracked with guilt over his part in this nightmare, desperately trying to weave his own apology into his actions like fixing this will make it all okay when he knows it’s far from that, and yet it’s from Dennis’ chill-chapped lips that the words fall. The need to see him be okay is almost drowned by the despair of knowing that the ‘okay’ of this situation is about so much more than Jack is currently providing. His hands tremble as much as the chest they hover above.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Robby assures him softly, stepping into the space with a steaming mug. Jack hadn’t even noticed him leave, but now he sinks down beside him followed by the alluring scent of spiced apples as he lifts the warm juice to the boy’s lips. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Did. F’rgot my key.”

Oh god. Jack lets out a small strangled sound, hand flying to cover his mouth. He will spend the rest of the winter regretting this; shit, he’ll apologise until summer if he has to and it still won’t be enough. “That’s not a problem, Dennis,” he chokes out. “You could have knocked. We were worried about you.” Still are, he leaves unsaid. “We didn’t know you were there.”

86. Better. “Not going anywhere now.”

“Good.”

“Correction,” Robby interjects, keeping his tone light, praying the others hear the amusement he’s trying to add for all their sakes, “you’re going to the Pitt to get checked over.”

“Work?” Dennis murmurs, shocked.

“To work, yes, not for work. They’re gonna look after you.” 87. That’ll do. He turns to Jack. “Can you get the truck open?”

Five minutes later, Dennis is snuggled into Jack’s side in the middle of the truck bench. He’s barely awake, still wrapped in blankets and shivering uncontrollably, but the shivers are a positive compared to how he was. Robby’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and they both know it’s only partly to do with the tension of driving across black ice in the dark. There is no conversation, no music playing, just their racing pulses and the jagged breaths of the young man in between them.

Have the fluorescents always been this annoyingly bright? This is the first thought that crosses Dennis’ mind as he slowly blinks awake in one of the rooms of the Pitt. Really, they’re almost giving him a headache. Or maybe that was already there. The dull discomfort behind his eyes continues down his body, growing sharp around his chest, then evening out into a deadweight in his limbs. Beneath his twitching fingertips, the sheets are clinically crisp but warm.

He remembers snippets. The porch, the chill, the worrying absence of chill. A figure kneeling before him, one that his brain had been so certain was his brother come to let him back into the house despite it bearing Jack’s face. Robby’s chest. Blankets. More shivers. The smell of Jack’s truck. Noise. Chaos. Warmth. Sleep.

They had the decency to give him a room with a proper door instead of a curtain. It’s one of the bigger rooms too, with enough space for the second bed that has been wheeled in and is currently occupied by a tangle of limbs. He blinks the exhaustion from his mind, rearranges the jigsaw puzzle before him into two distinct bodies: Robby, laid on his back, eyes closed where his head is turned awkwardly towards the other bed; Jack, looking the smallest Dennis has ever seen him, hand fisted in the fabric of Robby’s fleece where he curls against his husband’s chest. The sight of the two of them makes his entire being ache more than it already does. He blinks back tears with a quiet sniffle. Not quiet enough, it seems.

Robby’s eyes snap open at the sound of a small sniff against the low background hum of the hospital’s usual ambience. He hadn’t wanted to fall asleep after all of it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but Jack needed the rest and he knew he wouldn’t go down alone. He didn’t at the best of times, and especially not tonight. So he’d laid down on the bed that Lena had brought in, and made sure he was facing the other one so that he could keep an imaginary eye on Dennis. Now, the pale face of their boyfriend is the first thing he sees, weary but alive.

“Hey,” he whispers, cautiously extracting himself from the body pressed against his chest and slipping to Dennis’ bedside. “How you holding up?”

“Could be worse,” he croaks.

In spite of himself, Robby huffs out a low laugh. “You’re telling me.”

Dennis twists his hands into the bedsheets. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.” He settles on the edge of the bed, pressing a kiss to the younger man’s temple. “It’s okay, you weren’t to know. These things happen.”

“What, um… what did happen?” He won’t quite meet Robby’s eyes, whether out of embarrassment or something else.

“You were hypothermic. They gave you a heated IV and airway rewarming.”

“And before that?”

Oh. “We found you sitting out on the porch. You’d been gone for close to an hour.”

Their gazes meet then, and he finds Dennis’ full of remorse, anguish… terror. “I’m so sorry, Robby, I’m so- I’m really sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He’s said it before, but if the kid doesn’t remember then it bears saying again, or even if he does then it’s still worth repeating. “You were confused, it’s a common symptom.” A thought flickers to life. “Is that something you used to do a lot, sit out and wait? You said it was the rule.”

The boy nods. “On the farm. You forget your keys, you wait for someone to let you in.”

A little of the tension eases from Robby’s shoulders. “And that’s why you didn’t knock?” The small hands in front of him wring further into the fabric; the gaze drops again, this time undeniably in shame. “Dennis?”

“I thought you’d be angry. I was being childish, and then I was an idiot for not taking my phone or my keys. Didn’t want you both to-” he cuts himself off sharply.

Robby can think of any number of ways to finish that sentence, and all of them make his chest hurt. “We’re not going to… whatever you think. Look, I know things got out of hand, but I promise there is nothing you can do that will make us mad enough to outweigh how much we care about you. Ever.”

“Okay,” he replies, quiet, unconvinced.

“I’m serious. When we saw you out there, I was so fucking worried. So was Jack. I think he nearly passed out.” That, to his relief, earns him a tiny laugh. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“First off, let’s never do this again. No matter what happens, you can always come to us, or tell us to back off. Whatever you need.”

Dennis nods solemnly. “And second?”

“Not a word to Jack of the real reason you were sitting out there for so long.”

A more vigorous nod. He completely understands, of course he does. His own part in the argument had been gnawing at his insides the whole evening and he knows he’s the one who took it as far as it went; if Jack, who didn’t deserve the reaction he got, invariably felt guilty about things getting out of hand, then the idea of him being responsible for Dennis’ condition would eat him alive. He can’t do that to him. He’d rather get hypothermia again than put him through that.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the other man stirs, slowly at first, then faster when he remembers where he is and why he’s there. He’s out of the bed before he’s even fully awake. It takes two strides for him to cross the space and grip Dennis’ hands as though he needs to feel the proof of the blood flow warming them.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” he sighs, not stopping to consider whether the force with which he kisses their boyfriend will have an impact on his oxygen levels. It isn’t until he feels a soft, breathy giggle against his lips that he pulls away. “Sorry, I just… fucking hell, Den.”

Robby places a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder, seizing the opportunity to deliver each of them a brief kiss of his own. “Don’t worry, I’ve already read him the riot act.”

“Oh no,” Jack tuts, “I’m not angry. I’m just so glad you’re alright. You scared the shit out of us.”

Dennis pales again, but Robby gives him a triumphant wink. “See? Told you we weren’t mad.”

The two of them watch as the younger man sags with relief, suddenly looking very small against the crisp white sheets. He whispers something, too soft and faltering for them to make out. They wait. He tries again, a little firmer. “You were right.”

“Well, yeah,” Robby chuckles, “I’m always right.”

“No.” Dennis’ eyes meet Jack’s, watery but firm. “You were right.”

Their hands are still linked; Jack squeezes reassuringly. “It’s okay, we don’t have to do this right now.”

Dennis shuffles further up the bed. “I want to. Please.”

Before he can get any further, a light yet insistent knock sounds on the door, followed shortly after by the appearance of Shen. “All still with us, then?” he grins.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Touch and go, bud. I don’t think my heart could have taken much more.”

“Come off it, you’re gonna outlive me at the rate you’re going.” The room erupts in amused mutters, something about death by iced coffee. “Alright, lay off. Glad you’re doing okay, Whitaker, just buzz if you need anything. I don’t know if there’s room for a third bed in here but I can try.” He lingers on the way out. “Oh, and Robby, tomorrow’s my night off, so if you want me to cover your shift just say the word.” Then he’s gone with a cheery ‘see you later’ and a peace sign thrown over his shoulder.

A few more visitors poke their heads in once news of Dennis’ return to consciousness spreads. Cups of tea and fresh blankets delivered by Lena; Toomarian, asking if he was okay or needed anything; a supportive fist bump from Henderson, who had quickly become a friend during the rotation he spent on nights (never again, a somewhat jealous Robby had said, much to Jack’s outrage). Soon, though, the flow settles, giving way to the stillness of the early hours. Robby drops the handrails on the beds and wheels them together, creating a rough semblance of a narrow double bed. It’s not nearly big enough to hold three people, especially not three grown men, but none of them complain when they slot themselves together in the tiny space. They can pretend to be clinging to each other as a way to keep them all in place. Pretend it has nothing to do with the all-consuming need to feel their partners’ breaths fanning across their skin and measure the temperature of the skin beneath their palms.

After a while, when their pulses are beating close to unison and they teeter on the edge of sleep, Dennis speaks again. “Thank you. For staying.”

“Of course,” Jack replies softly. “Didn’t think we’d leave you on your own, did you?” Silence. Stillness. The lack of response yanks on something in his chest, an insecurity he hadn’t noticed he’d dislodged in himself until he watched it shake loose in his partner. “We’re not going to leave, Dennis. Not over this, or anything. If you want to go home after Christmas, we’ll support you, I promise. As long as you’re okay.”

At last, an acknowledgement of sorts. “They don’t actually want me there.”

“Oh, Den.” His heart breaks a little more. “I’m sure they do. I didn’t mean to get in your head, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They invited me, but they don’t want me. There’s a difference.” Dennis sighs, burrowing further into the cavity between the men’s chests. “I think my mom is hoping I’ll show up and still be the person I was before I left, and the only reason I wanted to go back was to prove that I’m not.”

Fingers wind into his curls, and he melts into the sensation of Robby stroking across his scalp as he responds. “You’re definitely not. You’ve already outgrown the person you were when we met you, and that’s only half the time you’ve been away.”

Dennis nods against him, and Robby both feels and hears him drawing in a breath to steady himself and absorb the comforting scent. The air, now lighter, moves freely through his lungs. There’s so much he wants to tell them both: how sorry he is again for arguing in the first place and for making them feel like he didn’t care how much his outburst or the aftermath of him enduring a trip home would affect them; how much the relationship means to him and more so now he’s experienced the fear of losing it; how glad he is they went looking for him. Now, however, nestled half-asleep in the pocket of body heat between them, the right words escape him. He could voice them exactly as he thinks, but they don’t seem significant enough to bear the full weight of his emotions. Instead, he tugs Jack a little closer where he’s hanging off the edge of the bed and smiles as the man curls into him. “So, Boxing Day…”

“Mhm?” The reply is thick with drowsiness, Jack’s already low voice even more hoarse. Something about the sound reaffirms everything he’s been holding back.

“I was thinking, maybe we don’t go out?”

“You wanna stay here?” he frowns. On the other side of the bed, Robby - the most awake of the trio - tightens his arm where it’s draped across them both and presses another kiss into Dennis’ hair.

“Not in the hospital, no, but-”

“‘S not what I-”

“I know what you meant,” Dennis insists softly, entirely at odds with how he’d said those exact words a few short hours ago. This time, there’s no misplaced insinuations, just pure synchronicity. “Just… here.” He waves a hand vaguely between the two of them, gesture loose and uncoordinated as his exhausted mind tries to remember how to control his limbs. “If that’s okay?”

“Course it is,” Jack hums, the comfort of returning to a state of mutual understanding finally lulling him over the brink.

“We’re here for as long as you’ll have us,” Robby confirms, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.

“You have a shift in four hours,” Dennis points out, voice deadpan but humorous.

Robby doesn’t look up. “Shen can cover. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do.”