#nurse reader

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.

Intro:

No matter how many times you washed your white sleeves, they were permanently stained with blood. The air reeked of dust and decay despite how you had thought a hospital would be. Yet you had been shocked of the true conditions of a field hospital with low staff and round-the-clock patients who were near their deathbed. The constant torrent of smoke from artillery fire was your loyal companion outside the cries and groans of the injured men that entered the tents. Each arrived in an endless wave of death and grief.

You had come to aide the front lines after you saw all the posters for you back home, but you failed to understand what exactly the job entailed. And now you had front row seats to the horrors of war.

You did your best not to sob as your hands clasped the only remaining hand of a young man who was no older than eighteen. Most of his limbs were blown off by an artillery shell and he had already lost far too much blood before he had even arrived onto the cot in your tent. His youthful face was a mess of blood, snot, and tears as he cried himself hoarse with what remained of his strength. His hand desperately gripped yours for whatever comfort you could offer him in a tight yet weak squeeze.

“Mom! Mom… please, I want to go home!” His sobs twisted at your chest, his blue eyes wild and glazed from the adrenaline that barely kept him alive. His voice trembled in pure fear, “I don’t want to die, mom. I’m so scared… I don’t want to die.”

You pressed your forehead to his in an attempt to calm him. You couldn’t find it in yourself to promise him he’d make it because he wasn’t going to. You’ve been through this rodeo far too many times before to know how this would play out. Yet that didn’t make your job any easier. You quietly shushed him as you guided him to leave like a mockery of an angel. An angel of death that did their best to comfort the men you did not have the power to save no matter how much you wanted to.

His words of terror repeated over and over like a mantra until the sound of his voice slowly drifted into a whisper and he finally went still. You did your best not to break down at his forever still face. Then you used your palm to close his dull blue eyes into a permanent expression of sleep. You didn’t even know this young man’s name. You never knew their names since the cots were filled as soon as they were empty again. A lot of the patients you had weren’t even old enough to drink, let alone vote. But they were old enough to die.

No one spoke of how this was the most difficult part of your job. No one talked about how horrible it was to witness the death of men who were barely adults yet fought in a war for the cowardly leaders of their countries. The death toll only increased as the war went on and you felt the inescapable feeling of hopelessness choke you. Could you truly make a difference here or have you wasted your time since you decided to come to Europe rather than get married like a normal girl your age?

Yet your patients never let you stew in your sorrow. No. They’d never let their precious nurse fall into darkness alone…

Sergeant Hank Carter (Texas, Rancher)

“Ya did the best ya could, darlin.’ Don’t let it get ya down. Come here, my arms are nice and warm.” Hank’s southern drawl called out to you from his cot in the corner. His tan hands outstretched for you. “Ya can lay yerself on my chest, don’t be shy now.”

Hank was the staff sergeant of the extreme combat division. A reliable and honest man of a tall build with broad shoulders, chestnut brown hair, and warm, honeyed eyes. He was filled with southern charm and a voice that commanded attention, but he was always gentle with you. Especially since you had patched him up so many times over the last two years. And he was still in tact minus his constant run ins with trench foot. He was lucky you always saved his toes from falling off.

“Ya’ve had yer hands on me so many times, I swear yer my wife, darlin’. Not that I’m complainin’ one bit.” He’d always teased. “Maybe after all this, I’ll make ya my wife.”

Hank was a very traditional man who wanted a simple life with you despite your gentle rejections since he was merely just another patient in your eyes no matter how handsome he was.

Hank was rather protective of you when it came to the other patients since he saw the way they looked at you. You’d often hear him reprimanding not only his squad, but the others around him.

“Now y’all know she ain’t a piece of meat, so don’t treat her like one. I’m lookin at ya, private.”

Unlike most of your patients, Hank would willingly die for you without hesitation. He’d always rush to shield you from artillery or gun fire with his own body when the stakes were high in the field hospital. He didn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if you didn’t survive. You were the light in his dark world… the light at the end of the tunnel. A reason to keep fighting in a war that seemed endless.

You often had his warm, strong hands on you whenever you treated his bullet wounds, his honey colored eyes filled with absolute reverence.

“After this ‘ere is over, marry me. I’ll make ya the happiest woman in the world, I swear.” Hank softly told you. “I have a ranch house in Texas that has plenty of space for ya and some kids. I’ll be so good to ya.”

Good luck trying to get him to leave you be, because he’s rather determined to live that idyllic life with you no matter how many Nazis he had to kill. No matter what unspeakable horrors he had to see just to see your face and to feel your gentle touch in him. Hank would do anything to be yours… anything.

Captain Richard Rose (California, Actor)

Richard had been a rather handsome man before he found himself in your care, but the blast from an artillery shell stole his entire life away. He’d no longer be able to be a handsome actor in Hollywood since the right side of his face was now permanently in a scowl. He was a monster. A man with a broken face. The fallen captain of his platoon that had charged into no man’s land without a plan.

Richard would often try to hide his face from you whenever you came to treat him. His blue eyes filled with shame. How could you bear to look at him? The last nurse, one of the newer ones, had fainted at the sight of him. He must be hideous now.

“Don’t look… don’t look.” He’d mutter in a tone you could only describe as utterly defeated. “I’m hideous.”

Yet you’d always reassure him and gently treat his horrific disfigurement. Your soft hands reminded him of kisses of sunshine. Richard was grateful to you. And the more time he spent with you, he fell for you. You were the only one to still treat him like a human being. The only one who didn’t flinch at his face or shy from looking him in his only remaining eye. In his mind, you were his salvation.

As Richard grew more comfortable, he’d rehearse a few lines he used to say in his best works. He was so happy you’d smile and listen to each one. It made him feel more human after he had suffered such a horrible loss of his livelihood. Yet you proceeded to go out of your way to give him hope in his darkest hour and Richard was forever grateful to you.

“There’s a place in Pennsylvania. It’s called Valley Forge General Hospital. I think it is in Phoenixville.” You softly told him as he hung on your every word. You swore Richard looked at you like you hung the moon. “They might be able to repair you, Dick.”

He held your hands as he did his best to kiss them with what was left of his lips. You could feel his visible teeth touching the skin of your knuckles through the gauze you had just wrapped around his head. If you recommended it, he’d go there. He’d fix his face and then he’d return to Hollywood. Maybe he wouldn’t get lead parts anymore, but he could play a villain! Anything to make enough to support you… you’d say yes if he proposed, right? You were always so sweet to him… he’d treat you well!

Richard was also deeply insecure because a lot of the other soldiers also gave you attention. Better looking soldiers. Able bodied ones. Look at him and only him! Richard made more money than all of those scrubs could ever dream of! So choose him! Please.

Private Terrence Jones (Georgia, Dock Worker)

“Ma’am, you don’t have to do so much for me. I’m fine, I swear.” Terrence always tried to brush off his injuries. He was determined to prove he was just as capable as a white man in this time of war. Although he didn’t enjoy your care. It was nice not to be treated like he was lesser than everyone else for once.

Terrence was a handsome African American man from Brunswick, Georgia. He was tall and stocky, as well as an extremely respectful gentleman. More so than any of your other patients.

Terrence wasn’t treated the best at the field hospital due to his ethnicity, so he was shocked you’d actually help him. There were too many injured to all fit into the segregated area so he was overflow into the regular field hospital… so he was often neglected by the white medical staff. So much so that he nearly had his foot amputated from untreated trench foot. Yet you reassured him that he was just as worthy of treatment as the others. He was also a soldier and a patient under your care so you would do your best to make sure he had the same chance of surviving. Plus, there were very few black nurses staffed to properly treat all the injured black soldiers in the field hospital. It was ridiculous how segregation and Jim Crow laws were still present in this time of dire circumstances.

Terrance would always shy away from touch, no matter how much he sought it out. He didn’t want to cause any problems. Nor did he want you to face any discrimination from treating him. Gods he couldn’t bear for you to be called any names that would be along the lines of heinous ones he was designated. Terrence couldn’t bear for you to be treated horribly just for doing your job. He would not forgive himself if you were harmed in any way, even if it was merely verbal abuse. You were one of the few people here that were kind to him. You had saved him from being a cripple, Terrence felt an obligation to protect you in anyway he could.

“I don’t need much. Honest, I swear.” He’d mutter while you bandaged his foot. He was glad his blush wasn’t visible due to how dark his skin was. He’d be so embarrassed if you knew how he truly felt. Of how he loved you despite the societal pressures. “I don’t want to cause you trouble, ma’am.”

“Terrence, I can’t let your feet rot off. You said you were a dock worker and I don’t think they’ll let you work without them.” You sighed while you rewrapped his feet. “So just let me treat you.”

Terrence protects you from any soldiers or nurses who try to make comments about how you treat him and other soldiers of color. Even if it would make him have a harder time in the hospital or out in the field, he still would stand up for you. Terrence would defend your honor!

“You don’t know anything about her! She’s a good nurse and I won’t let you run your mouth about her. Don’t you dare call her that.”

Terrence would sometimes share little tidbits about himself. Like his love of southern jazz music and how he worked at J.A. Jones Construction Company shipyard. He even told you about how he helped construct some of the Liberty ships.

Unlike the others, Terrence knew you’d never be able to have a good life with him no matter how much he wanted to be with you. He would never subject you to ridicule and disrespect for your entire life if you chose him, no matter how much it hurt his heart. Terrence’s love was selfless. He may never be able to have you, but Terrence would do anything for your happiness.

Scout Carmelo Marino (New York, Butcher)

“Ciao, Bella! Did ya come to patch me up? Ya sure know how to make a man weak in what’s left of his knees.” Carmelo was the biggest flirt of all your patients. He’s also the loudest, not just because he’s an Italian American from New York City, but because he is Carmelo Marino.

Carmelo was a field artillery scout so he had the in raid of dangerous job to gather intel and to check terrain for artillery planning. But the young man bit off more than he could chew.

Carmelo had his left leg amputated after he bravely scouted ahead of his squad’s tank for landmines, only to step on a German S-mine or ‘Bouncing Betty.’ He was extremely lucky to only have lost a leg and had some shrapnel lodged into him, but other than that the experience didn’t deter this strong willed flirt.

“I’m glad I lived so I can see your beautiful face here, Bella.” Carmelo winked. “Are ya rationed, sweetheart? I’d like to make a pass at ya if you’re not going steady. I’ll take ya back to New York and show ya my family’s butcher shop on Mulberry street. We got the best meat in Manhattan. Even make our own prosciutto.”

Carmelo sometimes would feign more pain than he actually had just to steal you away from the others. He couldn’t bear to have your heart swayed by another man.

“You’re breaking’ my heart, Bella! I’m in agony over here.” Carmelo held his chest as he put on a show for you. He knew his peers were rolling their eyes at him. “I think a little kiss on the cheek would make it better.”

Carmelo loves to brag so he can make himself more appealing to you, but deep down it’s because he’s terrified you’ll pick one of the other men here. He was only a butcher after all. He didn’t make a lot of money, but he was definitely the only one who always got you to smile. Even though he didn’t know how he’d continue living with only one leg, nor was he sure if he’d ever have the life he once had, Carmelo was determined to not make you worry about him.

“I’ll show ya around downtown Manhattan if ya fly back with me. I’ll show ya all the stops. Just picture it. You. Me. And the swanky stork club.” He winked. “I might fall on my arse, but I used to be a good dancer. Since I don’t have a left foot anymore, I won’t have two left feet.”

Carmelo made it his mission to make you smile and laugh no matter how much his peers rolled their eyes at him, because Carmelo loved you.

He’d often crack jokes or make faces just to see that pretty smile. If he was sent home after this, he will be sending you a fat stack of letters until you reply. Carmelo was determined to make you his!

The results of the test stare up at you, the 35 mIU/mL swimming before your eyes, the meaning making your head spin with the implications. You had suspected that you were pregnant, but it’s one thing to suspect it and another to see the results staring you in the face, unmistakable in black and white fresh from the lab. 

            “Fuck,” you whisper, the paper crumpling just slightly in your hand as the tears well up. You’re both happy and distraught because yes, you want to be a mother, but there are so many conflicting variables and things to consider and things to plan. 

            And it doesn’t help that this has been the actual shift from Hell, crash carts being called left and right, two Code Hulu-Hoops, three peds traumas and a computer crash that set everything back for two hours. 

            You know that you’re overwhelmed and tired and that it’s not helping the reveal of this news, of this fact, but your stomach still dropped when you saw the results, when you saw that what you’d been afraid of for the past two days was true. 

            You’d started to wonder when you began to get sick in the mornings, when the smell of baking cookies made you sick to your stomach when normally it made you relaxed and when the taste of strawberries made you nauseous too. 

            You’d just hoped you were wrong. 

            “Hey, hey,” calls out Robby, the main reason you feel sick looking at the results. “Been missing my favourite nurse out here.” His words are light, but his tone is pointed, angry. You know he wants you back out on the floor, smiling and treating patients, being that beaming ray of moonlight, soft and steady and not blinding like Jack called you back when you started here. 

            “Yeah, sorry,” you whisper, swallowing once, the movement difficult, throat thick, a spiked ball resting in your lungs, pricking you with every breath you draw in. “Just got side-tracked, I’ll be right out.” You lick your lips once, teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip as you crumple the test results in your hand, pulling your locker open and setting it inside, hoping to delay the inevitable. 

            Telling Robby. 

            “You okay?” he asks and you can hear the subtle change in his tone, the change from anger to irritated concern. Sometimes, you wonder why you’re with him at all when he’s like this, when everything is wrong with the world, but nothing with him. Where the failings are everyone else and never him. But then you see him on good days, you see him with the peds cases and the babies that get delivered and you see the good. You see the man who asked you out, a bashful, boyish smile on his face. 

            “Fine,” you say, turning from your locker to him, taking in the deeply etched lines of stress on his brow, the new grey hairs in his beard, the exhaustion in his mahogany eyes. “Just got…just got a little distracted. All good now.” You force a smile, one that feels fake and tired and a little like a plastic, Barbie doll smile, one that isn’t you at all. 

            And you walk towards him, slipping by him, your shoulder brushing against his belly in the door, your body positioning itself closer to him automatically, without your conscious awareness and you can feel his hand close around your wrist, his hand broad and warm, calloused fingers just gently scraping against your skin. 

            “We on for tonight?” he whispers, his breath skating along your neck, gentle and heated, awareness of his closeness heating you even as the number 35 spins behind your eyes. 

            “Yeah,” you whisper, glancing over at him, unable to suppress the feeling of happiness you have over the results. Yes, it’s a lot. It’s stressful and it’s a big change and this has been a shit shift, but you’re happy knowing that you’ll get to be a mother. That you’ll get to hold a child of your own, protect them and give them everything you never had—that unconditional love and acceptance and guidance and support. “We have to talk.”

            And then you push past him, heading over to the station where Dana stands, iPad resting on her lower stomach, eyebrows arched and lips downturned just slightly in her worried frown. 

            “You okay, hon?” she asks you when you’re close enough that she doesn’t have to yell and you nod once, a fast, jerky motion because you feel like a walking paradox. You’re happy and you’re sad, you’re calm and you’re anxious, you’re crying and yet you’re fucking smiling. 

            “Just surprised,” you tell her, looking around at the centre of the Pitt, at the way everyone moves around like worker bees, centred around the hive of the station. “Didn’t expect it. Kinda scared me…but…I’m happy. I’m excited.”

            “That’s how it should be, sweetie,” Dana says, her hand coming to rest on your bicep, moving in a circular motion, her touch soothing. “You tell Robby, yet?” You sigh and shake your head, looking down at your hands, the two of them interlaced, white-knuckling the other. 

            “I’m gonna talk to him tonight…be bad to talk about it now, today of all days,” you tell her, that small sardonic smile curling on your lips as you catch a glimpse of him, black scrubs and green sweater sleeves, heading into a trauma room, face drawn tight and pinched. 

            “He’ll be happy, I’m sure,” Dana says, but as you get pulled away, back into the hustle, into the chaos of the ED, all you can think about, the thought lingering in the back of your mind is that Dana didn’t sound sure of it. 

            She sounded like she was trying to convince you. 

            Convince herself. 

            “God,” Robby groans as he settles his body onto your sofa, his eyes closing as his hands come up to his face, scrubbing down as he leans his head back against the headrest, feet propping up on the footstool. “That shift was hell.”

            “Yeah, it really was,” you reply, sliding on your socked feet across the linoleum floor of your house to the kitchen, the fridge where you know you still have pizza left over from the takeout you had with Trinity and Dennis last night.  You’re too tired to cook, to do anything other than eat cold pizza, your mind not on proper nutrition, not yet. 

            Not today. 

            Not when you have to tell Robby that you’re pregnant with his kid and suffer through the coin flip of his emotions—50% chance that he’ll be happy and a 50% that he’ll be angry and react in a way you don’t want to see. 

            Maybe more 70% on that one. 

            “You know what would make us feel better?” you hear Robby say, his voice not that far from you, meaning he’s gotten up from the couch, come closer to you. Meaning if you turn around now, you’ll see him. You’ll see those eyes of his, the ones that are a tempest, that can be beautiful and happy and full of warmth, full of love in one moment and then full of irritation and anger and hate in the next. 

            You realized throughout your shift, that it’s never been your child that’s scared you but rather the fear of seeing the way Robby looks at you change. And not in the good way. 

            “Robby—” you start, but he cuts you off as you turn around, his eyebrows rising, lips curling up into a smile, one suggestive and yet sweet.

            “A nice long shower, together,” he says and you can feel the thickness once again in your throat when you look up at him and see the way he’s looking at you, with such warmth and desire. 

            “Michael,” you say and already you can see the change in him, the stiffening of his body, the questioning look in his eyes. “We have to talk.”

            “About what?” he asks you, taking a step closer, his eyes narrowing in worry, not anger or irritation or suspicion. Not yet at least. Not ever, you hope. 

            “About this,” you tell him, drawing the test results, the crumpled ball of printer paper from your pocket, smoothing it out as you hand it to him, the paper riddled with creases and wrinkles but the result of 35 still clear. Still bright and black, stark against the white grain of the paper, the meaning obvious. 

            “You’re…” he pauses, his hand stilling, forearm muscles tensing as he takes the paper from your grip, his fingers curling around it exactly as yours had, the paper changing from his grip. “You’re pregnant?” he asks, his voice high-pitched, slightly strangled and breathy on the last word as if the entire idea has robbed him of the ability to breathe. 

            “Yeah,” you whisper, tears beginning to line your eyes, hopeful tears. Happy tears. “I’m pregnant.”

            He looks up at you then, his expression having dropped, closed off, become unreadable, stoic in a way, his warm eyes now gone cold. “Is it mine?”

            “Is it…is it…” you pause, drawing in a breath, chest constricting, body tensing, your veins on fire as if you’ve been shot with epi, which in a way you have. “Is it yours?! What the fuck are you saying, Michael?! Are you accusing me of cheating on you?! I fucking love you and I would never fucking cheat! You know this, you asshole! You fucking asshole!” You can feel the tears falling down your cheeks now, the salt water born of your body searing your skin, sucking moisture out and drying it. 

            But he is unmoved, simply sighing and running a hand through his hair as he looks down at the paper in his hand. Your hands are curling into fists, the urge to hit something, hit him welling in you because you can’t understand how he can stand there and accuse you of cheating. Something he knows you would never do, something he knows tore apart your family. 

            “You’re obviously early on…” he muses, one hand rubbing at his beard incessantly as he sets the paper down on your kitchen island, gaze flicking up to you once before looking away. “The medication would be safe in this case. We can get Abbot to sign off on the or—”

            “You expect me to get rid of it?” you whisper, your voice cracking, heart slamming against your chest in a way that hurts so much, in a way that tells you it isn’t your physical heart at all. It’s just you. 

            You hurt this bad. 

            “You want it?” he asks you, looking up again, his face twisting and shifting and changing into the expression he has in the ED when people annoy him, when the world is wrong and he’s the only thing right. 

            “Yes, Robby, I want to have my baby. Our baby. I love you and…yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I toldyou that,” you cry, hands uncurling, slamming down on the island, the noise echoing through the room, skin against granite, the sting reverberating through you. 

            “Did you stop taking your pill? Did you do this on purpose?” he asks you and it hurts more because of the carefully neutral tone he has, the clinical voice. The doctor voice. 

            “What the fuck?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Michael?!” you yell, the sound of pulsing and pounding echoing through your head, your blood the sound as it rushes to your head, body feeling weak, but anger too high to ignore. “You think I’m fucking baby-trapping you?!”

            “I don’t fucking know!” he yells, his face twisting in anger, in hate, something you never wanted to see on his face. “All I know is that we practice safe sex. So, how the hell did you get knocked-up?!”

            “Safe sex, my ass! You’re the one who said ‘oh you’re on the pill. It’s fine if I don’t pull out. It’s 99 percent effective’ Guess we found the other one percent, Michael!” You watch as his hands fly up to his head, fingers digging into the short strands of his dark and greying hair, pulling just a little. 

            “Fuuck!” he cries, ripping his hands through his hair, letting the hover behind his head, biceps flexing as he closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking do this! I want nothing to do with this! You…”

            “Me what?! You have words, Michael. Fucking use them!”

            “YOU DO THIS ON YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN!” he yells, his words echoing around the room with the force of a gunshot, like a bomb, the shrapnel from the explosion targeted at you, at your heart. You can feel his words in every inch of your body, each part seemingly erupting with pain, but you don’t even think of yourself. 

            You think of your baby. 

            Of how the stress isn’t good for them. For you, for their growth. 

            “Fine,” you whisper, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, tears continuing to fall down your cheeks, but they feel like nothing, like you’ve just always existed in this state of silent crying, of wet necklines on your scrubs. “Then get the fuck out.”

            “What?” He looks at you now, properly but he still doesn’t change, doesn’t move, instead his face locking back down into the neutral, into the carefully bland Dr. Robby everyone knows. 

            “I do this and I’m on my own, right?” you ask and he nods and you look up at the ceiling, at the white plaster, hand done in the sixties and look back down at him. “Then get the fuck out of my house, Michael. You want nothing to do with this? Then you’ll have nothing to do with this Micheal. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

            And even though it’s what you wanted, when he leaves, closing the door behind him, it still hurts. It hurts even when you wish it didn’t. It hurts because you wish he had stayed and asked to talk about it, that he would change his mind when faced with the prospect of losing you. 

            It hurts because you wanted to be wanted. You wanted to be something he couldn’t actually lose. You wanted to be someone he would fight for. 

            You wanted to be someone he thought was worth fighting for. 

            And you sink to your knees, the cold pizza still in the fridge now forgotten, your back against the cool metal of your fridge door. You sink to the ground, shifting until your ass is on the ground, your head in between your knees and you let out every swear word, every curse word, everything you have inside. You let it all out, your breath hitching and voice cracking and giving and heart breaking, mind tearing. 

            You let it all out because you have to figure out how to move on. How to shove past being alone, being without him.

            You let it all out for you. Because you can’t carry this pain with you when you move on. 

            But most of all, you let it out for your child. Because they need you, all of you, not a shell still holding onto the pain of losing and being lost. 

            They need you and you have to give them that. 

            But for right now, it’s okay to just cry. 

            And you do. 

Hi Dana, Sorry for letting you know this way, but I’ve been promoted up to Charge Nurse in Orthopedics. I sent in for a transfer and they promoted me instead.  I start on Monday and as such, my shifts in the Pitt for the rest of this week will be covered by Matteo. He agreed, you’ll find it on the schedule. It’s best if I focus on getting ready for the changeover.  I’m sorry, Dana. I can’t continue to work in the environment of the Pitt, especially not when I’m expecting. I wish things could have been different. I wish he could have been different. Thanks for everything. 

            Your chest feels hollow, scraped clean and made concave, as if your heart has been carved from your chest, only a little seed left behind. Only a little bit still there still beating, held together by hope. 

            That small little bit of hope that you carry inside of you. The hope that this will get better, that you’ll stop hurting after a while, that eventually it will be okay. 

            Because you have to hurt to heal. 

            Or at least that’s what you tell yourself as you cry into your pillow, missing the feeling of his body beside yours, his arms around you. 

            That’s what you tell yourself, you have to hurt to heal. If it hurts that means it was real. That’s what you tell yourself because otherwise what’s the point of the hurting? What’s the point in this hollow existence if it won’t get better. 

            You know it will. You know it will get better because it has to. You have too. But not for you, you have a child to worry about, one to raise and care for and love in a way that is unconditional. You have to be ready. 

            And you will.

            You have to hurt to heal and you are hurting so you’re healing. 

            The world seems brighter again, like the colour is back and the sounds are sounds and light is light. You no longer feel like you’re living in a vacuum, the one thing nature abhors. 

            You no longer feel hollow, you just feel incomplete. Just a little cracked. 

            Work helps. The showing up day after day, organizing everyone else, shifting things and fixing problems, there for patients and doctors. 

            New people help. The new drama and issues and stories help distract you, pull you into a new world, new universe. 

            One where it’s like Robby never existed at all except for the child growing within you. 

            So, what can you say about today? The world seems brighter and you don’t feel hollow.

            It’s a start. 

            Jack loved you first, by all accounts in the ED, you should have been with Jack—except that it was Robby who asked you out, who took that step. You said yes because he asked and Jack never did. 

            Jack loved you first and loves you still. He loves the way you laugh, just a tad too loud, just a tad too long, just a tad too hard. He loves the way you smile at everyone as if smiles take no effort to give out, as if it isn’t giving away a piece of yourself to others.

            He loves the way you don’t put up with other people’s bullshit, the way you put them in their place in the most respectful way until respectful doesn’t work. 

            He loves the way you talk, the way you sigh and the way you roll your eyes. He loves the way you get excited about the things you love, lighting up and going on long tangents, only returning to the world when you realize that you’ve gotten carried away. 

            He loves you. Everything about you, everything you think is good about yourself and everything you think is bad because to him, everything about you is good and perfect. 

            He loves you and he loved you first, but he had to watch as Robby swooped in, winning you over and now he’s watching his friend, the man who a little part of him hates for winning your heart, fuck it all up. 

            “What the fuck is up with you, brother?” he asks Robby now, leaning on the nurse’s station with one elbow, his body facing Robby who’s looking down at the iPad in his hand, glasses sitting low on his nose. 

            “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Robby replies, tone distracted as he taps on the screen, doing something and pretending that he doesn’t know. Pretending that he doesn’t realize that everyone in the entire ED knows something happened between you and him. Because you, the ED’s Moonlight, aren’t here anymore. 

            “Where’s Moonlight?” Jack doesn’t leave any room in his tone for interpretation, there is nothing leading or suggesting, it’s straight and clear and to the point—where the fuck is the woman who loves you? What the fuck did you do to her? Because Jack is under no illusions that you did anything; he knows Robby. 

            He knows he runs when things get real. 

            “She, uh…she got promoted. Charge nurse up on Ortho last I heard,” Robby says, looking up, peering at Jack over the top of his black-frame glasses, the glasses you picked out for him, saying they would bring his youth back. 

            “That’s not what I meant, Robby,” he replies, lifting himself off of the nurse’s station, arms crossing, biceps flexing but not in a display of his toughness, rather because his leg hurts, the time on his feet, on the prosthetic wears at his skin, never enough time for it to really heal in-between shifts. “What happened?”

            “None of your business, Jack,” Robby says, but Jack isn’t giving up that easily. He can’t. Not when this about you, about your heart. 

            “It is my fucking business, Robby, cause I love her too,” Jack hisses, reaching for Robby’s sleeve and pulling him into an empty patient room, closing the door behind them and standing in front of it, preventing Robby from leaving. “What the fuck did you do?”

            “Me?! I didn’t do anything,” Robby says but all Jack does is raise his eyebrows, waiting. And it works. “She’s pregnant and I told her I couldn’t deal with it, suggested we could take care of it, she said no. I told her I wanted nothing to do with it and she told me to get the fuck out.”

            “She’s pregnant and you left her?!” Jack cries, the feeling inside of him so foreign and so strange that he doesn’t entirely understand it, only that he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the man before him, wants to put him through a fucking wall actually. 

            “I cannot deal with a kid right now, Jack,” Robby yells, his hand flying out to hit the wall, the bang in the room echoing and strong but Jack doesn’t fucking care, simply walks up to Robby and jabs his finger into his chest. 

            “Listen here, Robby,” he whispers, finger frozen dug into Robby’s chest, “you’re a piece of shit. You grew up without a mother and now you want your child to grow up without a father. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna make you do anything, but I will be there and you and me,” he pulls his finger back, using it to gesture between them, “are done.” And he turns to go, to walk away and leave Robby behind, leave him to deal with his shit alone and simply find you. 

            Find you and hold you and let you cry, scream and hit him. Anything to make you feel better. 

            Anything to make you okay. 

            “Our friendship is over because of her?” Robby cries and Jack can hear the incredulity in his tone, can hear the disbelief and in response, all he does is hold up the middle finger, saying, “all of this is because you’re incapable of being a man worthy of someone else.”

            And he leaves, but not to work, not to care for his patients. No, he leaves for you. 

            He leaves so that you know you don’t have to go it alone. 

            He’s here. He’s always here for you.

            “Camille,” you call out, spinning around, looking for the new nurse, the one just finished her undergrad, eager and peppy and getting totally slaughtered by Park. 

            “Yeah?” she calls out and you can hear the worry in her tone, the worry that she’s doing yet another thing wrong—although you did tear into Park for disciplining one of your staff, not his. 

            “Can you check on the patient in Room 5, please?” you ask her, watching as her face brightens, the girl young and kind, good with the patients simply nervous around the doctor who isn’t nicknamed the Shark for nothing. 

            “Nice to see you running things,” calls a voice that makes you stop, the world freezing for a moment as you turn around, the sight of Jack strange to you, but not unwelcome. 

            “Hey, Jack,” you say, stepping out from behind the desk to lean your hip against it, crossing your arms over your chest, a layer of defence, of separation between you and him. “What’s up?”

            “I know,” he says and you want to ask him what he knows but you can see in his face that he knows about your child, about your baby, about Robby’s baby. And the break-up. Robby’s side of the story. 

            “Well, what do you want to say? You here to defend him? Or are you here to encourage me to get rid of them?” You clench your teeth together, grinding them as you raise your eyebrows at him, waiting. Challenging. 

            And he does what you don’t expect. He steps towards you, his hands coming to rest on your biceps, a steady grip, a soothing grip. 

            “I’m here to say that he’s an asshole and as the shared friend, in the break-up someone has to get me and I chose you,” he says and the simplicity, the matter-of-factness of his tone takes you by surprise while also not because this is Jack. Jack Abbot, the doctor who on your first shift nicknamed you Moonlight and has refused to call you anything else since then. 

            Jack Abbot who chose you. 

            “You just want your cool uncle title, right?” you ask him, unable to prevent the fond smile that curls across your lips as he smirks at you, shrugging before growing serious. 

            “I chose you because I don’t want you doing this alone. I’m always here for you, Moonlight. You just gotta tell me and I’ll be there. Day or night, hell or high water, okay?” And all you can do is nod, your throat thick. 

            But he knows, he understands and then he salutes you, disappearing back to the Pitt, to his job and his patients, leaving you sitting with the knowledge that you don’t have to be alone. 

            You don’t have to do everything yourself. 

            It’s a few weeks later when you call Jack for the first time, a part of you still hesitant to believe him and his words, sweet as they may be. A part of you that still fears he really chose Robby; he just didn’t want you grieving them both. A part of you that thinks it was a symbolic offer only. 

            “Jack,” you say when he picks up, “I need your help.”

            “What’s wrong, Moonlight? What is it? What do you need? Where are you?” You can feel the smile rising and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “And I can hear that eye roll, Moonie.”

            “I need your help with the nursery. It’s kind of hard to paint when you have a baby bump.”

            “Two minutes, Moonie,” he says, his words sending a strange feeling coursing through your veins. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

            Jack didn’t lie. He was there in two minutes, arriving as fast as he could, bursting into your apartment, using his spare key that you gave him from your vacation when you needed him to take care for your orchid, carrying a bag of painting supplies. 

            “Just tell me what to do,” he said and so you did. And he listened to what you wanted, helping you paint, the day filled with laughter and joking and flicking paint at one another, the creation exactly as you always thought it would be one day. 

            Happy. 

            You just didn’t imagine it would be Jack. 

            “I should head out,” he had said at the end of the day, the sky dark and the room painted, a mural of the moon on one wall that he insisted you add because you’re Moonlight, after all. 

            “You know,” you had replied, “the guest room’s yours if you want it.” He had frozen in his movements for a moment before turning to you, a question in those blue eyes of his. 

            “You sure?” You had nodded, shrugging, your hands settling on your bump, the baby finally old enough to start showing, your favourite thing to do being rubbing it as if you’re holding and soothing them already. 

            “Yeah. I still have stuff for you in there from when you took care of my orchid and I did buy more of that cream for your prosthetic. Just in case…so, uh, yeah…it’s yours if you want to stay.”

            “Do you want me to stay?”

            “Would I have offered if I didn’t? After all, I’m eating for two and I’m a horrible cook and I mean, guess who isn’t?” you had said, the words so normal and so you that Jack had started to laugh and then he’d nodded. 

            “Guess I’ll stay then,” he’d said. “Anything you and the little star want in the morning?” You had scrunched your face, thinking hard about it, glancing down at your bump, rubbing it as you thought. 

            “Nothing specific,” you had said, a grin stretching across your face, “but nothing with chocolate. The little star, here, isn’t craving it, surprisingly.”

            “Alright then,” he’d said. “Nothing with chocolate.”

            And that’s how it began. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t flashy or showy—it was just there. Steady and calm. 

            Present in a way that Robby never was. 

            “Jack,” you whisper, the words carrying across the living room to where he’s dozing in the recliner, The Proposalplaying on your TV. “Jack!” you hiss a little louder, watching as he jolts fast, hands white-knuckling the armrests of his chair, looking over at you and relaxing when he sees that you’re fine. 

            “What’s wrong, Moonlight?” he asks you and you push past that feeling that spreads through at the nickname, at the tender way he says it, the care. 

            The love. 

            “You know you can take your leg off, right?” you ask him and you watch as he freezes again, seeming to do that a lot around you. “I’m under no illusion that you have two full legs, nor do I think less of you.”

            “It’s okay,” he says and you shrug, nodding beside his chair where a set of crutches and a knee scooter sit beside it. 

            “Okay,” you say, voice soft. “But I have supports for you if you want to take it off.” And you say nothing else, simply standing as carefully as you can, the five-month bump no small thing now, heavy and awkward but precious all the same. Your baby has fun pressing on your bladder and you make your way to the bathroom to relieve the pressure and when you come back, you find Jack sitting in the recliner, the leg rest up, his prosthetic leaning against the side of the couch. 

            And that gives you a better feeling than any of the nicknames in the world. 

            Morning sickness was only supposed to last for the first trimester, but here you are, second trimester with the bump to prove it, still hurtling out of your bed, the taste and burn of bile welling in your throat, running for your bathroom. 

            You reach the sink, the only place that’s easy for you to reach, now unable to bend down and throw up into the toilet, just in time, your hands straying to your hair as you gag, eyes watering, bile rising. 

            “Hey,” you hear Jack whisper, his approach something you hadn’t even heard, his hands replacing yours as he holds your hair back, yours instead gripping the counter as you throw up bile, the awful taste and burn in the back of your throat, in your sinuses, your body rebelling against you. 

            “It’s okay,” he whispers as you hurl, the force so much that it comes out of your nose, your eyes streaming, the baby kicking against you as if they know you’re sick, in pain and they don’t like it. 

            “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he assures you as you gasp, the gagging rising again. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m always here for you.”

            Jack is the one who is there for every appointment, holding your hand, who answers yes when the doctors ask if he’s the father. He’s the one you find hunched over a crib one day, assembling it on the floor, squinting at instructions and cursing the tiny writing, his leg not far from him, a chair just across from him for you. 

            Jack is the one who is there for everything. He’s there when you’re sick in the middle of the night, in the morning. He’s there when you have cravings, when you worry, when you want to pick names.

            He’s the one whose there, always. 

            And gradually, you begin to think of him as the father, as the one because he may not be the sperm donor, but he’s the one whose here. 

            He’s the one who stayed. 

            Jack is the one who chose your baby.

            Who chose you. 

            And that means something to you. 

            “Jack,” you whisper across the living room, your voice carrying to him and he looks over at you, eyes sleepy but filled with love. 

            “Yeah, Moonie?” he asks you, screwing his prosthetic back on, still finding it the easiest to move around with, to help you with. 

            “I love you,” you whisper and swallow hard, still unsure why you said it, but really it’s been eight months of him. Of him stepping up to be the father for your child, being the partner for you. 

            “Thank god,” he breathes out, standing and walking to you, his hands looping under your armpits, helping guide you to your feet, your eight-month bump heavy and exhausting, but perfect all the same. “I’ve loved you since I met you.”

            “Really?” you ask him, watching as he smiles in the dark, teeth glinting just lightly with the glow of the streetlamps outside your window. 

            “Really,” he answers and then he kisses you, one soft and sweet and gentle. One that tastes of hope and love and second chances and family chosen. 

            One that speaks of the love that lives between you. One that is quiet and steady and present in a way that nothing has been before. 

            For either of you. 

            When you went into labour, it scared Jack like nothing ever had before. It terrified him like nothing ever had. The call he got as you drove yourself to the hospital, having timed your contractions, assuring him that you were fine. That it was all fine. 

            That didn’t stop him from being scared, being terrified. He had just gotten you, only had a month of being someone you loved out loud rather than in silence and he couldn’t lose you. 

            He had run out of the ED so fast, up to the maternity ward, watching as you walked up, breathing hard, checking in. He had been there as you went into labour, your hand squeezing his so hard, one knuckle dislocated but he never even felt it because he was so in awe in you. 

            He stayed for the whole thing, cut the cord on the beautiful baby boy, the two of you had agreed to name Andrew Flynn Abbot, a ring on your finger from the night before when he asked you if you would not only be his wife, but make him a father. 

            He was there for everything, for the birth and the signing of the birth certificate and the travelling home, his stuff moved in a month ago, his clothes hanging in your closet, his things in your house—now his too. 

            He was there for everything. Every little bit because he loved you first. 

            And he loves you always. 

            “You know,” Jack says now, his fingers interlaced with yours as you lie with your head on his chest, curled up in bed, “I have to thank Robby.”

            “For what?” you ask him, not judging, just happy, at peace, curled in bed beside your husband, five year old son asleep in bed. 

            “For giving me my son, my wife,” he whispers and in response you press a kiss to his cheek. 

            “He didn’t,” you whisper, “that was all you. You stepped up, Jackie and you didn’t have too.”

            “Yeah, I did. You’re everything sweetheart. I’m always here for you.” And it’s true. He always is, always was. 

            Always will be. 

“You’re only upset because you care. Which is adorable, by the way.” 

“Robert!”

“I hear you. I respect your opinion. But consider this—what if I’m built different?”

“I haven't cleared you yet for this reason. You are not built different.”

“If I get hurt, at least I know who’s putting me back together.” 

“You're stalling.” 

“I’m not as weak as you think. Is this part of your job, or are you just worried I’ll hurt myself without you watching me?” 

“I know you'll hurt yourself without me watching you. Do you want a repeat of last Tuesday?” You stomp over to him. 

“Careful. If you keep standing that close, I might forget I’m injured.” 

“Come with me, now.”

“Alright alright, if you wanted me alone with you, you could’ve just asked.” 

You usher him out of the gym and back into his medical bed. You push his shoulders so he's lying down. “Now stay here.”

“For how long?”

“Until I say so.”

“Can I at least get a physical therapist?”

“I will appoint one to you after an allotted amount of time. Perhaps when I clear you for exercise.”  

“I survived one injury, and suddenly I’m forbidden from public spaces.”

“Robert…”

“You act like I’m going to bench-press a car.” 

“You act like that's something you could normally do. Or are you Phenomaman’s distant cousin or something?”

“Yes, of course, the second option. Definitely the long-lost cousin.”

“Lay the fuck down, Robert.” 

He sighs with his head in his hands. “This is humiliating. I look incredible right now, and no one can appreciate it.” He peeks through his fingers at you.

“You look—” Your thoughts derail immediately. He does look incredible—if you ignore the long scar stretching across his chest. The faint, patchy happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband… 

Fuck. 

“I loooook…?” 

Snap out of it, Y/N. Be professional. You’re at work. He’s your patient. A very attractive patient. One you absolutely should not still be treating, because if anyone found out you had a crush on him, it would be a catastrophic HR and HIPAA violation—

Oh god, he's smirking. He 100% knows you're checking him out right now. You need to shut this down. 

Immediately.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“All things considered,” you say stiffly, clipboard raised like a shield, “your wounds are healing nicely. Vitals look good. Your eyelashes are long. And you have twenty-one freckles.”

He blinks. “You… counted?” 

“Yes, I spend a lot of time looking at your face.” 

Fuck. 

You really shouldn’t have said that... Traitorous mouth. Backtrack. Now. Abort mission—

“Last time I checked,” he says lazily, “my chest was the thing that was wounded.”

That damn smirk again. One eyebrow quirks upward, smug and infuriating. Damn his dumb, stupid, lean, twink body… dark brown puppy eyes. Horribly distracting veins… Prominent, distracting—God, they were just so visible and easy to draw blood from—and focus!

“I know what you’re trying to get me to do, Robertson. And it’s not working.”

“Is it not?”

“Wipe that damn smirk off your face!”

“Is that a medical order, orrrr…?”

You sigh, the tone of your voice shifting to a more serious one. “I worry about you, y'know?” 

“I know.” 

“You need to be more careful.” 

“I know…” 

“I'm serious, Robert.” 

He doesn’t joke this time. “I think about that, I do. I also think about how careful you are when you take care of me. Even when you scold me. Your touch is gentle, your heart is kind. You always make time for me—even though I’m an ass.”

“You are.”

“But you can't seem to stay away from me.”

Dammit. 

Damn him.

“Am I wrong in assuming that?” 

Fine, he wants to do this now? We’ll do it now.

“No, not at all.”

“Am I also wrong in assuming there's something more going on here? Between us?”

“No,” you say, tight-lipped. “Not at all.” Trying not to look at him. Because if you do, you're going to spill your feelings out all over the floor, and you're not sure that's a mess you could clean up right now. 

There’s a pause. Heavy. Anticipatory.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“I know,” Robert says. “I’ve known for a while.”

You scoff weakly. “You don’t know anything, Robert.”

“I know the way your hands hesitate before you touch me,” he says gently. “Like you’re afraid you’ll want it too much. I know you volunteer for my checkups even when someone else offers. And I know you pretend not to notice when I watch you.”

Your throat tightens. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means you feel something,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “The same thing I do.”

You shake your head, more reflex than denial. “It’s complicated, unprofessional.”

“I know,” he says again. 

Silence stretches between you, tense and expectant. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

Fuck my big chungus life…

“I think about you when I shouldn’t,” you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I replay our conversations. I worry when you don’t show up on time. I get angry when you’re reckless because I—” You stop, breath hitching. “Because I care more than I’m allowed to.”

His expression softens completely, the teasing gone. “I think about you all the time,” he says. “When I’m hurt, when I’m fine, when I’m being an idiot on purpose just to see you roll your eyes. You make me feel… Treasured. Maybe I want to stay some level of hurt so I don't have to leave here. Leave you.”

You laugh quietly, a shaky sound. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, idiot.”

“Neither are you,” he replies. “But here we are.”

You finally step closer, sitting on the edge of the medical bed. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Your hand lifts before you can stop it, hovering near his arm.

“We can’t keep going on like this,” you say. “Not while I’m your nurse.”

Robert's hand brushes your cheek, and you're stuck, doomed to stare in his eyes as you both gravitate closer. 

There are worse fates.

“I don't think you're going to stop me. Because you want this just as bad as I do.”

You can't stop it; you won't stop it. You're too weak, and you're giving in to how good this feels, how natural. Your hand rests against his chest—careful, reverent—and he stills.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, like it's his final act of restraint.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean in.

His lips are warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. His face is rough with stubble he hasn't shaved in days. You don't care. Well, yes, you do; you like it a lot. 

When you don’t pull away, he deepens it just slightly, carefully, like he’s afraid of crossing a line even now. 

Then something snaps. 

You make a small, involuntary sound against his mouth, and that’s all it takes. Robert’s hand comes up to your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to tilt your head back as he kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like he’s been holding this in for far too long. You both have. 

It’s messy. Urgent. All restraint gone.

Your fingers fist in his shirt without thinking, dragging him closer, and he responds instantly, crowding into your space. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of hungry certainty.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, heat pooling low in your stomach, pulse racing. There’s no hesitation now—just breathless need and the way his lips keep finding yours like he can’t get enough. You can't. He groans softly when you bite his lower lip, the sound vibrating straight through you. His other hand slides to your waist, gripping tight, grounding, like he’s barely holding himself together. He isn't. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I think we have a hell of an HR violation on our hands.”

You don’t answer. You just pull him back in.

This time the kiss is slower but no less intense—deliberate, all-consuming. His thumb traces your jaw like he’s memorizing you, and your whole body feels lit up, tuned only to him, to this moment.

You reluctantly part again. His lips linger against yours, noses brushing.

“Pretty sure HR doesn't exist at this company.” 

“Yeah, no one cares.” 

“Kiss me.” 

He grins. “Gladly” 

Fuck, his lips were so soft. His tongue was moving around like he was trying to map the entirety of your mouth and commit it to memory. You increasingly become aware of his erection that's poking into your thigh and break the kiss.

“Ok, I realize I leaned in and started this whole really hot makeout thing, but we can’t—” 

“Lock the door.” His voice drops.

“We can't.”

“Or don't; your choice.”

“Robert—we shouldn't...” Further protests die on your lips as he trails up your neck to your ear. 

“Lock. It.”

“Fuck, you’re the devil.” 

“You should listen to him. He's very convincing and will make it worth your while.” 

Welp, it was nice practicing medicine while it lasted. You ran to the door, turning the deadbolt.

“Damn you, Robertson.” You say as you drop your pants.

He was buried so far in your pussy you were sure he was going to pass out. 

“R-robert! W-wait, you need to breathe! Ah!” 

He tugs on you harder, like you're his personal gas mask or something. He doesn't need to breathe as long as he has you. He has your legs splayed straight out over his shoulders while he grips your inner thighs. He makes some kind of short, nonchalant grunt and continues eating.

“This isn't—haaaah—” Fuck, your brain shut off two orgasms ago. What are you even fighting for now? 

“I think this is exactly what I need.” Robert presses a quick kiss to your clit before licking his lips. “Gotta get my nutrition somehow, right?” 

“R-robert!” You squirm. 

“Shhhhh, you don't want someone to storm in here, do ya? They're gonna think you're the one dying in here instead of me.” 

You're gonna have a hard time explaining this one to the board. 

“OH—fuck!”

His lips suction around your clit again, making you arch further off of him.

“Mmmh, y’think I can make ya squirt again?” Your juices are already dripping down his chin and down onto his chest. His stubble is tickling your pussy lips with every lick and nudge.

You're desperately gripping the sheets in any attempt to ground yourself, but the feeling is too much. And you're too tired to fight it anymore. 

“M’cumming!”

“Yes, give it to me.” Your fists balled up into the sheets as you buck your mouth into him shamelessly. You soak his face again. Drained. Spent. And whatever other adjectives are used to describe how tired he made you.

“Fuck yeah, good girl.” 

“Wipe off your face, Robertson. That smirk too while you're at it.”

“I don't think you're quite in the position to be making demands, seeing that you came on my tongue three times.”

“Shit… what a mess.” You reluctantly remove yourself from Robert on shaking legs.

“Is riding me the least exerting position? Scientifically speaking?”

“I think that would technically be the spooning position.” You say, bending down to gather your clothes.

“Hmm, I see… We’ll need to try both just to make sure.”

“Robert, your heart.” 

“Tch, what about it? I'm not Chase; I can handle it.” 

“Is that right?” You cross your arms, leaning forward to stare at his face.

“I think I'm strong enough now, Doc.” 

“Yeah? What's that coming out of your nose then?” 

“Huh?” You grab a tissue and swipe under his nose. 

“Oh, shit. That's clearly all my hard work coming out in the most metal way possible. Blood, sweat, and tears, baby.” 

You sigh. “I'm going to run some labs.” 

“Can you at least grab me a Twinkie on the way back?” 

Ah, fuck it. You’ll take the HR violation. He’s worth it.