#silverfox

Then not.

Across the tent a soldier stepped out from behind the partition and wiped a hand across his face. Jack looked up.

"Is it done?"

The soldier glanced back the way he'd come. "She needs a minute."

Of course she did.

Jack already knew without being told that you'd been in there nearly an hour. Long after everything that needed doing had been done. Long after Gabriel had been cleaned and prepared, long after the paperwork, long after everyone else had said what they needed to say and stepped back out into the heat. He knew because he'd been watching the curtain the whole time, waiting for it to move, and it hadn't.

He stood and crossed the tent slowly. When he stepped through he found you beside the transfer case, gloves off, hands clean but trembling, your eyes red in a way that had nothing to do with dust. He'd seen you exhausted before. This was different. This was the kind sleep couldn't touch.

Clark stands quietly beside you. "Kid."

"His collar wasn't straight." Your voice cracked on the last word. "I fixed it."

Jack didn't say anything. He understood exactly what you meant and exactly what you didn't. The collar had never been the problem. You weren't ready to let him go, and there was nothing in his training, nothing in any of his years out here, that told him what to do with that.

He stepped closer anyway. It hurt him to watch you standing there, frozen, unable to move toward the door. He kept his voice low, the only thing he knew to offer. "His family's waiting for him."

Your body flinched. "Right. Yes." You took a breath and finally stepped back. "I'm sorry."

Jack gave Clark a small nod. The signal that it was clear.

A few minutes later the transfer case was brought out into the heat, and the tent went completely silent around it. Six soldiers stepped forward to carry it. Jack was one of them. Clark too. He focused on his hands, on the weight, on keeping his steps even, because if he thought about anything else right now he wasn't going to make it across the compound.

Outside the sunlight was blinding after the dim canvas interior. The helicopter pad sat in the distance, the transport aircraft waiting beyond it. The camp had gathered along the path without anyone telling them to. Nobody spoke. Jack didn't expect them to.

When the case reached the vehicle, the soldiers stopped and stepped back into formation. Jack moved to one side. Clark stood beside him. Across from them you stood with your spine straight and your chin level, holding a stillness that Jack recognized immediately, because it was costing you everything you had left and he knew exactly what that looked like from the inside.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Clark raised his hand in salute.

Jack's came up with it, automatic, trained, and it was returned down the line by every soldier present, the only sound the wind and somewhere distant the low building hum of the aircraft's engines. His throat tightened as he held the position. Across from him you were still standing at attention, perfect posture, perfect form, and he understood that you were holding it together through nothing but sheer will, because that was the only thing keeping you upright at all.

The vehicle began to move.

Only then did your hand lower. Only then did Gabriel actually start to leave, the case disappearing slowly up the ramp while the camp watched a piece of itself go with it.

That was when you broke.

Jack saw your shoulders drop first. Then your knees seemed to lose whatever certainty had been holding them, and the sound that came out of you was quiet and raw, the sound of someone who had held the wall up for exactly as long as duty required and not one second longer.

He was already moving before he'd decided to. He reached you in two steps and pulled you in, wrapping both arms around you, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head without him thinking about it at all.

You didn't pull away. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let it come.

Jack didn't say anything. There was nothing true enough to say, and he'd learned a long time ago not to insult grief with empty words. He just held on, steady, while the engines spun up behind you both and somewhere over your shoulder Clark stood with his hand still raised, watching the two people he had left from that tent try to hold each other together in the middle of everything that had just been taken from them.

******

After Gabriel's transfer ceremony, the aircraft disappeared into the horizon. Yet somehow his presence stayed everywhere. In the empty chair near the mess tent. In the half-finished deck of cards still sitting on a crate. In the silence that followed every conversation now, the particular gap where his voice used to fill the space. In the jokes nobody told anymore.

War kept moving. It always did. Orders still came down, patrols still happened, the camp still woke up the next morning whether anyone was ready for it or not.

Jack hated that. Part of him wanted the world to stop, just for a day, just long enough for everyone to fully acknowledge that Gabriel was gone. Instead soldiers reported for duty, vehicles rolled out, radios crackled with the same routine traffic, and life continued like one man hadn't left a hole in the middle of all of them.

So Jack did what everyone else did. He kept moving. Checking equipment, checking ammunition, checking routes that didn't need checking. Volunteering for patrols, for sweeps, for anything that kept his hands and his attention occupied. Because the second he stopped moving, he started thinking, and every thought led back to Gabriel. Every single one.

Across camp you weren't much different. You worked every shift available, took every patient, stayed longer than necessary, found reasons to be useful long after the necessary work was done. The two of you were doing the exact same thing. Just in different uniforms.

A few days later Jack was checking his gear when your voice cut through the quiet.

"You volunteered."

Not a question.

Jack didn't look up. "Yeah."

"You don't have to go."

"I'm going."

"You just got back."

He kept adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting, checking a weapon he had already checked twice.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Look at me."

Slowly he lifted his head, and the second he did he knew you could see straight through him. You always could. Not physically exhausted, not really. Something colder than that. Like part of him had shut down after Gabriel died and simply never bothered switching back on.

"Don't go," you said.

His jaw tightened. "It's a sweep."

"You volunteered." You stepped closer. "And you haven't rested properly in days."

He almost laughed. The irony would have been funny if it weren't so depressing. "You too."

A tired breath escaped you. "True." You folded your arms. "But if I pass out, at least there's a hospital bed waiting for me."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the first one in days. Then it disappeared, because the truth came out before he could stop it.

"To make sure nobody else ends up like Gabriel."

Silence settled between you. There it was. The thing he hadn't said out loud yet. The thing everybody already knew without needing it confirmed.

You stared at him. Then slowly closed the distance. "But what about soldiers like Jack Abbot?"

The question hit harder than he expected. For a second he couldn't answer, because the truth was ugly. The truth was that he hadn't thought about himself at all. Not since the explosion. Not since watching Gabriel die. Not since watching you cry.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His eyes dropped away. "The day I signed up," he said, voice rough, "the day I got on that plane." A pause. "I stopped putting myself first."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Yeah."

"No." The anger in your voice surprised him. "You think Gabriel would've wanted this?"

Jack barked out a laugh with no humor in it at all. "Gabriel would've volunteered before me."

That hurt because it was true. Gabriel would have been first through the door, first on the helicopter, first running toward danger without a second thought. Which was exactly why he wasn't here anymore. The thought settled heavily between you.

"Jack."

He looked at you. Really looked. And suddenly you didn't seem angry anymore. Just tired. Heartbroken. Scared.

Your voice dropped, quiet and small and entirely honest. "I don't want you to go."

Something cracked inside his chest. The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you whispered, "Please stay."

Your eyes glistened. And for the first time since Gabriel died, Jack wanted to. God, he wanted to. If it had been anyone else asking he would have walked away without hesitation. But it wasn't anyone else. It was you.

For one terrible second he imagined dropping the bag. Telling command no. Staying. Choosing himself. Choosing you.

Instead he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you close. The hug was brief and tight, the kind soldiers gave before deployment, the kind neither of you actually wanted but both needed anyway. His voice came low against your hair.

"I'll come back."

You closed your eyes. "This is weird."

He huffed softly. "What is?"

"The first time we haven't argued."

That finally earned a real chuckle, small and tired. "That means hell froze over."

You didn't laugh. Somehow that felt worse.

When you pulled back your eyes searched his face. "Promise me you'll come back in one piece."

Jack froze. Because he should have promised. He should have lied. He should have given you something, anything, to hold onto. Instead, "I won't promise that."

The hurt that flashed across your face followed him for weeks afterward.

He squeezed your shoulder once. Then picked up his gear and walked away. He didn't look back. Because he knew if he did, he wasn't leaving.

******

The location looked abandoned. A cluster of damaged buildings sat beneath the afternoon sun, broken walls, collapsed roofs, too quiet. Jack hated quiet. Quiet usually meant somebody was waiting.

The team moved carefully through the compound, weapons raised, eyes scanning every doorway, every window, every shadow. Jack's instincts were screaming. Something was wrong.

Then gunfire erupted. The first shots shattered the silence and soldiers dove for cover, more shots following in rapid succession until the entire compound dissolved into chaos.

"Contact left!"

"Move!"

Jack returned fire, called positions, directed movement as the team pushed forward. Then someone screamed.

He turned. One of the younger soldiers was down, hit, bleeding out fast. Without thinking he moved, exactly the way Gabriel would have, exactly the way Gabriel always had. He sprinted toward the soldier, dropped beside him, grabbed his vest, and started dragging him toward cover while bullets cracked overhead and concrete exploded somewhere close. Somebody was yelling. Jack barely heard them, because all he could think was not again, not another one, not today.

Then somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

The world turned white.

The explosion hit with enough force to lift him off the ground entirely. Pain erupted everywhere at once. His ears rang, his vision blurred, the sky spun above him in a way that made no sense. For a second there was no sound at all. No gunfire, no shouting. Nothing. Just darkness.

And then a voice. Familiar. Terrified.

"Jack!"

The darkness shifted.

"Jack! Don't you dare leave me!"

Again. Closer. Louder.

"Jack!"

*********

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke up with a sharp inhale.

For a second he didn't know where he was. The darkness of his bedroom slowly replaced the battlefield, the walls and ceiling and silence settling into place where dust and gunfire had been a moment ago. Pittsburgh. His chest rose and fell heavily, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs while the phantom ringing from the explosion still echoed somewhere behind his ears.

He dragged a hand across his face. "Jesus Christ."

His head hurt. The familiar ache behind his eyes that only ever showed up after nightmares. Nightmares he hadn't had in years. He thought he'd buried that day, buried Gabriel, buried the explosion, buried your scream along with everything else.

Apparently not.

A sudden stab of pain shot through his prosthetic side and he tensed immediately. "Ugh." The ache spread upward, deep and persistent. His residual limb always acted up when the weather changed, or when stress got bad, or when old memories decided to crawl out of the grave uninvited. Today, apparently, checked every box at once.

"Fuck."

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, waiting it out. The pain didn't leave. He groaned and dropped backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

Jack: Gonna take sick leave.

The reply came faster than expected.

Robby: You?

Jack snorted.

Jack: My leg hurts.

The three dots appeared immediately.

Robby: Say no more, brother.

Honestly, that was more than enough explanation. Jack tossed the phone onto his chest and closed his eyes again. Sleep wasn't happening. Neither was work.

At the Pitt, Robby took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Abbot can't come in today."

Dana looked up from her chart. "That sudden?"

"His leg's acting up."

Her expression softened immediately. "Oh." A pause. "He should come here instead."

Robby raised an eyebrow.

Dana shrugged. "We literally have all the medicine."

Robby laughed. "I'll tell him."

"You should." She pointed toward the floor. "We're not letting him win Employee of the Month while sick at home."

"He has never once cared about Employee of the Month."

"Exactly my point."

Princess, who happened to be passing the desk at precisely the wrong moment, heard the entire exchange. Which was unfortunate for everyone involved. Her eyes widened and her phone appeared in her hand before either of them had finished the sentence.

Thirty seconds later, the Pitt group chat lit up.

Princess: 🚨 BREAKING NEWS 🚨

Princess: Dr. Abbot called in sick.

The three dots appeared instantly. Then another set. Then five more in quick succession.

Shen: impossible

Ellis: impossible

Javadi: impossible

Garcia: impossible

Princess: apparently his leg hurts

Shen: old man disease

Ellis: did he finally discover he's fifty

Garcia: he's not fifty

Shen: spiritually he is

Princess: should we send flowers

Ellis: send him a walker

Javadi: send him a retirement brochure

Across the hospital phones buzzed one after another in a chain reaction that spread faster than most actual trauma alerts. And just like that, the entire Pitt knew Jack Abbot had taken a sick day, which was somehow bigger news than anything that had happened in the trauma bay all week.

A few floors above the ER, you were in the middle of surgery.

The operating room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors and the occasional request for instruments. Your focus was absolute. Scalpel. Suction. Clamp. Every movement precise, every decision deliberate.

Garcia stood across from you, assisting. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, "Abbot called in sick."

You didn't look up. Your eyes stayed on the surgical field. "Okay."

Garcia narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "He never calls in sick."

"Sounds like a personal achievement."

The scrub nurse bit back a smile. Garcia wasn't discouraged.

"His leg's acting up," she said.

Your hands kept moving, steady and controlled, exactly the same as before. Not a single hesitation. Nothing in your posture shifted at all.

Garcia glanced toward the anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist looked at the circulating nurse. The circulating nurse shrugged. Nobody in that room could read you when you were operating, which was one of the many reasons you were good at this.

The surgery continued. Sutures, final checks, closure. A little while later you stepped away from the table.

"Good work, everyone."

The team began their post-op routine. You stripped off your gloves, then your gown. A few minutes later you stood at the scrub sink washing your hands. Garcia moved beside you and did the same. For a moment neither of you spoke. Water ran over your hands. You dried them carefully.

Then, finally, "I'll go out for a while."

Garcia didn't even try to hide her grin. "Yes, boss."

You shot her a look. It only made the grin wider.

She tilted her head. "You know his address?"

You looked at her slowly. A smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. "I'm not that ignorant."

Garcia burst out laughing. "Oh my God."

You tossed the paper towel into the bin. "Don't start."

"Too late." She pointed at you. "You pretended not to care for an entire surgery."

"I didn't pretend anything."

"You absolutely did."

You started walking toward the door. Garcia called after you, "Tell him the Pitt survived without him."

Without turning around, you lifted a hand. "I'll let him know."

The second the door closed behind you, Garcia turned to the rest of the staff. "Told you."

The anesthesiologist sighed. "We all knew she was going."

The scrub nurse nodded. "Honestly, it would've been weirder if she didn't."

"By the way," the circulating nurse said, peeling off her own gloves, "did the Pitt make a bet on whether she'd go visit him?"

Garcia froze for a second. "Damn it. We're too late to join."

*******

Later, you showed up at his apartment.

Jack opened the door and went completely still. He hadn't been expecting anyone. Especially not you.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I am."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You should moisturize."

"Get out."

He let you in anyway, and eventually he sat down on the couch with the particular care of someone managing pain he wasn't admitting to. You noticed him rubbing the stump absentmindedly, his thumb pressing into the same spot over and over.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

It was a lie. It hurt a lot, and you both knew it, but you didn't push. You sat down beside him without saying anything else and reached for his leg.

He let you.

You looked down at his leg. Hesitated. Then slowly reached for it.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"Checking?"

"Do you want my help or not?"

That shut him up.

Carefully you rested your hands against his leg. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing, not because you didn't understand the injury, you knew exactly what you were looking for and where the tension would be sitting. It was harder because this was Jack, and somehow that made every step of it feel different than it should.

Your fingers pressed lightly against the tight muscle along the residual limb, working slow circles into the spots where the strain had built up.

"Still hurts?" you asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "If I have the nightmares."

You didn't answer immediately.

Your fingers kept moving, carefully working through the tension gathered in the muscles.

"I should've bought you that bike the day we met."

You rolled your eyes. "I would've said no."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I absolutely would have."

"You accepted one now."

"Because you're annoying."

"And persistent."

"Mostly annoying."

"And handsome."

You shook your head and kept massaging his leg, your fingers steady and methodical. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry I couldn't save it."

Jack looked at you for a long moment. The thought sat in his chest before he said it out loud. "Hey. I never blamed you. It wasn't your fault."

"I know. Still." You didn't look up from his leg. "In my head, every time I see you, there's a million different ways I run it back. Trying to make it work out differently."

He reached down and covered your hand with his, stopping the motion gently. "Hey," he said again, softer this time. "Look at me."

You did.

"You did everything right," he said. "I'm still here. I'm still standing. That's because of you, not in spite of you."

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest loosened slightly, the old guilt shifting just enough to breathe around.

"You're still annoying," you said finally.

"I know." The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Mostly annoying. Handsome, too."

You scoffed.

"Didn't deny it, huh?"

Jack looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Like he'd just won an argument nobody else knew was happening.

****

FLASHBACK

The medic tent was chaos. Blood, dust, shouting. Stretchers coming in one after another faster than anyone could process them.

Then they brought in Jack.

For a second your heart stopped. His uniform was soaked through, dark and wet in a way that told you everything before you'd even looked at the wound. His face had gone pale, that particular gray that meant his body was already starting to shut down peripheral systems to protect the core. The lower half of his leg was barely recognizable.

You moved before you'd finished registering what you were looking at. Airway. Pulse. Blood pressure. You ran the checks the way your hands had been trained to, on autopilot, because the part of your brain that wanted to stand still and stare was not allowed in the room right now.

"You can't panic." Clark's voice cut through the noise beside you. "We need to save him."

"Yes, sir." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

The next few minutes blurred into a single continuous motion. Assessment, medication, blood transfusion, everything moving faster than you could fully track. You worked the line, you called for supplies, you watched the monitor with one part of your brain while the other part screamed at you to look at his face, to confirm he was still in there.

Then came the leg.

You stared at the wound and then at the imaging once it came back, and you felt something in your chest go very still. The damage to the blood supply. The crush injury extending higher than you'd hoped. Tissue that had already started dying from lack of perfusion, the kind that didn't come back no matter how skilled the hands trying to save it were.

"No," you said.

Clark looked at you. "The leg lost the golden hour."

"There has to be another way." You said it too fast, the words tumbling out ahead of the part of you that already knew the answer.

"There isn't."

"There is." You pointed at the scan, at the section of tissue that was still pink, still arguably viable if you moved fast enough, if you were good enough, if the universe gave you one single break today. "We can try."

Clark's expression didn't change. "Kid."

"We can try." Your voice cracked slightly on the second word and you hated that it did.

"We're out of time." His voice hardened, not unkind, just final. "You know what this looks like as well as I do."

You looked down at Jack. Unconscious, pale, alive, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing in the room that mattered right now. Then back at the scan. Then back at him again, and your chest tightened so hard it was difficult to draw a full breath.

"There has to be something," you said, quieter now, the fight starting to drain out of the sentence even as you said it.

Clark was silent for a moment. Then, "Amputate."

You shook your head immediately. "No."

"Amputate."

"No." You said it again like saying it louder would change the anatomy in front of you. Like refusing hard enough could rebuild a blood supply that no longer existed.

For the first time Clark's voice hardened completely. "With or without you, this surgery happens. The only question is whether you're the one doing it."

The words landed harder than anything else in the room. Because suddenly it wasn't your decision to make at all. It never had been, not really, not once the tissue had died the way it had died. You had been arguing with biology and biology did not negotiate.

You looked at Jack again. Unconscious. Bleeding. Alive. You hated this. You hated the choice in front of you, hated that there even was a choice, hated that every version of this ended with you taking something from him that he hadn't agreed to lose. You hated, more than anything, that saving him meant losing part of him, and that you were the one who was going to have to be the hands that did it.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then another, slower this time, the kind you used to talk yourself back into the work when your body wanted to fall apart and didn't have the time for it.

When you opened your eyes again the surgeon had come back online behind them, pushing the rest of you down where it couldn't interfere.

"Get him to surgery ," you said. What mattered right now is to keep his heart beating through the next hour.

If Jack Abbot was going to survive, you were going to be the one standing there when he did. Even if it meant being the one who had to take the leg to do it.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack leaned back against the couch and let out a slow breath.

"The next thing I remember." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I woke up in the States."

You nodded. "You needed further treatment. That's why Clark sent you back."

Jack snorted. "Could've at least warned me." His gaze drifted toward the window, somewhere past it. "I wake up, look around, and suddenly I'm surrounded by strangers." A pause. "Didn't even know where the hell I was."

Then his eyes came back to you. Softer this time.

"At least—" He stopped.

You already knew where the sentence was going. At least there had been you. At least one familiar face. At least someone.

Your expression shifted before he could finish it. The teasing dropped away.

"I didn't know you were transferred," you said.

Jack frowned. "What?"

You looked down at your hands. The memory still sat uncomfortably even after all these years, a part of the story you hadn't told him because it had never felt necessary until right now.

"I found out afterward."

"What do you mean afterward?" His voice had gone careful.

You hesitated, then sighed. "I fainted."

Jack blinked. "You what?"

*******

FLASHBACK 

After Jack's surgery, something inside you broke.

You had saved his life. Everyone kept telling you that. But every time you looked at the empty space where his leg used to be, it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a debt you'd paid with someone else's currency.

So you worked. One shift became two. Two became three. Patients came and went and you barely remembered their names, just the blood, the sutures, the next emergency, the next life. Because if you stopped moving, you'd think what you could’ve done to save Jack.

People started noticing. A medic quietly handed you water you forgot to drink. Someone told you to sit down and you didn't.

Then Clark found you.

You were halfway through another chart when his shadow fell over your shoulder.

"Get out."

You didn't look up. "I can still work."

"Get out."

"I'm fine."

"Get out before I ban you from this tent."

That made you look at him, because you knew he meant it. You stood, your body heavier than it should have been, and the moment you stepped outside the heat hit you like a wall. Two steps. Three. Then the world tilted sideways and the last thing you heard was someone shouting for a doctor.

When you woke up everything hurt. Your head, your neck, your pride. A canvas ceiling. An IV in your arm. The cot creaked when you shifted.

"Good. You're awake."

Clark sat nearby, arms crossed.

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

"What?"

"Congratulations. You finally beat everyone else's record."

You stared at him. "Two days?"

"You collapsed. Your body decided to remind you that you're human, not a machine that runs on coffee and stubbornness."

You groaned, which made your headache worse. "How is he?"

Clark's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that you sat up straighter.

"How is Jack?"

He rubbed his thumb against his palm, thinking before he answered. "You can't see him. I transferred him back to the States. He needs treatment we don't have here."

The words landed harder than you expected. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."

“It’s better this way.” Clark was quiet for a moment. Then, "Because I've seen soldiers like him before. He's drowning right now. No mission, no team, no leg. He doesn't know what his life looks like anymore."

"I could help him."

Clark studied you for a long moment, and something about it made you feel eighteen again, sitting in front of a commanding officer who saw straight through you.

"That," he said quietly, "is exactly what scares me."

"What does that mean?"

He leaned back. "Kid. You have a habit of trying to save everyone. You spend every day fighting death in that tent." His voice was gentle. "You don't need to turn a man into another project."

That hurt more than it should have. "I care about him."

"I know you do."

A beat passed. Then you muttered, "Did you separate us, because he's older than me?"

Clark sighed dramatically. "No." A pause. "Maybe a little."

You laughed despite yourself. "My parents have an age gap."

"Your parents met during peacetime." That shut you up, because he wasn't wrong. War changed people. Sometimes permanently. He looked out toward the camp. "And Abbot. War already took too much from him."

You thought about the nightmares, the exhaustion, the silence you'd already seen settle into him. "I could still help."

"And what happens if he leans too hard on you?" Clark asked. "What happens if you lose yourself trying to hold him together?"

You didn't have an answer.

Clark sighed, and for the first time he looked less like your commanding officer and more like family. "I already see you as my own kid," he said. "You're talented. Far too selfless for your own good. You fight the angel of death every day." A faint smile. "And somehow you keep making it wait."

"I don't know about that."

"I do. We all do." He leaned forward. "When this contract ends, what are you going to do?"

You shrugged. "Vacation. Therapy."

"Both good answers." He pointed at you. "I want you back in school. Another specialty."

"Me?"

"I'll write the kind of recommendation letter universities fight over."

"Why?"

He looked genuinely confused by the question. "Because someone with your talent shouldn't stop here. And because you saved my soldiers."

"It wasn't just me." You smiled faintly. "Abbot taught me a lot."

"He did." A grin. "He's the anchor of this unit. I'm still the leader though."

That earned a real laugh, the first one in days.

Months later, your contract ended. Your bags sat beside you on the tarmac, the transport plane waiting in the distance. The future felt wide open and uncertain in a way that made your chest tight.

Clark walked up beside you while you stared at the runway.

"Go out there," he said. "Travel. See the world." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Meet someone."

Your chest tightened immediately, because you already knew exactly who he meant.

He studied you for a moment. "If after all of that, you still think about him." A pause. "Then go see him."

The words hurt, but not because he was dismissing what you felt. The opposite. He was treating it like it mattered, like it might survive time, like it might survive everything you'd both been through.

Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh."

A soldier appeared behind him carrying a very familiar puppy. Your eyes went wide. "Riot?"

The puppy squirmed immediately, trying to reach you.

"Can I?"

Clark looked offended. "Of course."

The moment Riot landed in your arms he started licking your face, and you laughed for the first time in days. Clark watched with quiet satisfaction.

"Kid's already attached to you anyway," he said.

Riot barked happily, like he completely agreed.

***********

PRESENT TIME 

Jack stared at you for a second. Then groaned. "I'm gonna kill Clark."

You laughed. "He'll beat you first."

He looked genuinely offended. "You underestimate me?"

"He's eighty."

"Exactly."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's not helping your argument."

"It helps mine."

"You realize he could still throw you across a room?"

Jack thought about it for a second. Then sighed. "Yeah. Probably."

That earned another laugh from you, and the sound settled something warm in his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he leaned back against the couch and the amusement faded from his face.

"I blame him sometimes," he said.

You glanced over. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But he had more experience than both of us." A pause. "And he was right."

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time with it.

Jack stared at the ceiling. "I pushed people away." His voice was calm. Too calm, the kind that only came from years of sitting with the same thought until it stopped hurting and started just being true. "I couldn't accept it." His hand rested unconsciously on his thigh, or where his thigh used to end. "I couldn't accept that I lost part of myself."

Your chest tightened. You remembered. The angry version of him. The distant one. The one everyone warned you about later, the one who shut doors before anyone could walk through them, who refused help, who disappeared into rehabilitation and therapy and silence and didn't come back out for a long time.

Jack let out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I was an asshole."

You smiled slightly. "A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

"That's fair." The corner of his mouth twitched. Then his gaze drifted toward the coffee table, toward a frame sitting beside it.

You followed his eyes and froze.

The photograph. Old, slightly faded, taken with your Polaroid camera years ago. Gabriel in the middle, grinning like he owned the frame. Clark pretending to look annoyed. Riot small enough to fit under one arm. Jack looking irritated because he'd complained about pictures five seconds before it was taken. And you, laughing behind the camera, caught mid-motion in the background reflection of the tent's metal trunk.

"You still have that?" you asked.

Jack glanced at it and nodded. "Of course." His voice softened. "It was sent to me during therapy."

That made you look at him directly. He was already watching you, carefully, too carefully.

"Was it you?" he asked.

"What?"

"The nurse." His gaze didn't move from yours. "The one who gave it to her."

Your stomach dropped. "Oh."

He tilted his head. "I noticed things changed after that."

You looked away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing on the wall.

He kept going anyway. "My pain medication changed." Silence. "The grape juice disappeared." More silence. "They started giving me apple juice."

You pressed your lips together.

Jack almost smiled. "I hate grape juice."

"I know." The words escaped before you could stop them.

The room went quiet. His smile widened immediately. "Exactly."

You closed your eyes. Damn it. He had you.

"There were only a few people who knew that," he said, his voice gentle now, not teasing, not pushing, just warm. "You were one of them."

You bit the inside of your cheek and twisted your fingers together in your lap, because the apartment suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it had five minutes ago.

Jack kept looking at you, patient, like he already knew the answer and was simply waiting for you to be ready to give it to him. Which, honestly, he probably did.

You finally sighed. "I left instructions."

His expression softened immediately. "You did."

********

FLASHBACK 

After you got back to the States, you secretly visited. Not once. Not twice. More times than you were willing to admit, even to yourself.

The rehabilitation center was almost an hour away from your apartment. You learned the route by memory. The receptionist eventually stopped asking questions. The nurses started recognizing you. But you never signed in as a visitor. Never walked into his room. Never knocked on the door.

You stayed where he couldn't see you. The hallway. The observation window. The corner near the physical therapy room. Close enough to know he was alive. Far enough to leave when it hurt too much.

And it always hurt.

The first time you saw him standing on the prosthetic, he fell. Hard. The therapist tried to help him up and Jack shoved the hand away immediately. You almost walked into the room. Almost. Instead you gripped the edge of the observation window until your knuckles went white.

The second time, he threw the prosthetic across the room. The metallic crash echoed down the hallway and several patients looked over. Jack didn't care. He sat there breathing hard, angry, humiliated, broken in a way you hadn't seen on him before. You left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Another time you heard him yelling at a therapist through the door.

"Just leave me alone."

The therapist stayed calm. Jack got louder.

"I said leave me alone."

You froze outside the door, listening. Not because you wanted to. Because you couldn't make yourself walk away.

The therapist said something too quiet to hear. Jack laughed, a bitter, ugly sound that didn't sound like him at all.

"My friend's dead." Silence. "My leg's gone." Another silence. "So tell me exactly what I'm supposed to be positive about."

Your chest tightened, because suddenly it wasn't about the leg. Maybe it never had been. He wasn't fighting rehabilitation. He was fighting everything. Gabriel. The explosion. The future. The guilt. 

The realization followed you home that night, and every night after.

One afternoon you were standing in your usual spot outside the therapy room when a familiar voice appeared beside you.

"How long have you been standing here?"

You didn't need to look. Clark. Of course. That man noticed everything.

You kept your eyes on the glass. Said nothing.

Clark followed your gaze. Inside, Jack was practicing walking again. One step. Another. Another. The therapist beside him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"You come every week."

Still no answer.

Clark sighed. Not annoyed. Just tired, the kind that came from watching too many people hurt for too long.

"You're waiting for him to become himself again," he said quietly.

Your throat tightened, because he was right. That was exactly what you were doing. Waiting for the old Jack. The one before the explosion, before the funeral, before the nightmares. The Jack who laughed easier. The Jack who believed he could save everyone. The Jack who had two legs.

Silence stretched between you.

Then Clark said the thing you would remember for years.

"He won't."

Your breath caught. You finally looked at him. His expression wasn't cruel or cold. It was sad, because he understood exactly what he was taking from you by saying it.

"The old Jack is gone." He let that sit for a second. Then looked back toward the therapy room. "So is the old you."

That hurt even more, because he wasn't wrong. War had taken pieces from all of you. Gabriel was gone. Jack came back different. And somewhere along the way, without quite noticing it happening, you had changed too.

Clark folded his arms. "Staying here won't save him. He has to want to get better."

Inside the room Jack took another step. Then another. His jaw was clenched, his face pale with the effort of it, still fighting, still refusing to quit even when every part of him wanted to.

Clark watched him for a moment. Then looked back at you.

"And right now," he said, his voice softening, "that's a fight he has to win himself."

For the first time since the war ended, you didn't argue. Because deep down you already knew. You just weren't ready to let go yet.

"Leave," Clark said finally. "While he's fixing himself and fighting his own demons, you go fix yourself. Improve your skills. Become better than the version of you that's standing in this hallway right now."

You looked at him. "And just leave him?"

"Not forever." He held your gaze steadily. "One day, perhaps, the two of you could work together again. But not like this. Not you hiding in hallways and him throwing prosthetics across rooms. That's not a reunion. That's two people drowning next to each other and calling it support."

Something in that landed. You felt it settle, slow and certain, the way truth did when it finally arrived after you'd spent weeks circling it.

"I will," you said.

You stood, and before you could think too hard about it you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Clark's cheek. "I'll see you again, sir."

He crossed his arms, but something in his expression had gone soft around the edges. "Make me proud, kid."

************

PRESENT TIME

"You were there," Jack said, staring at you. "You were there, and I pushed everyone away so hard I didn't even realize it."

You looked down. "There wasn't much to realize."

He laughed quietly. "I thought I was alone."

"You were never alone."

His eyes lifted to yours. "Then why didn't I see you?"

You swallowed. "Because I was dealing with my own grief too."

The answer seemed to hit him harder than he expected. "Huh." A small smile appeared. "You were close." His voice softened. "I didn't know."

Then he rested his head against your shoulder. For once neither of you joked. Neither of you moved away. The silence felt comfortable, the kind that didn't need filling.

"You know," Jack said quietly, "Clark was right."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"He'd love hearing that."

"He absolutely would."

Jack chuckled. Then his gaze lifted toward you at the same moment you looked down, and the conversation stopped without either of you deciding it should. Your faces were closer than either of you had realized, close enough to notice the tiredness still sitting in his eyes, close enough to notice where his gaze kept drifting.

The moment settled between you. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you moved.

Just a little closer. Just enough.

Then your phone rang.

Both of you blinked. Reality crashed back in at full volume. You looked at the screen. Emergency.

Jack sighed dramatically and dropped his head backward against the couch. "I hate this hospital."

You laughed, already standing. "I need to go."

For one brief second he wanted to ask you not to. Just stay. Five more minutes. Ten. An hour. Anything. But he knew better, because this was you, and you would never ignore a patient for anything, least of all him.

So instead he nodded. "Go."

You stood and reached for your bag. Then Jack suddenly held out a key.

You frowned. "What's that?"

"My house key."

You stared at him. "Your house key?"

He shrugged, trying very hard to look casual about it. "My leg still hurts."

"Uh-huh."

"I need someone to check on me."

"Uh-huh."

"In case I fall asleep and can't open the door."

You narrowed your eyes. "That is the worst excuse I have ever heard."

"It got you to take the key."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then pointed at him. "You are impossible."

"And yet you're taking it."

With a sigh you slipped the key into your pocket. "I'll give it back."

"No rush." The corner of his mouth lifted.

Your pager buzzed again. You headed for the door.

"Try not to die," you said.

Jack scoffed. "Pretty sure that's your job."

You shook your head and left.

The apartment fell quiet. Jack stared at the closed door for a moment, then at the empty spot beside him on the couch where you'd been sitting a minute ago.

A slow smile appeared.

Because for the first time in a very long time, when you left, he knew you were coming back.

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The town car arrived exactly on time. During the entire ride across the city, you couldn't sit still. Your legs bounced. You kept smoothing down your simple black hoodie and leggings, wondering if you should have dressed up more. Inside, you felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous, thrilled, and a little dazed. This powerful, gorgeous woman wanted you again. At 5 AM. The memory of her thick cock stretching you open, her green eyes locked on yours, and the way she'd growled "good girl" kept replaying in your head, making you press your thighs together. The driver, a tall old man, spent the past few minutes humming to some popular song that had been playing on the radio while occasionally checking his rear view mirror. Maybe this was ridiculous. Were you really just about to go to a woman's apartment at 5 AM just because she fucked you good? Well, yes.

The car pulled up to Natasha's building which was a sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper made of glass and dark steel that screamed old money and power. Before you could even process it, the door opened and the driver held his hand out, waiting for you to accept it.

"Thank you." You mumbled softly before he escorted you inside. It was quiet inside the building, but you knew soon enough the hustle and bustle of 6 AM would come soon.

The lobby was visible through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors that gleamed under crystal chandeliers, minimalist leather seating, and massive abstract art pieces on the walls. It looked less like an apartment building and more like a private museum for the obscenely wealthy. You stepped inside, the cool air hitting your skin. The reception desk was a long, polished black marble counter. Behind it stood a tall, impeccably dressed blonde woman in her late 20s, sharp cheekbones, designer blouse, and an expression of practiced superiority. Her name tag read "Elena."

She looked you up and down slowly, taking in your casual hoodie, leggings, and the faint scent of club smoke still clinging to your curls. Her lips curled into a condescending smirk.

"May I help you?" she asked, tone dripping with fake politeness.

"This is a private residence. Deliveries and guests need prior approval." You straightened your shoulders, weight shifting to your other leg.

"I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff. She's expecting me." Elena let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. She checked her tablet, then looked back at you with open disdain.

"Miss Romanoff didn't mention any guests tonight. Especially not..." Her eyes flicked over you again.

"...Someone like you. Are you sure you have the right building, sweetheart?" The condescension was thick. Jealousy mixed with classist venom. It was clear this woman had been trying to get Natasha's attention for a while, and the idea of some random (curvy, beautiful and clearly not from their world) girl showing up at 5 AM offended her deeply.

Before you could respond, the private elevator dinged. Natasha stepped out like she owned the entire damn city. She was wearing a black silk robe loosely tied over what looked like grey sweatpants and a tank top, silver-streaked auburn hair tousled from sleep, or maybe lack of it, and those sharp green eyes immediately locked onto you with raw hunger. The robe did little to hide the heavy bulge already forming between her legs.

Elena straightened instantly, her voice turning sugary.

"Miss Romanoff, I was just telling this young woman that you-"Natasha didn't even glance at her. She crossed the lobby in long, confident strides, slid a possessive arm around your waist, and pulled you flush against her body. Her hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as she leaned down and kissed you . It was deep, claiming, and completely unconcerned about the audience. You melted instantly, a soft whimper escaping into her mouth.

When Natasha finally pulled back, she kept her arm locked around you and looked at Elena with cool indifference.

"She's with me." Natasha said, voice low and authoritative.

"Always. Don't question her again." Elena's face flushed with embarrassment and jealousy, but she nodded stiffly.

"Of course, Miss Romanoff." Natasha didn't wait for more. She guided you toward the elevator with a firm hand on your lower back, almost possessive. As the doors closed, she pressed you against the mirrored wall, lips brushing your ear.

"I've been hard for hours thinking about you," she growled.

"Couldn't sleep. Needed to feel this pretty warm pussy again." You shivered, grinning giddily against her neck as the elevator rose.

The mean receptionist was already forgotten.

All that mattered was the way Natasha Romanoff couldn't wait until morning to have you again.

The elevator ride up was thick with tension.

Natasha kept you pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other tilted your chin up for another deep, hungry kiss. Her silk robe had slipped open slightly, and you could feel the heavy, hard length of her cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of her sweats.

"I've been thinking about this tight little pussy since you left." she murmured against your lips, accent thicker with want.

"Couldn't even sleep properly." You shivered, heart racing with that same giddy, nervous excitement from the car ride.

This powerful woman, this older woman,  had summoned you at 5 AM because she needed you.

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. Your breath caught. You'd never seen anything like it. The space was massive and breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline that made you feel like you were floating above the world. The lighting was low and warm,  soft recessed lights and the glow of the city beyond.

Everything screamed quiet, expensive luxury.

Sleek modern furniture in deep charcoal and cream tones filled the open-plan space. A massive sectional that looked like it could seat twenty dominated the living area. In one corner stood a glossy black grand piano. A fully stocked bar with crystal glassware and expensive bottles glowed under subtle lighting. The floors were dark polished hardwood that felt cool under your sneakers.

It smelled like her , woody cologne, faint whiskey, and something undeniably powerful. Natasha watched your reaction with dark satisfaction, her hand never leaving your lower back as she guided you inside.

"First time seeing it properly." she said, voice low.

"What do you think?" You stepped further in, eyes wide, turning slowly to take it all in.

"It's... insane. Beautiful. Like something out of a movie." You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

"I feel like I shouldn't even be standing here in sneakers." Natasha's lips curved into a predatory smile. She closed the distance, sliding her arms around your waist from behind and pulling your back flush against her front. You could feel her hard cock pressing insistently against your ass.

"You belong here." she murmured, lips brushing your ear.

"I wanted you back the second you left. Couldn't stop thinking about how good you felt riding me. How pretty you looked with my cock buried inside you. The breathless sound you made just as you were about to cum, fuck. I want to hear it again." You whimpered softly, already wet. The contrast between the overwhelming luxury surrounding you and the raw hunger in her voice made your head spin.

Natasha didn't give you long to admire the view. She turned you around, picked you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you over to the huge sectional. She sat down and pulled you astride her lap, hands immediately sliding under your hoodie to grip your bare waist.

"Take this off." She ordered, already tugging the fabric upward. You obeyed quickly, pulling the hoodie over your head. Your full breasts spilled free, you hadn't worn a bra.

Natasha groaned at the sight, leaning in to suck one dark nipple into her mouth while her hands squeezed your ass.

"You're just so fucking perfect," she growled against your skin.

"This body has been driving me crazy for too many fucking days." You rocked against the thick bulge in her sweatpants, moaning softly. The city lights sparkled behind you through the massive windows as Natasha freed her heavy cock and pushed your leggings and panties to the side.

She didn't tease this time.She lined up and pulled you down onto her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying every thick inch inside you.You gasped sharply, head falling back as the stretch burned so good. Natasha's lips parted, eyes trained on those pink lips of yours. Her thumb pushed your bottom lip down, your tongue coming out to lick the digit. You maintained eye contact while you sucked her thumb and you could see the way Natasha swallowed thickly before she trailed that same thumb down your stomach, to your clit.

Natasha then gripped your hips tightly and started guiding you to ride her, deep and steady bounces that made your breasts jiggle and your ass ripple like water.

"Look at me." She commanded. You did. Those intense green eyes stayed locked on yours as she fucked up into you, the wet sounds of your pussy taking her cock filling the luxurious penthouse.

This was only your second time with her, but it already felt dangerously addictive.

And as Natasha pulled you down harder, growling "Good girl" while the city watched silently through the windows, you realized something thrilling:

You were already in deep.

—-

You woke up slowly, wrapped in the softest sheets you'd ever felt. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A solid, strong body pressed against your back, one heavy arm draped possessively over your waist. The second was the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft morning light, painting the entire penthouse in golden hues. The city stretched out endlessly below, making you feel like you were floating in the sky.

You were in Natasha's bed. Memories from a few hours ago flooded back. Natasha fucking you on the sectional, then carrying you to bed and taking you again. So much slower, and so fucking deep, until you were shaking and moaning her name. Until you could feel her in your stomach, just hitting that spongy spot that made you see stars over and over again. She fucked you so good, you went silent, mouth opened in an "o" shape.

"Don't you dare look away. I want to see you." She whispered, telling you how she wanted to see you fall apart. You came so hard that moment, thigh lifting slightly while you let out a choked gasp. You'd fallen asleep with her still buried inside you.

Now, Natasha was awake. You could feel her watching you. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare stomach, occasionally brushing the underside of your breast. Her thick cock was already half-hard, resting against the curve of your ass.

"Morning, gorgeous." she murmured, voice husky with sleep and that faint accent. She pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck.

"Sleep well?" You turned in her arms to face her, suddenly shy under the bright morning light. Natasha looked devastating, her silver-streaked auburn hair messy, sharp green eyes soft with satisfaction, pale skin marked with a few faint scratches you'd left on her shoulders last night and earlier that morning.

"I... yeah." You whispered, a giddy little smile tugging at your lips.

"This bed is ridiculous. Everything here is ridiculous." Natasha chuckled lowly and pulled you closer, hooking one of your thick thighs over her hip. Her hand slid down to squeeze your ass possessively.

"You look good in my bed." she said, eyes roaming over your dark skin against her white sheets.

"I could get used to waking up to this." Your heart did a little flip. This was only your second night together, but the way she looked at you...like she didn't want you to leave, it made butterflies erupt in your stomach again.

Natasha leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep. The kiss quickly grew heated. Her hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet for her again.

"You're just so greedy huh?" she teased against your lips, sliding two fingers inside you easily. "Even after I fucked you twice last night, your pussy, she just gets so wet." You moaned softly, rocking against her hand and pulling it closer to guide her movements.

"Can't help it... you feel too good." Natasha rolled you onto your back and settled between your spread thighs. She pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at the tight heat. This time it was lazy morning sex , deep and slow rolls of her hips, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

"Fuck, you take me so well." She breathed, forehead pressed to yours.

"This pretty wet pussy was made for my cock."

You wrapped your legs around her waist, nails digging into her back as she fucked you steadily. The morning light illuminated every detail. The way her silver hair caught the sun, the flex of muscle in her shoulders, the intense focus in her green eyes as she watched you fall apart. When you came, it was soft and shuddering, a quiet moan of her name leaving your lips. Natasha followed right after, burying herself deep and filling you with warm cum as she groaned against your neck.

She stayed inside you afterward, holding you close while the city woke up far below.

"I want you to stay longer today." she said quietly, brushing curls from your face.

"Cancel whatever you had planned. Let me feed you breakfast. Then maybe fuck you in the shower." You laughed breathlessly, still floating from the orgasm.

"You're not tired of me yet?" Natasha's expression turned serious. She cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your skin.

"Not even close," she murmured.

"I told you, I don't do this, inviting someone back the very next night. But with you... I can't seem to stop." Your heart swelled with that giddy, dangerous feeling again. You were falling fast. Too fast.

But lying here in her bed, full of her cum, wrapped in her arms while the morning sun warmed your skin... you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

"I'll stay, just cause you promised me pancakes." You whispered, leaning up to kiss her.

Natasha smiled against your lips. Slow, satisfied, and just a little possessive. Her arms wrapped around you, rough calloused digits tracing your back.

"Good girl."

—-

You left Natasha's penthouse around 11 AM.

She'd tried to convince you to stay longer by offering breakfast in bed (which you gladly took) and another round in the shower (messy, long, steamy and no not from the hot water). Natasha even suggested you cancel your plans for the entire day. But you needed a moment to breathe. Your body was deliciously sore, your mind was spinning, and you still smelled like her cologne and sex.

The town car dropped you off at your modest apartment building. The contrast was almost comical, going from a sky-high glass palace with marble floors and city views to your small one bedroom with creaky floors and a kitchen that barely fit two people. You kicked off your converse, collapsed onto your couch, and stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, replaying everything. Then you grabbed your phone and opened your messages with Anna.

You two had a strict "no TMI" policy. Nothing was off-limits.

You

Girl. I need you to sit down. I just left someone's penthouse. Like... 5 minutes ago.

Anna's typing bubble popped up instantly.

Anna

BITCH WHAT. Who??? You better not be talking about some random club guy. Spill RIGHT NOW.

You bit your lip, grinning as you typed, still feeling that giddy, floaty feeling in your chest.

You

Her name is Natasha. She's kind of a Silver fox. Late 40s/early 50s. Rich as hell. Like... stupid rich.

You paused for a moment, grinning like some teenager.

You

She has a penthouse that looks like it belongs in a movie. Floor to ceiling windows, grand piano, the whole thing. I felt like I didn't even belong there in my sneakers. I kinda met her at that gig you gave me and well we talked but nothing happened.

Anna

Hello!!?? That was a while ago

You

I'm not done. So then, a few weeks later I saw her at the club and she was watching me. She paid like a lot of money for me to dance for her. But the two weeks after that, she came back and asked for a full night performance and I guess we kind of fucked.

Your cheeks began to heat up from the memories. You even kicked your legs like some lovesick teenager.

Anna

Kinda??? And then what?! Don't leave me hanging.

You

We fucked okay. Anna, the dick is LIFE CHANGING. Thick, curved, she knows exactly how to use it. I rode her on her couch the first night. She fucked me twice more before I left this morning. I can literally still feel her inside me rn.

You sent a string of flushed-face emojis.

Anna

HOLD TF UP. You went home with a rich white woman. A WHOLE DAY AGO and you're just now telling me???

You

I was busy.

Anna

Well know I know why. Details. Measurements if possible. Is she a top? Does she eat pussy? I need the full report!!!

You laughed out loud in your quiet apartment, cheeks burning as you typed back.

You

She's a top. Very much a top. She ate me out like she was starving. Made me come so hard my back arched off the bed for a long moment. And she's so possessive but in this hot, controlled way. Woke me up this morning by pulling me on top of her and fucking me slow while staring into my eyes. Told me she couldn't stop thinking about me and wanted me to stay longer.

Anna

Woah

You

Anna... I'm scared of how much I already like her. Like, stupid giddy. I was smiling the whole car ride home like some idiot

Anna

Babe. This sounds like danger. Rich older woman who fucks like a god and lives in a sky palace? Red flags but also... live your best life??? But be careful. Make sure she's not just playing games. Also send pics of the penthouse next time if you can 😂

You smiled, hugging a pillow to your chest.

For the first time, you had someone in your life who felt bigger than just a client or a one-night stand. And telling Anna about it made it feel real.

You

I'll be careful. But... I think I'm gonna see her again. Soon.

Anna

Of course you are. Just don't fall too fast, babe. Keep me updated on that silver fox dick tho.

You put your phone down, still grinning like a fool. Even back in your small apartment, surrounded by your normal life, you could still feel Natasha's hands on your body and hear her whispering "good girl" in your ear.

And you knew that this was only the beginning.

—-

Natasha Romanoff didn't do this. She didn't just invite women back to her penthouse the very next night. She didn't text at 4 AM because she couldn't stop thinking about someone or how they sounded when they laughed. And she certainly didn't spend the entire morning after watching her sleep with a stupid, soft smile on her face. Yet here she was. Still thinking about you.

After you left, Natasha stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand, staring out at the city. She was now wearing only her silk robe, your scent, coconut, vanilla, and sex was still clinging to her skin. She couldn't stop replaying it. The way you'd looked riding her on the couch that first night. The surprised, breathless sounds you made when she filled you. How your right thigh lifted when you came. The shy but glowing smile on your face when you woke up in her bed this morning. Natasha was in trouble.

Her phone buzzed. A group chat.

Carol

Brunch? I'm in town for 48 hours.

Wanda

I'm free. Natasha, you better not be working.

Natasha sighed and typed back.

Natasha

My place. 1 PM.

Two hours later, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff were sprawled across her sectional like they owned it. Carol, blonde and athletic in jeans and a leather jacket, was nursing a mimosa. Wanda, with her soft red hair and knowing green eyes, was curled up with a cup of tea.

They both noticed something was off immediately.

"Well you're glowing." Wanda said, tilting her head with a small smirk.

"And you have that 'I got laid and it was good' look. Spill." Natasha leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed.

"It's nothing." Carol barked out a laugh.

"Bullshit. You never invite us over last minute unless something's up. Who is she?" Natasha was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

"Her name is... y/n" she said, the name feeling intimate on her tongue.

"Shes young and so beautiful. Curves that should be illegal. She was waitressing at the Harrington event a couple of weeks ago. Some assholes were being rude to her. I shut it down... and then.."Wanda's eyebrows rose.

"You took a waitress home didn't you?"

"No!" Natasha frowned.

"That night we were at the club."

"What club?"

"The time Rio lost the bet and we went to the strip club, I saw her again. She's a dancer."

Carol grinned.

"You fucked the stripper didn't you?" Natasha shot her a look.

"How did you-"

"Because you have that 'I can't stop thinking about her' face," Carol said, pointing.

"The same face you get when you're closing a deal you're obsessed with. Except this time it's a person." Wanda had placed her drink down, her attention was now solely focused on the redhead.

"You guys had sex?"

"Yes."

"With the stripper?"

"Wanda she's more than just a stripper." Natasha murmured after taking a sip from her wine glass.

"And you like her?" Wanda asked and Natasha paused before nodding.

"Fuck. I think I do." Wanda leaned forward, more gentle.

"You like her." She repeated, softer this time.

Natasha ran a hand through her silver-streaked hair.

"I do." She  admitted quietly.

"More than I should after two nights. She's... different. She's got this fire. She's just..."

"Indescribable." Carol finished and Natasha nodded.

Wanda's expression softened with understanding.

"Sounds like you're falling, Nat." Natasha didn't deny it. She just stared out the window, a small, rare smile tugging at her lips.

"She makes me feel... greedy. Like I want all of her time. All of her attention. I want to spoil her. Protect her from the assholes at that club." She let out a breath.

"It's only been two nights and I'm already thinking about when I can see her again."

Carol clapped her on the shoulder.

"Then stop overthinking and go get your girl. You deserve something real for once." Wanda nodded.

"Just be careful. Don't scare her off with the full Romanoff intensity too fast." Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already drifting back to you, wondering what you were doing right now, if you were sore, if you were thinking about her too.

She was falling. And for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she wanted to stop. Age be damned.

—-

You were lying in bed, freshly showered, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Your body was still tender. Your thighs sore, pussy faintly throbbing from how thoroughly Natasha had fucked you that morning. Every time you moved, you felt the ghost of her thick cock stretching you open. Your phone lit up.

Natasha

Tell me you're still thinking about me.

You bit your lip hard, a rush of heat flooding between your legs

You

How could I not? I can still feel you inside me.

Natasha

Good. I've been hard for the last hour just remembering how you looked riding me this morning. That pretty puffy pussy taking every inch. The way your thighs just kept lifting every time you came.

You squirmed on the bed, pressing your thighs together.

You

You're dangerous. I'm literally wet again just reading this.

Natasha

Send me a picture.

Your heart raced, heart slamming against your ribs . You hesitated for half a second, then angled your phone down. You pulled your shirt up, spread your thighs, and took a quick photo , showing your slick, puffy pussy still slightly swollen from earlier. Fuck it.

You sent it.

Natasha

Fuck. Look at that pretty pussy. Still leaking my cum? I should've kept you in my bed all day. Should've fucked you until you couldn't walk.

You

I'm sore but I want more. You ruined me for anyone else already.

Natasha

That's the plan.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard as heat pooled low in your belly.

You

You're really trying to make me touch myself tonight, huh?

Natasha

Shouldn't have to try. You're already soaked just from texting me. Tell me the truth, are you touching that pretty pussy right now?

Your hand had already slipped between your thighs without you realizing. You bit your lip harder and typed with one hand.

You

...Yes.

You paused before continuing.

You

I'm so wet. Can't stop thinking about how deep you were this morning.

Natasha

Show me.

Another picture request. Your heart hammered as you spread your legs wider, angled the camera, and snapped a new photo,  this one showing two of your fingers glistening with your slick, your swollen clit peeking out.  You sent it.

Natasha

Fuck, look at you. You're such a needy little thing. Playing with that pussy while thinking about my cock. I want you to fuck yourself with those fingers and pretend it's me stretching you open.

You moaned softly in the quiet of your room and pushed two fingers inside yourself, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined her thick length instead.

You

Feels so good but not enough... I need you. Want you to bend me over and fuck me until I can't walk straight.

Natasha

Careful, beautiful. Keep talking like that and I'll come over there right now and ruin you all over again.

You

And what if I want that?

Natasha

Oh baby, I want those thighs shaking while I pound you. Want to hear you moan my name until your voice gives out.

You were breathing harder now, fingers moving faster as you read her messages.

You

Please... I'm so close. Tell me what you'd do to me.

Natasha

I'd pin you down on your back, spread those thick thighs wide, and slam every inch into you. I'd fuck you hard and deep until that pretty wet pussy is creaming all over my cock. And then I'd flip you over and fill you up while you're still shaking for me.

That pushed you over the edge. You came with a choked moan, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep as your pussy clenched and pulsed. You snapped one last blurry, post-orgasm picture, your fingers shiny and your pussy visibly wet and twitching , and you sent it.

Natasha

Jesus Christ.

She typed for a moment before the bubbles disappeared. Then they reappeared.

Natasha

Good girl. Such a perfect, messy little slut for me. I'm so fucking hard right now. Tomorrow night. After your shift. My car will be waiting.

Natasha

And you'd better not be wearing any panties.

You smiled breathlessly, still coming down from your high.

You

Yes, ma'am. I can't wait.

Natasha

Get some rest, beautiful. You're going to need it.

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing and a stupid grin on your face.

This woman was going to be the death of you.

And you were already counting down the hours until you saw her again.

—-

The club was packed, but the second you spotted her in the VIP booth, everything else faded.

Natasha sat like she owned the place — legs spread, black suit tailored perfectly to her powerful frame, silver-streaked auburn hair catching the lights. Her green eyes were locked on you with intense, burning focus. She wasn't smiling. She was watching every move you made like a predator.  So you danced for her.

Every roll of your hips, every arch of your back, every slow, filthy grind against the pole, it was all for her. You caught her gaze during a deep dip, biting your lip as you rolled your body back up. Natasha's jaw clenched. Her hand tightened around her glass. You winked before moving again.

By the end of your set you were soaked and buzzing. You grabbed the last of the money before walking off to the empty dressing rooms. You barely had time to step into your dressing room before the door opened behind you.

Natasha stepped in, locked the door, and had you pinned against the vanity in seconds. Her mouth crashed into yours, hungry, possessive, and almost angry.

"You danced like a fucking tease." She growled against your lips, hands already yanking your emerald bikini top down.

"Shaking that perfect ass for them. Letting every worthless man in here stare at what's mine."

You moaned into the kiss, grinding against the very obvious bulge in her slacks. When she pulled back for air, you looked up at her, breathing hard, and took her wrist.

"Yours?" you challenged, voice breathy but defiant. You guided her hand down your body, pushing it under the waistband of your tiny bikini bottoms until her fingers pressed against your dripping, swollen pussy.

"Yours?" you repeated, guiding two of her fingers to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.

"You sure about that already old woman?Natasha's eyes flashed with dark heat. She pushed both fingers deep inside you without warning, curling them hard as she pressed you back against the vanity.

"Yes," she snarled, fucking you roughly with her fingers.

"This pussy is dripping for me. Not for them. Mine." You gasped, head falling back as she pumped her fingers fast and deep, thumb rubbing your clit. Your thigh started to lift and tremble against her hip as pleasure built fast.

Natasha hooked her arm under your thigh, holding it up higher so she could watch it shake while she finger-fucked you.

"That's it," she growled.

Look at this pretty thigh trembling for me. Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your pussy knows where home is too."

You came hard with a broken cry, pussy gushing around her fingers, thigh shaking violently in her grip. Natasha kept working you through it, then pulled her fingers out and spun you around.

She bent you over the vanity, freed her thick cock, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You cried out, gripping the edge as she immediately started pounding you hard from behind.

The mirror showed everything. Your breasts bouncing, Natasha's face dark with lust as she watched her cock disappear inside you over and over.

"Say it." She demanded, one hand fisting your curls, the other slapping your ass hard.

"Tell me who this pussy belongs to."

"Yours." You moaned, voice breaking.

"It's yours, Nat-" She thrust deeper.

"Who's? I didn't get that." Another rough thrust.

"It's yours Nat." She fucked you harder, deeper, until you came again with a silent scream, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Natasha buried herself to the hilt and came with a low groan, flooding you with thick, hot cum.

She stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting. Then she leaned down, kissing the back of your neck almost tenderly while still buried deep.

"Mine."  She whispered and you smiled breathlessly.

"Yours."

That was all you said before your attention shifted entirely to the patient.

"Clamp. Suction. Retractor."

The room settled into its familiar rhythm. Garcia had already controlled most of the bleeding. Together you located the remaining vessel, repaired it, inspected the abdomen one final time, and began closing. The surgery went smoothly, the kind that felt almost routine after the ones that didn't.

As the nurses transferred the patient to recovery you peeled off your gloves and moved to the scrub sink beside Garcia. She noticed you checking the clock almost immediately.

"In a hurry?"

"I'm going down to the ER for a while."

"Really."

You looked at her. "Really."

Garcia smirked. "Uh-huh."

"I'm talking to Robby."

"Of course you are."

You narrowed your eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." She dried her hands with the serenity of someone who had already won the conversation. "Tell Abbot he's being dramatic."

You grabbed your badge. "I'll tell him you miss him."

Garcia looked genuinely offended. "I absolutely do not."

You chuckled and pushed through the OR doors. "See you later."

Then you headed downstairs toward the ER.

You stepped into the Pitt and the usual chaos met you immediately. Monitors beeping from every direction, paramedics rushing another patient through the ambulance bay, nurses weaving between stretchers with the practiced ease of people who had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. A battlefield. Just another normal day.

At the attending station Dana looked up first. "Well, look who decided to visit."

"I was passing by."

"Mhm." She smiled with the particular warmth of someone who knew exactly what passing by meant in this context. "Passing by."

Before you could respond Robby looked up from his computer. "Helloooo." Then went straight back to typing.

You leaned over the counter. "Can I ask you a favor?"

Robby's fingers stopped on the keyboard. He looked up slowly. "Whyyy?"

"Could you give Abbot one more day off?"

He studied you for a second, something turning over behind his eyes. "Because?"

"Because tomorrow is my day off."

A smile escaped before you could stop it, small and entirely self-betraying. Robby had to press his lips together to keep his own from spreading too wide. If playing cupid meant Jack Abbot finally stopped moping around the ER like a man with unfinished business, he would do it without a single reservation.

"Of course," he said immediately. "Absolutely. Shen and Cruz can manage."

"Give them a chance to lead," you agreed, tapping the counter lightly.

"You got it."

You gave them both a small nod and headed back toward the elevator. The moment you disappeared around the corner Dana stepped closer to Robby, a smile already taking over her face.

"Sooo?"

Robby watched the elevator doors close before he answered. Then he shrugged, easy and unbothered. "I just want my friend to be happy."

Dana laughed softly and folded her arms. "You call it helping. I call it finally getting those two to stop dancing around each other."

Robby smiled to himself and went back to his keyboard. "About time," he said quietly.

*****

Jack had been reading for nearly an hour. The phantom pain had finally settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp relentless pulse that had haunted him all morning. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was finally getting some sleep.

His eyes drifted toward the front door.

Maybe it was because you'd stopped by.

The apartment was quiet. Until a key turned in the lock.

Jack looked up from his book. He set it aside, slipped on his prosthetic, and walked toward the door.

It opened, and the familiar scent of antiseptic reached him before you did.

"You're—"

Something barreled into his legs before he could finish.

"Woof!"

Jack looked down and laughed, low and genuine. "Hey, buddy." Riot's tail wagged so hard his entire body shook with it, his paws scrabbling against the floor in his enthusiasm to be as close to Jack as physically possible.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you. "He's sleeping over. Make sure you're not lonely." You reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears.

Jack smiled. "I think he's more worried about you than me."

"He has separation anxiety," you said, already turning back toward the hallway.

"You're not going to stay?"

You stopped. Turned around. "You want me to stay?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Well." He glanced down at Riot with the expression of a man constructing a reasonable argument in real time. "Riot kind of whines at night."

"You just said he has separation anxiety."

Both Jack and Riot looked up at you at exactly the same time, wearing identical expressions of patient expectation.

You sighed dramatically. Then leaned slightly to your left and pulled a duffel bag off your shoulder.

Jack blinked. "Wait. You prepared?"

You smirked. "I never said I was leaving."

Then you walked past him into the apartment like that explained everything. Jack stood there for a second, then closed the door behind you, chuckling quietly to himself.

"What do you want for dinner?"

You looked back over your shoulder. "Anything that isn't hospital food."

"I think I can manage that."

By the time evening settled outside, takeout containers covered the coffee table and Riot had already finished his dinner and relocated to the rug, sprawled out with one of his toys and the boneless contentment of an animal whose world was exactly as it should be. The television played quietly in the background.

Jack looked up from his food. "Robby gave me another day off."

"I know." You took another bite. "I asked him to."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because tomorrow is also my day off."

Silence. Jack stared at his dinner for a moment, then muttered mostly to himself, "Should I put in for sick leave more often?"

You looked at him over the rim of your drink. "I can still call Robby and tell him you're feeling much better."

Jack immediately shook his head. "Never mind."

The corner of your mouth lifted. "Thought so."

He smiled to himself and went back to his food. The takeout was decent, Riot was snoring softly on the rug, and the television was saying something neither of you were particularly listening to. Outside, the city moved through its evening the way it always did.

Inside, for the first time in a long while, the apartment didn't feel empty.

******

After dinner the apartment gradually grew quiet. Riot yawned first, which started a chain reaction. You stretched your arms above your head and looked toward the living room.

"I'll sleep on the couch."

"Nope."

You blinked. "Why not?"

Jack scratched the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than your face. "Because." He cleared his throat. "My bed is big enough." A pause. He looked up for half a second. "For the three of us."

Silence.

He immediately regretted how that had sounded. "I mean." He pointed at Riot, who had already wandered into the bedroom and was circling the foot of the bed with the focused intention of an animal who had already made his decision. "Riot slept beside me last time he was here."

"Oh." That was all you managed.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck again. "Just like the old days, right?" He gave you a small, almost shy smile, the kind that didn't show up often enough to be taken for granted.

"Yeah," you said softly. "Just like the old days."

You hoped he couldn't hear how hard your heart was suddenly beating.

FLASHBACK

The desert finally cooled after sunset. For the first time all day the air was almost pleasant, the kind of temperature that made you forget for twenty minutes how brutal the hours before it had been.

You were halfway across camp chasing a small blur of black fur. "Riot!"

The puppy ignored you completely and ran straight toward the familiar figure lying just beyond the barracks. 

Jack. 

He always ended his day there, flat on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars before turning in. It had become its own kind of ritual.

Tiny Riot launched himself directly onto Jack's chest.

"Oof." Jack laughed, low and easy. "Hey, buddy." The puppy licked his chin with great enthusiasm while Jack scratched behind his ears, and then he finally noticed you slowing to a stop beside them.

"Lose something?"

"I think he lost me," you said.

Jack chuckled. "Sounds about right."

You folded your arms. "I've been chasing him for ten minutes."

Riot barked, with the energy of an animal who considered this a personal achievement. Jack looked up at you. "You can sit."

You hesitated. "I don't want to interrupt."

"You'd be interrupting me staring at stars."

"Sounds important."

"It is."

That made you laugh. You lowered yourself onto the ground beside him and the warm sand shifted beneath you as you looked up. The night sky stretched endlessly above you both, more stars than you ever saw back home, the kind of sky that made problems feel a different size than they had in the tent.

"So." You broke the silence first. "What do you think about every night?"

Jack didn't answer immediately. "Nothing."

You turned your head. "You're lying."

"Mostly tomorrow," he admitted.

"Fair." You looked back up at the sky. Neither of you spoke for a while, and the silence wasn't awkward. It never really was with him, which was its own kind of thing you hadn't figured out what to do with yet.

"Well, well."

Diaz's voice cut through the quiet. Both of you turned. He was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, looking between you, Jack, and the tiny puppy now stretched contentedly across Jack's chest like he owned it. Then the grin spread across his face.

"Family night."

You rolled your eyes immediately. "We're not a family."

Diaz ignored this completely. He walked over and dropped onto the sand beside Jack with the ease of someone who had decided he was invited. He pointed at Jack. "You. The grumpy dad."

Jack sighed. "I'm already regretting you being here."

Diaz pointed at you. "You. Mom."

"What?"

"And Riot." He reached over and scratched the puppy's head. "The child."

Riot barked happily.

"There. He agrees."

"He absolutely does not," you muttered.

Diaz looked between the two of you with the satisfied expression of a man presenting a well-researched conclusion. "You know what's funny?"

Neither of you answered.

"You two always end up in the same place after every mission." He nodded toward the space between you. "Every single time."

Jack folded his hands back behind his head. "Coincidence."

"Mhm." Diaz nodded with great drama. "And the dog just happened to adopt both of you."

"Coincidence," Jack said again.

Diaz laughed. "Keep telling yourselves that."

You grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. It barely reached his boots. He looked down at it.

"That's all you've got?"

"I was aiming for your mouth."

Jack snorted. 

Diaz clutched his chest. "See?" He pointed at you. "Violence." Then at Jack. "Silence." Then he patted Riot one more time and looked at all three of you with the settled satisfaction of someone whose point had just been made for him.

"Family night," he said quietly, mostly to himself.

Nobody argued with him that time.

******

PRESENT TIME

Jack woke before sunrise.

For a brief moment he stayed still, letting the dream settle. Not the explosion. Not the blood. Before that. The quiet nights, you and Diaz and tiny Riot, small enough to fit comfortably in one arm, happily chewing on Jack's sleeve while the three of you lay beneath a sky full of more stars than any of you had time to count.

Funny. Back then all three of you had slept on hard ground without a single complaint.

Now Riot had claimed half the mattress and you were asleep beside him under a warm blanket, your breathing slow and even, your face completely relaxed in a way it rarely was during waking hours.

Life was strange.

Jack smiled to himself and quietly climbed out of bed.

A shower sounded like a good idea.

The sound of running water eventually stirred Riot awake. One oversized ear twitched. Then the other. He yawned dramatically, stretched his entire body from nose to tail, and then climbed across the mattress toward you with the purposeful energy of an animal who had decided you had slept long enough.

His cold nose nudged your cheek.

"Five more minutes," you mumbled.

"Woof."

"No."

Another nudge, more insistent this time.

"Traitor," you muttered into the pillow.

The bathroom door opened. Steam drifted out into the bedroom. Jack stepped through it with a towel slung around his neck and another wrapped low around his waist, rubbing damp hair with one hand, still half in his own head.

Still half asleep, your eyes wandered in his direction.

Your brain took an extra second to catch up with what your eyes were doing.

Jack caught you staring. A slow grin appeared, unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Enjoying the view?"

"What?" You blinked. Then registered exactly where your eyes had settled and looked away immediately. "Oh, please. I saw you like this all the time in the army."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" He tilted his head slightly. "So you've been noticing my body this whole time."

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. "How long are you planning to stand there half naked?"

He caught the pillow without effort. "I've been living alone for years." A shrug, entirely unrepentant. "I forgot people usually expect a warning."

Still quietly laughing to himself, he tossed the pillow back onto the bed, pulled a clean shirt from the wardrobe, and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.

The moment the door clicked shut you buried your face in both hands.

"Oh my God."

Your ears felt warm. Riot put his head in your lap, looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and wagged his tail once.

"Not a word," you told him.

He wagged again.

Inside the bathroom, Jack pulled his shirt over his head and looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. The smile refused to leave his face no matter how much he tried to dial it back into something more reasonable.

For once, getting teased hadn't been nearly as fun as doing the teasing.

*****

An hour later the three of you were walking through downtown Pittsburgh. Morning sunlight reflected off the glass buildings while Riot trotted ahead, occasionally glancing back to confirm both of you were still following, which you were.

Jack walked a few steps behind, quietly. He pulled out his phone and raised it.

Click.

You hadn't noticed. You were too busy watching Riot investigate every tree along the path with the focused dedication of a professional. Jack looked at the photo. You, Riot, morning sun, the coffee shop a few steps ahead. Good enough. He opened Instagram.

Jack slowed his pace a fraction, letting a little distance grow between you. He pulled out his phone, lifting the screen to frame the shot. The morning sunlight was hitting perfectly, catching you walking right beside Riot with your coffee clutched in your hand, the local café just ahead. It was perfect. He snapped the picture, opened Instagram, and after thinking for a quick second, he typed out a caption:

Morning walk with the family.

He hit post and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket. It buzzed almost immediately against his hip.

"Well, that was fast," he muttered to himself, pulling the device back out.

The notification was from a group chat titled The Pitt Crew, and the messages were already flying across the screen.

Princess: OH MY GOD.

Santos: JACK POSTED HER.

Whitaker: HE NEVER POSTS PEOPLE.

Princess: EXCEPT HIS DOG.

Shen: Correction.

Shen: Their dog.

Dana: Cute picture.

Robby: Morning, Jack.

Garcia: I see someone is enjoying his sick leave.

Princess: THEY WENT FOR COFFEE TOGETHER.

Santos: THIS ISN'T A DATE???

Shen: If that's not a date, then I'm a pediatrician.

Princess: YOU GUYS HAD A WHOLE SLEEPOVER DIDN'T YOU???

Jack didn't even hesitate. He tapped the text box and sent a single word.

Jack: Yes.

The chat group exploded instantly.

Princess: ????????????????

Whitaker: HE SAID YES SO CASUALLY.

Santos: I'M LOSING MY MIND.

Garcia: Called it.

Dana: I'm happy for you two.

Robby: Don't make me approve sick leave too often, Abbott.

Jack smiled to himself, a genuine chuckle escaping his throat, before he quietly locked the screen. Mission accomplished.

"What?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at him. "You've been smiling at your phone for the last minute."

Jack quickly slipped the device back into his pocket, falling back into step right beside you. "...Nothing."

He kept his face completely blank, but he knew that somewhere inside the emergency department, Princess had probably stopped working entirely just to process the fact that Jack Abbott had voluntarily admitted to a sleepover.

You knew he did something but you needed caffeine to interrogate him. So you stepped into the cafe. "Hi."

The barista smiled. "Morning. What can I get you?"

"Two lattes."

"Sure." He glanced at you again with the particular friendliness of someone who had decided to be more helpful than strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I've been busy."

"Hopefully we'll see you more often."

Before you could answer, Jack appeared beside you. Without a word he rested his hand lightly against the small of your back. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough to be obvious about something.

The barista noticed immediately.

Jack looked at you with complete seriousness. "Honey."

You froze.

"Our son is waiting outside."

Your brain short-circuited entirely. You turned slowly toward the barista. He looked equally confused, glancing between the two of you and the door beyond which a very large German Shepherd was visible through the glass.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds.

Then the barista slid the drinks across the counter with the energy of someone who had decided not to ask. "Here's your two lattes."

"Thank you." You grabbed both cups and escaped the café before anything else could happen.

Outside, Riot greeted you both with an enthusiastic bark. You looked at Jack.

"You could've just said dog."

Jack stopped walking. A pause. "Oh."

He looked genuinely like he had just realized something. "You're right. I didn't think of that."

You clicked your tongue. Sometimes he was unbelievably childish for a man his age.

Jack took a long sip of his coffee. "I'll never go there again."

"You were the problem."

"I know."

"You were grumpy."

"I'm always grumpy."

"You were worse than usual."

Jack shrugged with complete serenity. "My therapist told me I find comfort in darkness." He sipped his coffee again. "Her words."

You laughed despite yourself. "You actually listened to your therapist."

"I occasionally surprise people."

Your phone vibrated before you could respond. Clark. You answered. "Morning."

"I called the hospital." His voice was alert in that particular way that meant he already knew something. "They told me both you and Abbot have the day off."

"That's right."

"Perfect." He didn't give you time to ask why. "Come to my place. Now."

The call ended.

Jack glanced over. "Who was that?"

"Clark." You slipped the phone back into your pocket. "He wants us at his place."

Jack looked at Riot, then back at the street ahead with a smile already settling onto his face. "Oh." He reached down and scratched behind Riot's ears. "This is gonna be fun."

“Woof!” Riot barked like he completely agreed.

*******

Clark's house sat on the edge of town. Or rather, estate. You slowed the car as the wrought iron gate opened automatically, your eyes following the long driveway up toward the house.

"I knew Clark was rich," you said slowly. "But this?"

Jack looked out the window without much surprise. "He buys land every time he has extra money." He nodded toward an empty field visible beyond the tree line. "Says it's the safest investment."

"He's terrifying."

"I've been saying that for years."

By the time you parked, the front door had already opened. Clark stepped outside with his coffee mug in hand, unhurried, the way a man moved when he owned the ground he was standing on.

"There you are."

Riot was out of the car before anyone else, sprinting across the driveway with the full commitment of an animal reuniting with someone important.

"Woof!"

Clark crouched with a grin that took ten years off his face. "And you too, little guy." He scratched behind Riot's ears while the dog tried to climb into his lap. "Good to see you, soldier."

Jack climbed out and stretched. "What are we doing here, old man?"

Clark looked him up and down. "Grumpy in the morning?"

"I mentioned that to him," you offered.

Clark glanced at you. "So you did." Then his eyes moved between the two of you with the slow assessment of someone taking inventory. "How did the three of you end up together?"

Jack answered before you could. "They slept at my place."

Silence.

You turned toward Jack slowly. His expression was completely neutral, which meant he had not yet processed what he had just said out loud to a man who noticed everything.

Clark stared at both of you for exactly two seconds.

Then he burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep and didn't apologize for itself. He slapped Jack's shoulder hard enough to mean it. "Finally!"

You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my God."

Jack frowned. "What?"

Clark was still laughing, wiping the corner of his eye with his thumb. "Nothing, nothing."

"I meant." Jack pointed at you. "And the dog." He gestured at Riot, who was sitting at Clark's feet looking extremely pleased with the current energy. "All three of us. In the apartment."

Clark nodded slowly, composing himself with great effort. "Oh, I know what you meant. Eventually."

He turned back toward the house, shoulders still shaking, coffee mug raised like a toast to no one in particular.

Jack stood in the driveway looking at the back of his head. Then at you.

You looked at him over your hands.

Neither of you said anything.

Riot wagged his tail.

Clark's smile slowly faded. "It's about my grandson."

You frowned. "What about him?"

"An idiot." He took a sip of his coffee. "He's making videos. The dangerous kind. Climbing buildings, hanging off bridges, jumping between rooftops. Anything people apparently call content these days."

"I've seen a few of them," you admitted. "He has more followers than doctor J."

Jack turned toward you. "You knew about this but you didn't know about my recent updates?"

"What updates?"

He looked at you with mild offense. You pulled out your phone, frowning. Truthfully, ever since Jack's Instagram story had sent half the hospital into full detective mode, you had muted most of your notifications. The daily Pitt group chat was already enough to manage. You preferred not looking at your phone unless absolutely necessary.

You opened Instagram.

Your eyes widened. "Jack."

He looked completely innocent. "Hm?"

"You tagged me."

"So?"

"You posted my picture."

"So?"

"And." You scrolled. "There are four hundred comments."

Jack shrugged. "I didn't count."

"Jack!"

Clark took a long sip of his coffee. "Ah." He nodded to himself with the satisfaction of someone watching something he had predicted arrive exactly on schedule. "There it is. Another married couple argument."

Jack answered immediately. "We're not married."

"You keep saying that," Clark said pleasantly.

Before either of you could continue, a voice came from the front porch.

"Grandpa?"

All three of you turned.

A teenage boy walked out of the house. Tall, curly dark hair, a hoodie despite the warmth of the morning, a camera hanging around his neck like it belonged there. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never once entered a room quietly in his life.

Clark sighed. "My idiot grandson. Michael."

Michael walked over with a grin already in place and offered his hand first. "So you guys are the famous army people."

You shook it. "Nice to meet you."

Jack did the same. "You must've done something impressive if Clark dragged both of us out here."

Michael laughed and casually wrapped an arm around Clark's shoulders. "Aww, Grandpa." He bumped him once. "I prefer creative problem solver."

Clark looked at the sky briefly. "I prefer future heart attack."

Michael grinned. "Relax." Another easy bump of his shoulder. "I'm too pretty to die."

Silence.

Jack's smile disappeared. Your expression went still. Clark looked slowly between the two of you, reading the quiet that had settled over both of you in the span of one sentence.

Because that was exactly something Gabriel Diaz would have said. The phrasing, the delivery, the complete and unearned confidence of it. Every single time, without fail, said with that same grin like the universe had personally guaranteed him an exemption.

Michael noticed the shift immediately, his smile fading slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"

Clark placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder. "No," he said quietly. "You just reminded us of someone."

Michael looked between you and Jack, reading the room the way young people did when they understood more than adults expected them to. He didn't push. He just nodded once and let it sit.

Riot chose that moment to shove his nose into Michael's hand, which broke the spell faster than anything else could have.

Michael looked down. "Oh, he's huge."

"His name is Riot," you said.

Michael crouched immediately, and Riot, who had excellent judgment about people, wagged his tail and leaned into him without hesitation.

Clark cleared his throat. "He's planning to jump his dirt bike across the old service bridge over Miller Creek." He pointed toward a wooded area beyond the property line. "The county closed it years ago."

You frowned. "Because it's unstable?"

"Exactly."

Michael waved a hand. "I'm not riding on the bridge." He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences a personal concern. "I'm jumping over the broken section."

You stared at him. "That somehow sounds worse."

"There'll be professionals there."

Clark snorted. "Professional idiots."

"They know what they're doing."

Jack folded his arms. "If you're looking for the fastest route to the trauma bay," he said calmly, "that's a solid plan."

Michael laughed. "You guys make it sound like I'm guaranteed to crash."

"No," Jack said. "We're saying you'll crash eventually. The question is whether you want to do it on your terms or the bridge's terms."

"Optimistic."

"Experienced."

Michael lifted both hands in surrender and looked around at the three of you with theatrical defeat. "I've officially been outnumbered." Then his eyes landed on Riot sitting patiently at the edge of the driveway, and his entire face changed.

"Whoa." He pulled the camera from around his neck immediately. "Now that's content." He crouched beside Riot, who tilted his head with the regal patience of an animal accustomed to being admired. Michael started recording, angling the lens carefully.

"Morning, everyone." He turned the camera toward Riot. "I just met the CEO of emotional support."

“Woof!” Riot barked once, sharp and clear.

"Oh, you've got opinions too?" Michael looked delighted. "Valid. Completely valid."

Clark clicked his tongue. "You see? Nothing gets through that thick skull." He watched his grandson talk earnestly to a German Shepherd on camera. "I don't know where he gets it from."

Jack watched quietly for a moment, then said, "He got it from you."

Clark looked genuinely offended. "I have never done anything that stupid in my life."

You and Jack turned toward him at exactly the same time. "Really?"

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked between the two of you, then at Michael still filming Riot with complete artistic commitment, then back at you.

"I walked into that one," he said.

"Completely," Jack agreed.

Clark took a long sip of his coffee and said nothing further, which was its own kind of answer.

******

Michael led them around the side of the house to where his setup was laid out with the organized precision of someone who had thought about this for longer than anyone around him was comfortable with.

"Two cameras," he said, pointing. "GoPro mounted on the helmet, second angle from the side. Drone for the overhead shot." He moved along the lineup. "Spotter positioned at the far end of the bridge. Medical kit, fully stocked. Fire extinguisher. Helmet, obviously." He paused for effect. "And I hired two licensed motocross riders to consult on the jump trajectory."

You and Jack looked at each other.

Then back at the setup.

Then at each other again.

"Still a terrible idea," you both said at exactly the same time.

Michael blinked. "Seriously? Even with all of that?"

Jack shrugged. "Preparation doesn't make a bad decision good."

You nodded. "It just makes it organized."

Michael stared at the two of you. "Do you practice being like this or does it just happen naturally?"

"Experience," Jack said.

"Years of it," you confirmed.

Michael exhaled dramatically and turned back to his equipment. "I just need one video. One that actually blows up. If it does, I could get sponsored. Monster, Red Bull, Fox, anyone. That's all I need."

Jack deadpanned, "Or UPMC Trauma."

You added, "They'll definitely know your name."

Michael groaned. "You two are impossible." He turned toward Clark, who was standing back with his coffee mug and the expression of a man enjoying this far more than he was letting on. "Grandpa. Are you absolutely sure these two aren't married?"

Clark didn't even look at him. "This isn't about them. It's about you."

Michael sighed like this was deeply unfair.

He walked them back to the driveway when it was time to leave, hands in his hoodie pockets, Riot trotting beside him like they had been friends for years.

Jack stopped at the car door. "One piece of advice."

Michael looked up. "Hm?"

"You're still young. You've got plenty of time to do stupid things. So don't rush all of them into this year."

Michael laughed, genuine and easy. "I'll think about it."

You stepped slightly closer. "Promise me you'll walk away if something feels wrong. Even if the cameras are rolling and everyone's watching. Just walk away."

Michael looked at you for a second, something in his expression shifting into something more honest than the performance he'd been giving all morning. "You sound like Grandpa."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He smiled. "I'll be careful."

You both nodded. You both also knew exactly what teenagers meant when they said that, which was roughly the same thing soldiers meant when they said easy mission. But you let it stand, because some things needed to be said out loud even when everyone in the conversation understood their limitations.

Michael scratched Riot behind the ears one last time and headed back toward the house. Clark lifted his mug from the porch in a small farewell salute.

************

The drive back was quiet. Just the radio, low enough to be background noise, and trees passing steadily outside the windows.

Then, softly, you said, "He reminds me of Diaz."

Jack didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I saw it too."

A pause settled between you, unhurried and familiar.

"The jokes," Jack said. "The confidence. The way he talks like he's figured something out that everyone else missed."

"The way he thinks he's invincible," you added quietly.

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Scared the hell out of me," Jack said.

You nodded slowly. Outside the window the trees kept passing, steady and indifferent, and neither of you spoke again for a long time. The radio filled the space and that was enough.

************

A few hours after leaving Clark's house, you finally made it back to your apartment. The place was quiet. It was too quiet. Riot was fast asleep near the couch, completely exhausted from all the excitement of the evening, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

For some reason, your eyes drifted toward the desk in the corner of the room, specifically toward the bottom drawer.

The drawer. The one you almost never opened. The one that held things you simply weren't ready for.

You stared at it, then looked away, trying to shake the sudden impulse. Then your gaze locked back onto it. Years. It had been years, yet somehow, you already knew exactly what was inside.

Slowly, you crossed the room and pulled the drawer open. The old wooden box was exactly where you had left it, with dust resting lightly across the surface of the lid. Your fingers hesitated in the air, trembling slightly, before you finally lifted it out. Inside sat old photographs, a few faded military patches, a silver collar pin, and a single envelope. Your name was written across the front in Gabriel's unmistakable handwriting.

The mere sight of it still hurt. You swallowed hard, pulling out a chair and sitting down as the apartment suddenly felt very small and very quiet. You carefully broke the seal, unfolded the crisp paper, and began to read.

If you're reading this... well. Congratulations. I'm dead.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, a breathless sound breaking the quiet. Of course. Of course that was exactly how he started it.

Which, if we're being honest, is a terrible deal for me. So I'd appreciate it if you're appropriately devastated for at least a month. Longer if you actually liked me.

You rolled your eyes despite yourself, your vision already blurring as tears welled in the corners of your eyes.

First things first. Abbott still owes me twenty bucks. Death does NOT erase debt. Tell him I'll haunt him every payday until he coughs it up.

A real laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. You could practically hear Gabriel's voice saying the words aloud in the room.

Actually... you know what my biggest regret is? Not taking enough pictures. I always said "later." Then one day... there wasn't one. So if life teaches you anything... take the stupid picture. Even if your hair looks terrible. Even if Abbott is making one of those grumpy faces. Especially then.

Your chest tightened painfully because suddenly you thought about the photograph sitting on Jack's coffee table, the one he still kept, the one you almost never allowed yourself to think about anymore.

Second biggest regret? Never getting to annoy you and Abbott after you two finally admitted whatever the hell this thing is between you.

You immediately groaned, burying your face in your free hand. "Oh my God."

Yeah. Don't look so surprised. I knew. Clark knew. Half the camp knew. You two had the emotional communication skills of wet cardboard. You argued like an old married couple, then stared at each other when the other wasn't looking. It was painful. Seriously. Just kiss already. Or yell. Honestly, I don't think either of you knows the difference.

You covered your burning face completely, your voice cracking. "Idiot."

Anyway... I know you. Which means if something happened to me... you're probably blaming yourself.

The brief smile vanished from your face.

So let me save you some time. No. You don't get to do that. You hear me? You don't.

The written words hit harder than you ever expected because somehow, he still knew you. Even then, even before everything actually happened.

You gave me more time than I should've had. Out here... most of us don't get miracles. I did. Because of you. You fought for me when everyone else would've accepted the outcome. Even when it wasn't enough... you still fought.

The tears came freely before you even realized it, one hot drop and then another falling directly onto the paper, wrinkling the ink.

So don't spend the rest of your life treating yourself like punishment. You already carried enough. Go live. Run those ridiculous races you keep talking about. Keep making Abbott roll his eyes. And when he inevitably says something stupid... yell at him. You seem weirdly good at that.

A broken laugh escaped you, wiping a wet cheek with your shoulder because he wasn't wrong.

Take care of Riot. Actually... spoil him. He deserves it. Just don't let him get fat. Clark will blame you.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, then kept reading.

One more thing. If years from now... Abbott still looks at you the way he does now... for the love of God... just marry the man.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Life's already too short. Don't waste whatever time you've got pretending you don't feel something. You both deserve something good after all this. And if Abbott somehow manages to screw it up... tell him I can still haunt him. Twenty bucks first. Then haunting. Forever your favorite extremely annoying, non-blood-related big brother, Gabriel Diaz.

At the very bottom, written in much smaller handwriting, was one final line.

P.S. If you're crying while reading this, that's embarrassing. Drink some water.

You stared at the tiny script, then laughed. You actually laughed right through your tears, exactly the way Gabriel would have wanted you to. And for the very first time in years, the crushing weight of the guilt felt just a little bit lighter.

You folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, handling the paper as if creasing it the wrong way would mean losing him all over again. The apartment fell completely quiet, with only Riot's soft, rhythmic breathing filling the space. Your thumb brushed across Gabriel's signature one last time, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

"...Idiot," you murmured, your voice cracking anyway. For years, you had carried the crushing weight of guilt, believing it was the only way to honor his memory. But looking down at the worn paper, you realized you might have been completely wrong.

Your eyes drifted toward the dark window, watching the city lights flicker outside. Without meaning to, another face materialized in your thoughts. 

Jack. Grumpy, sarcastic, and annoyingly persistent Jack. You remembered the exact look he had given you this afternoon when he thought you were leaving his side. 

You're not going to stay? 

You thought of the quiet, unexpected way he had handed you his spare key, his confession that he still kept the old photograph on his coffee table, and the comforting weight of his head resting against your shoulder without asking for a single thing in return.

You closed your eyes, letting the memory settle. Gabriel had been entirely right, not just about Jack, but about you, too. You had spent years trying to outrun your grief by training, working, and taking every extra shift available. 

You ran every exhausting race and took on every impossible medical case, acting as if staying constantly busy meant you never had to stop long enough to actually miss the people you lost.

And somehow, Jack had done the exact same thing. You had taken entirely different roads, but you had both arrived at the same lonely destination. Alone.

You let out a slow, quiet breath into the stillness of the room. "...Maybe..." You whispered it so softly that even you almost didn't hear it. "...Maybe we don't have to anymore."

You carefully tucked the letter back inside its envelope. This time, you didn't hide the box at the very bottom of the dark drawer under layers of old gear. You closed the drawer and left it sitting right on top, out in the open.

********

The next morning, you stepped into the hospital lobby with your usual cup of coffee clutched tightly in your hand. It didn't even take five seconds for the trap to spring.

"There she is."

Dana's voice echoed across the corridor. Of course. You let out a long, heavy sigh and adjusted your grip on your cup before facing her. "...Good morning?"

Princess looked up from behind the nurses' station, her lips curving into a grin that immediately made you deeply suspicious. "So."

"So?" you countered, keeping your expression blank.

"How was your day off?"

"Quiet."

Robby let out a loud snort, not even pretending to look at the chart in his hands. "Sure it was."

You narrowed your eyes at him, stepping closer to the desk. "What exactly does that mean?"

Dana leaned her elbows against the laminate counter, her eyes gleaming with pure delight. "It means..." She looked around the hallway dramatically, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. "...we all know you spent it with Abbott."

You blinked once, the realization hitting you with a dull thud. "...News really does travel fast in this place."

Princess laughed, tapping her phone screen. "Jack literally posted you on his Instagram story."

You closed your eyes for a brief moment of pure defeat. "I knew I should've confiscated his phone."

Robby chuckled, pointing the tip of his pen directly at you. "So... how was the sleepover?"

"It was fine," you said flatly.

Dana raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Just fine?"

"Riot snored."

"That's not what I asked."

You took another slow, deliberate sip of your coffee to buy yourself some time. "Then I'm choosing not to answer."

The entire nurses' station groaned in unison.

Another doctor walked past the desk, carrying a stack of patient files under his arm. "You people actually have patients to care for, you know."

Dana didn't even bother to look at him, waving a hand dismissively. "This is important medical sociology."

"It really isn't."

Princess folded her arms over her scrubs, tilting her head. "I just want official confirmation."

"There is absolutely nothing to confirm."

Robby’s smile widened, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "So you’re saying you didn’t sleep in the same bed?"

You stopped, staring dead at him with your most formidable surgeon expression. "...Robby."

"What?"

"I am this close to making a complaint to the HR."

The station erupted into loud laughter, the tension breaking instantly. Even the passing staff couldn't help but smile into their charts.

"You all have way too much free time," you muttered, shaking your head as you turned on your heel and headed toward the elevators.

Behind you, Dana cupped her hands around her mouth and called out into the hallway, "Tell Abbott we miss him!"

You lifted one hand, raising a single finger without turning around to face them. "I won't."

Once you stepped out onto the upper floors, the teasing finally stopped, and the familiar, demanding rhythm of your department took over completely.

The hours slipped by the way they always did in medicine, measuring one patient at a time, one critical decision after another. By mid-afternoon, you had almost forgotten about the morning's gossip.

Then, your pager vibrated violently against your hip at the exact same moment your phone began to ring in your pocket. You pulled it out and answered immediately.

You answered immediately. "Dr. L/N."

"Doc." It was Robby on the other end. His voice sounded entirely different than usual, carrying a steady, measured calmness that stood out against the loud chaos of the emergency room around him. That lack of panic somehow made your stomach drop instantly.

"We've got a major trauma downstairs," he said.

You were already adjusting your phone against your ear, reaching for the back of your chair to grab your white coat. "I'm on my way."

A brief pause hung on the line. "There's something else."

Your hand froze on the fabric of your coat. "What is it?"

"The patient specifically asked for you."

Your eyebrows pulled together, a deep frown forming as you quickly ran through your current patient roster in your head. "...Asked for me?"

"He knew your exact name," Robby confirmed.

Silence stretched over the line for a second. You searched your memory as fast as you could, but there were no scheduled transfers, no complex follow-ups, and absolutely no former patients you were expecting to arrive through the ambulance bay today.

"I don't recognize the name on the intake," Robby continued, his tone shifting into something a bit more guarded. "But whatever this is, he was pretty insistent before he lost consciousness."

The skin on the back of your neck prickled, a sudden tightness gripping your throat. "I'll be down there in two minutes."

You ended the call, snapping your phone shut. Without another word of explanation, you shoved your current patient's chart directly into the hands of the nearest resident standing beside you. "Cover the rest of my rounds. Call me if anyone crashes."

Then you were already moving, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you pushed through the heavy double doors of the ward. You hit the down button on the lift panel repeatedly, your chest tightening further when the numbers slowly clicked down from the top floor. The lift couldn't come fast enough.

You pushed through the heavy double doors leading into the Emergency Department. The closer you got to the central trauma bay, the louder the room became.

"Blood pressure's dropping!" Princess shouted, already hanging another bag of fluids.

"Another large-bore IV!" Whitaker was squeezing past the respiratory therapist with an ultrasound machine.

"Move him on three, watch his neck!" Dana was cutting away the remaining sleeve of the motorcycle jacket while Santos held manual stabilization at his head.

The familiar chaos wrapped around you like an old blanket. Except, the moment you reached the edge of the trauma bay, you stopped dead in your tracks.

"...Michael?" Your voice barely came out.

Robby looked up from the opposite side of the stretcher, his expression immediately softening as he saw you. "I'm glad you're here."

Only then did you look down at the gurney. Michael was completely covered in dirt. Savage road rash stretched across his shoulder and chest where his motorcycle jacket had already been cut away. His helmet lay in two broken pieces on the floor. His left forearm bent at an angle it never should, and blood continued running from a deep laceration across his forehead, soaking the padding beneath his cervical collar.

Despite everything, he was still awake. His eyes found yours, and then, somehow, he smiled. "...Hey, Doc."

Your chest tightened painfully. You were beside him before you even realized you had moved, your hands automatically checking his vitals. "What happened?"

Dana answered while checking the monitor. "Motorcycle jump."

Whitaker glanced up from the ultrasound screen. "He lost control on the landing. Hit the guardrail."

You closed your eyes for half a second. Of course he did.

Michael let out the weakest laugh before immediately wincing in agony. "...Turns out... Grandpa was right."

You wanted to yell at him right then and there. Instead, your medical training took over, and your hands moved automatically through the practiced sequence.

Pupils. Airway. Breathing. Pulse.

His breathing wasn't right. It was far too fast, far too shallow. You looked sharply across the stretcher toward Robby. "What do we know?"

"Not enough," Robby replied, his brow furrowed as he managed the lines. "Trauma scans are being prepared right now. We're still working him up."

Princess glanced toward the monitor, her voice tight. "Pressure's still dropping."

Santos looked over from the head of the bed, maintaining manual stabilization. "He's becoming harder to keep comfortable."

Nobody needed to say it out loud. The room was moving faster now, the clinical urgency shifting into overdrive. Everyone in the bay could feel it.

You gently squeezed Michael's good shoulder, trying to anchor him. "I'll be right outside."

As you turned to step away, his fingers wrapped weakly around your wrist. "...Don't."

You stopped, looking back at him. "...Don't what?"

"...Don't tell Grandpa. Please."

You stared at him, your heart aching. "...Michael."

"I mean it." His breathing caught, a flash of pure panic breaking through his fading adrenaline. "I don't want him worrying."

For just a second, the reckless teenager completely disappeared. All you saw was a scared kid. All you saw was Clark's grandson.

You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. "...I'll be right back."

He slowly let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the mattress.

The moment you stepped outside the frantic noise of the trauma bay, you reached into your scrubs for your phone. The first person you called was Jack.

He answered almost immediately, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Morning."

"...Jack."

That was all it took. The raw tone of your voice changed his demeanor instantly. "...What happened?"

"...It's Michael."

A heavy silence dropped over the line. Then, Jack spoke. "...Where?"

There were no questions, no hesitation, and no demands for details. Just a sharp, directive query. On his end of the line, you could already hear drawers opening and the frantic jingle of keys. Then came the sharp, familiar click of his prosthetic leg moving at a dead sprint against his hardwood floor.

"The Pitt," you replied.

"I'm coming." The line went dead.

You immediately dialed Clark's number. The phone rang twice before the old man's deep voice answered. "...Kid?"

You closed your eyes, leaning your head against the cool hospital wall. "...Michael's at the Pitt."

A silence followed, long and heavy enough to hurt. Then Clark quietly asked the only question that mattered. "...How bad?"

A/N: Hello, everyone! Sorry for not updating Jack Abbot - Keep Up last week. I had another business trip, and this week I have another one too. It was so sudden. I only found out after lunch.

To make up for it, I made Chapter 7 longer. I hope you guys enjoy it!

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