The emergency department was in its usual chaotic rhythm by the time you clocked in. It was one of those days where you were constantly moving, in and out of patient rooms, checking vitals, administering medication, juggling a million other things at once. Voices overlapped from every direction. Someone was calling for labs, someone else was asking for meds, and a paramedic was giving a report too fast for anyone to fully catch.

That was the thing about this place: you didn't ease into a shift, you went in swinging. No warm-up, no pause. Just straight into it.

You’d barely set your bag down when you saw the nurse's light flash for assistance in room seven.

“I got room seven,” you called out, not really to anyone in particular, just enough for the rest of the staff to know it was covered.

You were already moving towards the hall when–

“Hey.”

You glanced over your shoulder, instinctively searching for the familiar voice. Jack was leaning back against the counter, tablet in hand, but he wasn’t really looking at it. His attention was on you, had been since you came through the staff doors. His gaze followed you easily, like it always did, picking you out of the chaos without trying.

It was second nature to him. 

“Try not to get into too much trouble today, will you?” he called after you, as if he knew what kind of day you were already about to have.

You snorted, not even slowing as you kept walking. “No promises, babe.”

His mouth twitched in amusement as he watched you.

“That's what I was afraid of,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You shook your head, continuing onto room seven, but now with a small smile tugging at your lips. You could feel it, even without turning back– his eyes lingered on you, warm and affectionate.

Room seven was like a breath of fresh air when you entered. 

A sweet, elderly woman sat on the edge of the bed, her hair neatly pinned back in a bun and a tan cardigan draped over her shoulders. She looked like the stereotypical grandmother who appeared on television. She smiled as you stepped in, her eyes twinking with a warmth that immediately put you at ease.

“Hello, Ma’am, I saw you needed some help?” you asked, moving closer.

“None of that,” she said with a playful shake of her head. “Please, call me Betty.”

“Betty,” you repeated with a smile. “Alright, Betty. How can I help you today?”

“Well,” she said, reaching for the call button at her bedside. “I hit this because I didn't know if you folks forgot about silly old me.” She laughed softly. “And I've been watching, you all seem so kind to one another.”

You chuckled. “It’s not that we forgot, Betty. It’s just …busy here.” You gestured vaguely at the chos outside of her room. “But I’ll check your vitals again. Your X-rays still haven't come back yet, so we’ll keep an eye on things until they do.”

Betty’s eyes lit up as she reached beside her bed and handed you a blue Tupperware container. “The last doctor forgot to take these,” she said gently. “But these are some homemade brownies I made for you all. You guys work so hard, and I wanted to do something as nice as a thank you.”

You hesitated for a second, torn between hospital policy and her genuine kindness. The container was full of slightly uneven but perfectly golden brownies, the cocoa aroma drifting up to your senses immediately.

“Betty… you didn't have to,” you thanked her, genuinely touched.

“Oh, I wanted to, dear,” she replied warmly, her smile sincere. “I just wanted to make your day a little easier.”

You nodded, carefully accepting the container. Rules be damned, you weren't going to upset this kind old lady.

For a moment, the chaos of the ED felt just a little lighter. 

The break room was a rare moment of quiet amid the usual chaos of the ED. It wasn’t often that you were able to sit down and actually relax in here.

You placed Betty’s Tupperware on the counter for anyone who wanted a treat. You couldn’t resist eating one of the brownies; it was warm, sweet, and unexpectedly comforting, the kind of little indulgence that made the chaos of the shift feel just a bit easier.

You returned to your duties, leaving the rest of the brownies safely in the room for the rest of the staff. Completely ordinary, you told yourself. A little chocolate never hurt anyone.

The nurse’s station was buzzing as usual, phone ringing, monitors beeping, colleagues chatting, but you moved through it all with your usual efficiency… or at least you thought you were.

Jack, standing nearby, tilted his head slightly as he watched you file through charts. Something about the way you moved, the little smile tugging at your lips a little too often, made him pause. He was suspicious; you seemed just a little too cheerful for someone powering through a twelve-hour shift.

Dana wandered over, chewing her gum while balancing a stack of charts. She stopped mid-step, squinting at you. Did she just see you laugh at one of your own notes? 

“Honey, are you alright?” she asked slowly.

You blinked at her, genuinely confused. “Huh? Oh, no.. I just saw something funny, that’s all.” You waved her concern and returned to sorting the notes, completely unaware of the faint wobble in your step.

Dana exchanged a glance with Jack, leaning in slightly. “Is she okay?” she murmured.

Jack shrugged, still unsure. “I think so. Just a little off. Probably lack of sleep.”

For a while, you continued through the shift, moving through the patients' charts and checking IVs as normal, though this time a little more giggly. You hummed under your breath as you worked, swaying when it involved leaving the desk.

Eventually, the first unmistakable wave hit. You found yourself leaning against a counter, laughing at nothing in particular, flicking pens and notes across the nurses' station without meaning to. 

Dana’s narrowed, and this time she knew something was seriously wrong. “Okay..” she muttered, walking over and gently taking your arm. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” you asked brightly, giggling as you let her guide you down the hall, your fingers brushing along her arm without even realizing it. Each step felt floaty, just a little too easy, and you leaned into her touch more than necessary, smiling up at her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sit down here,” Dana said, motioning to an empty patient room. “I just want to make sure you’re okay for a second.”

You plopped onto the edge of the bed, still giggling softly, reaching for Dana’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Dana… you’re so nice,” you murmured, leaning closer than usual. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Dana’s eyes widened, then flicked towards the hallway, a frown crossing her face. Something was definitely off. “I need to go get Jack, okay?” she muttered, letting go of your arm and stepping out quickly to call him.

You hummed contentedly, sinking into the edge of the bed, your finger brushing over the soft sheets. The fabric felt impossibly smooth, comforting in a way that made you sigh happily. 

“Oh… Jack,” you murmured as soon as you saw him step into the room, your eyes lighting up. “These sheets… we need a pair for home. They’re… amazing.” You wiggled your fingers along the fabric, completely enraptured, your smile wide and dreamy.

Jack knelt beside you, raising an eyebrow but keeping his voice calm. “You want our bed to have hospital sheets?” He couldn't believe his ears.

You tilted your head, still running your hands over the soft fabric. “Not the hospital ones … these. Soft like clouds.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Dana, who had just stepped in behind him, her lips pressed together to hide a smirk. Both of them blinked, trying to make sense of the dreamy, almost floaty expression on your face.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asked cautiously. “You seem different.”

You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his chest. “You’re so handsome,” you murmured. “I love you so much, even though you snore.”

​​Jack froze, exchanging a stunned glance with Dana. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is she high?”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, assessing the situation calmly. Why is she high? And how in the world on shift? “Okay… babe, when was the last time you ate today?

“…Breakfast?” you answered thoughtfully, tilting your head like it required serious consideration.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Just breakfast?”

Your face brightened suddenly. “Oh! Wait… some patient! An old lady gave me brownies!”

Jack blinked. “Brownies?”

You nodded eagerly. “In the break room! Jack, you need to try them; they were so good.” You emphasize, trying to figure out why earlier you didn't bother to bring a brownie to Jack so he could try them.

Dana’s eyes flicked to Jack, her lips pressed together, and she whispered, “I’m already on it,” before stepping quickly to go and try to avoid another disaster.

Jack exhaled softly, a mix of relief and amusement washing over him. Now that he knows why you're like this. He let his hand drift to your shoulder as you nuzzled into him. 

“How about we go home?” he murmured gently, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Before you get into any trouble.”

You giggled, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Yeah… home to our bed.”

Jack smiled, shaking his head. “Alright, let’s get out of here before you start causing a scene,” He carefully guided you off the bed. In any other instance, he would carry you in this state, but he knew it would draw more attention than needed.

You leaned fully into him, fingers tracing along his shoulders, humming softly. “Are you going to be in bed with me?

Jack nodded and ensured he wrapped his arm securely around your waist, steering you down the hall, subtly dodging busy staff and shielding you from anyone who might notice. You swayed slightly with each step, giggling at nothing and murmuring little compliments about him. 

Just as you made it to the emergency exit, Robby appeared, arriving for his shift. You waved lazily, eyes sparkling. “Hey, handsome! You coming with us… or just want to watch?”

Jack shot him a pointed look while his ears turned red. “I’ll tell you later,” he muttered, tugging you gently forward. Robby stood there, clearly flustered and confused, while you giggled softly, leaning into Jack even more.

You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “I love you… so much…”

“I know, babe,” Jack murmured, smiling as he guided you toward the exit. “I love you too… however, no more brownies for you.”

He helped you settle into the passenger seat, gently buckling you in. You leaned your head against the window for a second, eyes half-lidded and dreamy, still holding his hand.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I know… so buy me new sheets,” you whispered back, your fingers tracing lightly along his hand.

Jack pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to your forehead. “Alright… home we go,” he said, starting the engine. 

You sighed contentedly, your head resting against the seat, fingers still entwined with his. Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy, your body relaxing in the warmth of the car, and the lingering effects of the brownies lulled you toward sleep.

You’re halfway through getting dressed when the first cramp hits.

It’s low and sharp, like someone twisting a fist just behind your hip bone, and you pause with one sock in your hand, breath catching for half a second.

“—you still there?” Jack’s voice crackles through your phone, dry and unimpressed even this early. “Or did you finally get abducted by aliens.”

You exhale through your nose. “Rude. I’d at least text you first.”

“You’d forget,” he says. “You forget to eat.”

“I do not forget to eat.”

“You forget to eat real food.”

You tug the sock on and straighten, bracing a hand against the dresser as another wave rolls through. Not unbearable. Just relentless. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. The humor drops. He hears everything despite his old age much to your dismay. 

“Yeah,” you say automatically, then sigh. “Just cramps. I think.”

There’s a pause. You can picture him already. Scrubs half-on, black coffee in hand, leaning against the counter like the weight of the world lives there too. That crease between his brows carving itself in.

“You’re not due,” he says.

You snort. “Jack, I have PCOS. I’m never due.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t say it was.” You grab your hoodie and pull it on, slower now. “It’s probably nothing. My body just likes to freestyle.”

“Your body doesn’t hate you,” he mutters. “It’s just bad at communicating.”

You huff. “Wow. Pot, meet kettle.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh on his end, barely making it past his throat. You count it as a win.

Another cramp hits, stronger this time, and you swear under your breath before you can stop yourself.

Jack catches it instantly. “Hey. Don’t do that thing where you minimize your pain”

“M’not minimizing,” you say, defensive but gentle. “I’m just… acknowledging. With curse words.”

“Okay,” he says, already switching gears. “Have you eaten.”

You groan. “Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” he replies flatly. “You need food before you take anything. Even ibuprofen. Especially ibuprofen.”

“I was gonna grab something at work.”

“At the animal shelter,” he says, irritation sharp but protective. “Where you will absolutely forget because a sad puppy looks at you.”

“Who absolutely deserves my full attention.”

“You can give it attention after you eat a granola bar,” he counters. “There should be one in your bag. Peanut butter. I put it there.”

You blink. “You’re creepy.”

“God forbid I take care of my girl” he scoffs

Another wave rolls through and you lean against the doorframe, eyes closing. Beads of sweat are starting to pepper your hairline. 

“And the heating pad,” Jack adds immediately. “The wearable one. Did you charge it like I told you.”

“Yes,” you mutter. “It’s in my bag.”

“Put it on now.”

“I’m literally standing in my hallway.”

“And you’re literally in pain.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. “You literally deal with trauma for a living. I think you can handle my uterus throwing a tantrum.”

“Don’t joke about organs misbehaving,” he says flatly. “Bad precedent.”

You snort as you press the pad against your abdomen, warmth blooming slow and steady. It helps enough to stand upright again. 

“You’re walking funny,” he says.

You freeze. “How would you even know that?”

“You get quieter when you’re hurting,” he replies. “And you rock side to side trying to soothe yourself”

You hate how right he is.

“Text me when you get there,” Jack says. No argument. Just that low, firm tone he uses when he’s trying not to spiral. “If it gets worse, you tell someone. I don’t care if it’s your boss or the world’s friendliest golden retriever.”

“I’m not telling a dog I’m dying.”

“You absolutely would,” he says. “You like animals more than people.”

“They don’t ask stupid questions.”

A beat.

“You’re such an old man,” you say, keys jingling as you head for the door.

“And you love me,” he shoots back.

You hesitate just long enough for him to hear it.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

The pain ebbs again, dulling to a throb as you grab your bag and lock the door. You chalk it up to bad timing, hormones, your body being annoying but its survivable.

Normal.

You have no idea how wrong you are.

The animal shelter smells like disinfectant and fritos. Yummy

It’s comforting in a way some people wouldn’t understand.. Dogs barking in uneven bursts, the low hum of the ventilation, a cat somewhere hissing dramatically at a mild inconvenience. You hang your bag in your locker and move on autopilot, like you always do.

Your phone buzzes.

Jack: You there?

You smile and unlock it.

You: at work 🫡 You: don’t yell at me

You snap a picture before he can ask. A granola bar half-unwrapped, a bottle of water already sweating onto the metal table. You make sure your heating pad is visible in the corner, clipped under your hoodie like proof of compliance.

You: proof of life + nourishment

Three dots appear. Pause.

Jack: I see water. Jack: Eat first. Then meds. Jack: Don’t try to out sass me, you’ll lose everytime

You huff a quiet laugh and take a bite, chewing even though your stomach feels tight and off.

You: yes daddy 🫡

The typing dots disappear. Reappear.

Jack: … Jack: Welp. Jack: Someone’s gotta take care of you 🤷🏼‍♂️

You grin to yourself, warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the heating pad.

You swallow, then snap another photo. Pain meds in your palm. Water halfway gone.

You: see? compliant. hydrated. thriving. Jack: Questionable on that last one. Jack: Let me know when you take it

You do. Another picture sent. Malicious compliance at its best. You lean back against the counter and wait for the edge to dull.

It helps. A little.

Your phone buzzes again.

Jack: Good. Jack: I’m gonna try to sleep before my shift. Jack: Call me if you need anything.

You stare at that line longer than you mean to.

You: I will You: go be grumpy in your dreams old man 😴 Jack: Watch it. Jack: Love you.

Your chest does that stupid, warm, flutter thing.

You: love you too

The screen goes dark as you tuck your phone into the pocket of your pants as you step fully back into your day. Cleaning bowls. Refilling water. Speaking softly to the anxious ones, the scared ones, the ones who flinch at sudden movement.

You always feel steadier here. Animals don’t ask you to explain yourself. They don’t expect you to be anything but gentle.

“I know,” you murmur to a trembling pittie as you clip on a leash. “People can be a lot. But you’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

It’s a familiar comfort, and you won’t admit it but you love being needed. 

Halfway through cleaning one of the kennels, the pain surges again. Sharper. Higher. It steals your breath this time, forces you to grip the metal door and press your forehead against it until the room stops tilting.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay. That’s new.”

Roco, your favorite pittie, noses your arm, worried. You manage a smile and scratch behind his ears, even as sweat beads along your hairline again.

“I’m fine,” you tell him softly. “Promise.”

You straighten and keep moving. Slower now. More careful. You don’t want to scare anyone. Or make a fuss. PCOS is a bitch. Painful periods that come out of nowhere.

Jack’s asleep. You don’t want to bother him. It’s probably just hormones. Stress. Your body being dramatic like it always is.

You slip back into your routine, ignoring the way the pain keeps clawing, unfamiliar and insistent.

You don’t call.

You really, really should have.

The next cramp doesn’t come in waves.

It hits all at once.

It’s sharp and blinding, a white-hot spike that steals the air from your lungs and folds you forward with a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Your knees buckle before you can even think to brace yourself, one hand slipping uselessly against the kennel door.

“Oh—fuck,” you gasp, the word breaking apart as pressure blooms deep in your abdomen, wrong in a way that sets off every internal alarm you’ve been ignoring.

The room tilts.

You try to call out. Try to steady yourself. Try to do anything other than sink to the concrete floor like your bones have turned to water.

You don’t make it.

Your shoulder clips the edge of the kennel as you go down, the impact distant and dull compared to the pain ripping through you now. It’s everywhere. Radiating. Crawling upward. Your vision tunnels, spots dancing at the edges.

“Hey—hey!” someone shouts. Footsteps. Too many. Too loud.

A dog starts barking, sharp and panicked.

“I—I’m okay,” you try to say, but it comes out thin and breathless, more of an automatic response than truth. You curl instinctively, knees drawing in as nausea roils hard enough to make your mouth flood.

You hear your name.

Hands hover, unsure where to touch, afraid to hurt you more.

“You’re not okay,” a coworker says, voice tight. “You’re really not okay.”

You shake your head weakly, sweat slicking your temples. “I just—need a second.”

Another bolt of pain tears through you and you cry out this time, sharp and broken, fingers clawing at the concrete as if it might anchor you.

Someone swears.

“Call 911,” another voice says. “Now.”

You try to protest. Try to say Jack is sleeping, that it’s probably nothing, that you can’t afford to make a scene. Your body ignores you completely.

The world narrows to sirens and pressure and the overwhelming certainty that something inside you has gone terribly, catastrophically wrong.

The paramedics move fast.

You’re barely aware of being lifted, of straps securing you to the gurney, of oxygen pressed to your face as someone asks questions you can’t seem to answer clearly.

“Any allergies?” “Pain level?” “Possibility of pregnancy?”

“No,” you gasp. “PCOS. I—fuck—please—”

“Okay, okay, we’ve got you,” a calm voice says, grounding but distant. “Stay with me.”

You try. God, do you try.

As they wheel you out, someone grabs your bag from your locker and sets it on the counter. Your hoodie is draped over a chair. Your phone, face down and on silent, sits beside a half-empty bottle of water and a crumpled granola bar wrapper.

No one thinks to grab it.

The doors close behind the stretcher.PTMC blurs into existence in bright lights and clipped voices.

You catch fragments. “Severe abdominal pain.” “Rebound tenderness.” “BP’s dropping.” “Get imaging ready.”

You’re moved. Shifted. Prodded. The pain spikes again, vicious and consuming. Your focusing on your breathing. When they start shouting.. 

“Something’s wrong,” someone says urgently. “We’re losing her pressure.” “Get surgery on the line.”

Fear cuts through the fog at last, sharp and sobering.

“Jack,” you whisper, barely audible. “I need—”

No one hears you.

Your phone is miles away, sitting quietly on a shelter counter, while the man you love sleeps, blissfully unaware, preparing for a night shift that will change everything.

They sit you upright just long enough to hand you a clipboard.

Your skin feels hot and cold all at once. Sweat rolls along your face, dampening your collar, while a shiver rattles through your bones hard enough to make your teeth chatter.

“I can’t—” you start, voice thin. “Why do I have to fill this out?”

The nurse crouches slightly so she’s in your line of sight, her voice steady and kind. “It’s just routine, baby. No one came in with you, and we need as much information as we can get to help you, okay? Just do what you can.”

You nod, even though your hands are shaking so badly the pen nearly slips from your grip.

Name. Date of birth.

You pause between fields, breathing shallowly through another wave of pain that twists deep in your abdomen. It’s not like cramps anymore. It’s wrong. It feels like something has torn.

Emergency contact.

Jack.

Your chest tightens. You picture him without meaning to. Slouched at his kitchen counter in yesterday’s T-shirt, black coffee steaming between his hands. Brow furrowed like he’s already annoyed at the world. Or maybe smirking, saying something dry and stupid just to make you laugh.

You wish he were here. He’d make a joke. He’d tell you you’re fine even while his eyes give him away.

Another shiver wracks through you, sweat cooling unpleasantly against your skin. You scribble his name down quickly, afraid you’ll lose the moment of clarity if you don’t.

The numbers blur. Your grip tightens. Another spike of pain steals your breath and your hand jerks.

You don’t notice the mistake.

The nurse takes the clipboard gently from you before you can look it over.

“Thank you,” she says. “That helps a lot.”

You want to tell her to wait. To double-check. Something nags at the back of your mind, thin and insistent, but it’s drowned out by another surge of pain that drags a broken sound out of your throat.

“Oh—oh my God—”

“Okay,” the nurse says immediately. “Let’s get you lying back.”

They lower the bed, voices layering now, efficient but urgent.

“What are you feeling?” “Sharp,” you gasp. “It started low and now it’s—everywhere. I’m cold. I’m hot. I feel—icky.”

“Any medical history we should know about?”

“PCOS,” you manage. “I—I get cysts. I think maybe one ruptured?”

It makes sense. It’s something you’ve survived before and It’s less terrifying than the alternative creeping at the edges of your thoughts.

“That’s good to know,” someone says. “We’ll check everything.”

An IV slides into your arm. Cool saline, then the slow burn of pain medication following it. The edge softens just enough to make your head feel heavy

“Okay,” a doctor says. “We’re going to run labs and get imaging. Just to be safe.”

As they wheel you down the hall, lights streaking overhead, fear finally punches through the haze.

“I just want Jack,” you whisper, tears slipping sideways into your hair. “Please.”

“We’re taking good care of you,” a voice promises.

You let your eyes close, trusting that promise because you don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

Behind the scenes, the number is dialed.

It doesn’t connect.

They try again.

Still nothing.

And you have no idea that the man you love is still asleep, hours away from walking into his biggest fear

Time stops meaning anything.

It stretches and snaps in strange ways, hours bleeding together until you can’t tell if you’ve been awake for minutes or days. You drift in and out, pulled under by medication and dragged back by pain that never fully lets go.

Every time you surface, you look for him.

You expect Jack to be there. In the chair by the bed. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Scowling at the monitor to ensure you're truly stable. You expect his voice before you even open your eyes.

He’s never there.

The first time you realize it, confusion settles in your chest, slow and heavy. The second time, it curdles into something sharper.

By the third, you’re angry.

Where is he?

Another wave of pain rolls through you and you hiss, fingers digging into the sheets. Your skin still feels too warm, then too cold. You're soaked in sweat while chills ripple through you uncontrollably.

He said to call if you needed anything.

You needed everything.

You squint at the clock on the wall when your eyes manage to focus. Too much time has passed. Enough that he should be here by now. Enough that the hurt starts to whisper things you don’t want to hear.

Maybe he didn’t answer because he didn’t want to. Maybe you mattered less than you thought.

The thought lands hard, stealing what little breath you have.

A woman in blue scrubs notices you stirring and moves closer, her presence calm in a way that feels genuine. She has kind eyes. Tired, but kind.

“Hey,” she says softly. “I’m Dr. King. Mel.”

You swallow. Your throat burns. “Can I—” Your voice cracks immediately. You wince, frustrated with yourself. “Can I get an update?”

“Of course,” Mel says, pulling the curtain a little more closed, making the space feel smaller. Safer. “We’re still waiting on imaging, but your pain and labs are concerning. We’re keeping a close eye on you.”

You nod weakly. That’s not what you want.

“Did—” You hesitate. “Did my boyfriend come?”

Mel’s expression shifts. Just slightly. Careful.

Your stomach drops.

“We’ve been trying the number you gave us,” she says gently. “I’m really sorry.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“He knows,” you croak, more hope than fact. “He has to.”

Mel doesn’t contradict you. Instead, she reaches out, her hand warm and comforting on your arm.

“Let’s take a breath together for a second,” she says softly. “Focus on me, okay? You’re here, you’re being taken care of, and we’re doing everything we can.”

It doesn’t help.

Another surge of pain rips through you and you cry out, curling inward as much as the bed will allow.

“I just want Jack,” you sob. “Please. I just want him.”

“I know,” Mel murmurs, petting your hair. “I know.”

She stays until your breathing evens out, until the tears quiet into shaky hiccups. When she finally steps away, the room feels emptier than before.

You drift again, consciousness slipping, anger and hurt tangling with fear as your body fights something you still don’t have a name for.

And somewhere across the city, Jack Abbot sleeps through the worst hour of your life, completely unaware that you’re waking up scared and hurting and wondering if love is supposed to feel like this.

Robby's POV

Mel doesn’t ask for help often. 

So when she pauses at the desk, a chart tucked under her arm, and says, “Can you go check on Bed Twelve for me?” Robby doesn’t argue.

“She’s scared,” Mel adds quietly. “And she keeps asking for her boyfriend.”

That’s enough.

Robby heads down the hall, already bracing himself. Severe abdominal pain. Labs trending the wrong way. Imaging pending but urgent.

He pulls the curtain aside and stops cold.

“Oh. Shit.”

You’re curled slightly on your side, knees drawn in as much as the monitors allow. Pale. Sweaty. Shivering despite the warmed blankets. You look smaller than you should, lashes damp like you’ve been crying in your sleep.

And suddenly it clicks.

Jack’s phone. The wallpaper. The way his voice softens when he says your name.

“Oh fuck,” Robby breathes.

Your eyes flutter open.

“Jack?” you whisper immediately, hope fragile and aching.

Robby steps closer, gentle. “Hey. It’s Robby. I work with him.”

Confusion flickers across your face, quickly chased by fear.

“Where is he?” you ask. “He was supposed to—”

Before Robby can answer, a nurse appears. “Imaging’s back.”

Everything shifts.

Jack's POV

Jack clocks in on autopilot.

Badge swipe. Fluorescent lights. The quiet, constant ache in his leg where the prosthetic rubs wrong. He moves at a steady pace, black coffee in hand, already scanning the board.

Robby spots him first.

Jack lifts his chin slightly, dry as ever. “Damn, brother,” he says. “Where’s the fire?”

Robby opens his mouth and stops when he sees Jack’s face.

The joking dies instantly.

Jack follows his gaze. Feels the shift in the air.

“What,” Jack says flatly.

Robby steps closer, voice low. “Jack… there’s a patient in one of the bays. She came in earlier today.”

Jack exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Okay? That narrows it down to… most of the ER.”

Robby doesn’t smile.

Jack’s brow furrows. “What. Did she steal your parking spot?”

“Jack,” Robby says carefully. “She looks just like your girl.”

Jack’s grip tightens on his coffee cup.

Robby swallows. “And you’re the only Jack Abbot I know.”

The humor drains from Jack’s face in real time.

“She keeps asking for you,” Robby finishes quietly.

Jack’s voice comes out rough. “No.”

Robby nods once. “Yeah.”

Jack stands there, frozen, like his body hasn’t caught up to what his brain just heard.

“Why wasn’t I called,” Jack demands, anger flashing hot and fast.

Robby winces. “They tried. The number on the file was off by a digit.”

Jack shakes his head once, sharp. “She knows my number.”

“She was scared,” Robby says softly. “And in a lot of pain.”

Before Jack can answer, a surgeon steps in, urgency written all over him.

“Appendix rupture,” the surgeon says. “There's an infection. We’re taking her to the OR now.”

Jack’s heart slams violently.

“No,” he says hoarsely. “I need to see her.”

“If you want to say something,” the surgeon replies, already moving, “now’s the time.”

Jack doesn’t run. He can’t. But he moves as fast as his body allows, every step heavy and burning as Robby keeps pace beside him.

“She thinks you’re not coming,” Robby adds quietly. “She’s scared.”

“Fuck,” Jack breathes. “I was right here.”

Your POV

They’re moving you again.

Faster now. Voices sharp and clipped. Someone tells you they need to take your appendix out. Someone says surgery. Someone presses something cool into your IV.

Fear spikes, bright and panicked.

“Jack,” you whisper. “Please.”

The bed stops.

A hand closes around yours.

“Hey,” a voice says. Familiar callouses scratch against your palm. 

Your eyes flutter open.

He’s here, hair still damp, badge crooked, chest rising and falling like he fought the whole hospital to get to you.

“Where have you been?” you ask, voice small and cracked, not angry. Just hurt.

Jack leans in instantly, forehead pressing to yours. “Baby, I—”

The world tilts and the ceiling tiles blur

“No, wait—” he says urgently, squeezing your hand.

But the anesthesia pulls you under before he can finish, his words dissolving into darkness as the OR doors swing shut.

Jack stands there, frozen, your warmth still lingering in his palm, the explanation trapped in his chest, too late to matter now

Jack is pacing.

Not fast, physically he can’t, but he’s relentlessly. Short turns. Tight arcs. The prosthetic clicks faintly against the floor every time he pivots, the sound grating on his already-frayed nerves. His hands keep clenching like he’s looking for something to grab onto and coming up empty.

“This doesn’t make sense,” he snaps. “My name is on her chart. My name.”

Robby steps closer, palms out, trying to slow the room down before it detonates. “Jack. Listen to me for a second.”

Jack barrels right past him.

“You’re telling me nobody thought to connect that?” he continues. “She comes in critical, my name’s listed, and no one thinks to call the ER attending with the same goddamn name?”

“Jack,” Robby says firmly now. “That’s not how intake works and you know it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack fires back. “That’s negligence.”

“It’s protocol,” Robby replies, jaw tight. “They call the number. That’s it. They don’t Google coworkers.”

Jack scoffs, sharp and humorless. “Lazy system.”

Before Robby can answer, Mel approaches.

She has her tablet tucked under her arm, hugged loosely to her chest like it’s grounding her. Her expression is careful but open, eyes soft with recognition rather than defensiveness.

“You wanted a play-by-play,” she says gently. “I can tell you what happened.”

Jack turns on her immediately. “Good. Because I want to know exactly what I missed.”

Robby shifts, uneasy, but Mel just nods once and begins, voice steady in the way that comes from weathering chaos.

“She came in from an outside location,” Mel says. “Severe abdominal pain. Diaphoretic, tachycardic. She was scared.”

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“We started fluids and pain control right away. Labs, imaging. She kept asking for her boyfriend,” Mel continues. “She was crying.”

Jack’s head snaps up. “And you didn’t think to ask who that was?”

Mel blinks, caught slightly off guard by the edge in his tone, but she doesn’t bristle. “She kept saying ‘Jack,’” she explains gently. “Just Jack.”

She tilts her head, earnest. “It’s a common name. I didn’t realize she meant you, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack lets out a harsh, brittle laugh. “So you just assumed it was someone else.”

“I assumed it was someone important to her,” Mel replies quietly. “And I took that seriously.”

Without noticing, she hugs the tablet a little closer. “I stayed with her when she asked. I told her she was safe. I told her we were taking care of her.”

“Clearly that wasn’t enough,” Jack snaps.

The words hang in the air, soft and unfair.

Mel’s expression falters, just a little. She takes a slow breath, grounding herself before responding.

“She is stable,” Mel says softly but firmly. “Because people here did their jobs.”

“That’s enough.”

Dana steps in, decisive, placing herself squarely between Jack and Mel.

Jack turns on her. “I just want to know why she thought I didn’t—”

“No,” Dana cuts him off, calm but lethal. “What you want right now does not outrank how you’re acting.”

The room stills.

Dana holds his gaze. “You do not get to unload your fear on the doctor who sat with her while she cried.”

Jack’s chest heaves. “She thought I didn’t come.”

“And that’s devastating,” Dana agrees. “But it is not Mel’s fault. And it is not Robby’s fault. And it’s not something you can fix by tearing this place apart.”

Jack opens his mouth and snaps it closed. 

Dana’s voice softens, just enough to catch him before he falls apart. “You’re scared. You’re angry. You’re allowed to be. But you need to get your shit together.”

Robby nods beside her. “She’s going to wake up soon. Confused. In pain. Looking for you.”

Dana steps closer, lowering her voice. “She needs you steady, Jack. Not spiraling. Not snapping. Steady.”

Jack drags a hand down his face, the fight draining out of him all at once.

“I was right here,” he whispers. “The whole time.”

“I know,” Dana says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “And when she asks, you tell her that. But first — you sit.”

She gestures to the chair.

Jack hesitates, then sinks into it, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might crack open and give him answers.

Mel gives him a small, forgiving nod. “I’ll come get you as soon as she’s out,” she says softly.

When she leaves, Dana squeezes Jack’s shoulder once. “Breathe.”

Jack nods, barely.

Behind closed OR doors, machines hum steadily as surgeons work to fix what went wrong.

And for the first time since he walked into the ER, Jack Abbot stops moving because the woman he loves is going to need him whole when she wakes up.

Jack sits and stares at his phone.

The screen lights up when he taps it, muscle memory more than intention. The wallpaper fills the glass, not a posed photo, not anything special. Just you, half-turned, hoodie slipping off, laughing at something he said that he doesn’t even remember anymore.

This morning.

You sounded fine. Annoyed at your cramps, sure. But alive. Upright. Teasing him.

His chest tightens hard enough to make him wince.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters, even though he knows better. Even though Dana already told him this spiral won’t help.

He locks the phone and leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Honesty, he decides.

No half-truths. No softened edges. If she’s going to wake up confused and hurting, she deserves the real thing.

“I didn’t get the call,” he practices under his breath. “The number wasn’t right.”

Anger flares hot and fast, just under his ribs.

“They shouldn’t have made you write that down,” he adds quietly. “Not like that. Not when you were hurting.”

His jaw tightens.

“And I was scared,” he admits to the empty room. “Out of my goddamn mind.”

Jack exhales slowly and stands when he hears movement behind the curtain.

You wake up sore.

Not sharp pain, but deep and heavy, like your body ran a marathon without telling you. Your mouth is dry and your head feels fuzzy, thoughts slipping when you try to grab onto them.

You make a small, unhappy sound before you can stop yourself.

“I know,” Jack says immediately. “I know, baby.”

Your eyes flutter open.

He’s right there.

Close enough that you can see the crease between his brows, the faint redness around his eyes. His hand is already on the bed rail, anchored and refusing to move.

“Jack?” you whisper, voice thin and shaky.

Relief crashes through you so hard it makes your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

You frown, confused, emotions tangled and blurry. “You weren’t—” You swallow. “You weren’t before.”

Jack doesn’t dodge it.

“I didn’t get the call,” he says gently, leaning closer so you don’t have to strain. “The number on the form was wrong. Just a digit. I didn’t know until I walked in.”

Your brow furrows. You try to make sense of it, but your head feels too full of cotton.

“They made you fill that out when you were in that much pain,” Jack continues, anger bleeding through now. “I’m furious about it. I hate that you were scared and I wasn’t here.”

His voice cracks despite his best effort.

“I was so scared,” he admits. “I would’ve come the second I knew. You know that.”

You blink at him slowly, tears gathering without permission.

“But you’re here now,” you mumble.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “I’m here now.”

That’s all that matters to you.

You make a small, needy sound and reach for him, fingers weak but determined.

“Come here,” you whisper. “Please.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He moves closer, carefully, one arm sliding around your shoulders as he leans down. He presses a kiss to your forehead first, then your temple, then your cheek, its soft like he’s afraid you’ll disappear

“I just want you,” you whine quietly, face tucking into his chest. “Hold me.”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you fully now. “I’ve got you.”

You cling to him like gravity changed directions, fingers twisting into his scrub top, nose pressed against his collarbone. Your breathing evens out almost immediately.

Jack doesn’t care who sees.

If anyone looks in, they’ll see an ER attending bent protectively over his girlfriend, prosthetic planted firm, arms tight around the woman he almost lost.

And he does not give a single damn.

You sigh, content despite the pain, eyelids fluttering.

“Don’t leave,” you whisper.

Jack presses his lips to your hair, voice absolute. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You fall asleep like that clutched against him, safe  and for the first time since he walked in, Jack lets himself breathe all the way out.

AN: This one has been sitting in my drafts for a while so I finally decided to post it 🫡