#work crush

Parker lifted her head slowly, although she made no attempt to remove them. “My costume is a woman who has learned the consequences of trusting a bartender named Cody.”

“Cody warned you that the last shot was a bad idea, and then he physically moved the bottle away when you tried to order another one.”

“He lacked conviction,” she replied, reaching for her coffee and taking a cautious sip. Her face immediately tightened as though she had expected it to taste like something other than the drink she had purchased. “Besides, I was celebrating.”

“You were trying to convince a parking meter to play country music.”

“It was being difficult.”

“It was a fire hydrant, Parker.”

She lowered her sunglasses just enough to look at you over the top of the frames. “You promised that what happened Saturday night would remain between friends.”

“I promised the Uber driver that I would leave him a good rating. You and I made no such agreement.”

A tired laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and she immediately pressed two fingers to her temple as though the sound had worsened her headache. “You are entirely too cheerful for someone who drank an Old Fashioned like it had personally insulted her.”

“It did personally insult me, which is why I had to finish it. Texans do not surrender to beverages.”

“I remember,” Parker said, and the slow smile that spread across her face warned you that the conversation had taken a dangerous turn. “I also remember you dancing with Abbott.”

You reached for your coffee with deliberate calm, refusing to provide the reaction she clearly wanted. “I danced with several people.”

“You danced near several people. You danced with Abbott.”

“I dragged a reluctant coworker onto a dance floor for approximately forty seconds.”

“You held hands.”

“That is traditionally how one prevents an inexperienced dancer from wandering into traffic.”

Parker pushed the sunglasses onto the top of her head, apparently deciding that the possibility of gossip was worth confronting the lights. “You also called him Jack when you got into the Uber.”

“I call him Jack occasionally.”

“You call him Abbott, and you only call him Jack when you’re trying to get his attention or when one of you is being strangely sincere.”

“You were nearly asleep.”

“I was not asleep. I was resting my eyes while gathering evidence.”

“You drooled on the window.”

“That has no bearing on the accuracy of my observations.”

Before she could continue building her case, Santos appeared from the staff hallway carrying a travel mug and a paper bag from the bakery near the hospital. Unlike Parker, she looked well rested, alert, and far too pleased with herself for someone who had attended the same party.

You glanced at the clock and then back toward her. “What are you doing here?”

Santos placed the bag on the counter and began removing pastries. “Covering for Rivera. Her daughter is sick, and apparently I have a serious problem with saying no when someone mentions overtime.”

Parker looked toward her with open suspicion. “You volunteered to work a Halloween night shift?”

“I agreed to cover part of one.”

“That is not normal behavior.”

“Neither is attempting to order an Uber through a weather app, yet here you are.”

Parker straightened in her chair. “The icons are unnecessarily similar.”

“One is a cloud,” you reminded her.

“Cars can drive beneath clouds.”

Santos stared at Parker for several seconds before sliding a pastry toward you. “Has she been like this all evening?”

“She was worse Saturday.”

Parker accepted a pastry despite being the subject of the conversation. “I was delightful on Saturday.”

“You accused a plastic skeleton of judging your life choices.”

“It was staring.”

Santos laughed as she leaned against the counter, and Parker’s attention sharpened with renewed purpose. “You left early with Robby.”

Santos paused while opening the paper sleeve around her pastry, although the hesitation was brief enough that anyone who did not know her might have missed it. “Robby walked me home because my apartment was three blocks away and he was heading in the same direction.”

Parker turned slowly toward you, her expression brightening. “Apparently everyone had a romantic evening except me.”

“You spent part of yours arguing with a parking meter,” you reminded her.

“Fire hydrant,” Santos corrected.

“That distinction is not helping.”

“It helps me.”

The three of you were still laughing when Abbott appeared at the far end of the station with a tablet tucked beneath one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. He wore navy scrubs beneath a dark jacket, and his expression carried the familiar concentration of someone who had already begun organizing the shift before anyone else had finished waking up.

Parker watched him approach before settling her sunglasses back over her eyes. “Good evening, Fred Astaire.”

Abbott stopped beside the counter and looked at her for a long moment. “You appear to be suffering enough without my participation.”

“I am recovering.”

“From what?”

“Friendship.”

“That seems unlikely.”

He placed his coffee beside the computer and glanced toward the cardboard skeleton sitting next to Parker. “Who is this?”

“Management,” Santos answered. “We asked for additional coverage tonight, but it has been unresponsive.”

Abbott examined the badge taped across the skeleton’s ribs before nodding once. “Accurate.”

Parker pointed toward him triumphantly. “You see? This is what happens when you socialize. You start making jokes.”

“I have always made jokes.”

“No, you make observations that accidentally become funny.”

“That sounds like a distinction you invented.”

“It is a very important distinction.”

His attention moved toward you, and something in his expression softened before he lifted his coffee in greeting. “Evening, Trouble.”

The nickname was familiar within the hospital, but after hearing it outside the bar, you could no longer pretend it landed exactly the same way. You wrapped both hands around your coffee and forced yourself not to look toward Parker, whose attention you could feel shifting eagerly between the two of you.

“Evening, Jack.”

Parker made a quiet noise of satisfaction from behind her sunglasses.

Abbott’s gaze shifted toward her. “Do you need medical attention?”

“I need everyone to stop pretending I’m imagining things.”

“You are wearing sunglasses indoors and sitting beside a skeleton.”

“The skeleton understands me.”

“The skeleton has better judgment.”

Santos covered her laugh with her travel mug while Parker announced that she regretted ever encouraging Abbott to develop a personality. Jack ignored her and opened the patient board, although the faint curve of his mouth remained visible as he reviewed the waiting room.

For several minutes, the beginning of the shift unfolded with deceptive normalcy. The day staff delivered reports and began collecting their belongings, Santos checked the assignment board to see where she was needed, and Parker reluctantly removed her sunglasses after admitting that they made reading nearly impossible. The waiting room was already crowded with injuries accumulated during the first few hours of trick-or-treating, including a college student who had glued plastic fangs to his teeth and a man dressed as a pirate who insisted the swelling around his eye had nothing to do with the decorative sword hanging from his belt.

You had just begun reading the chart of a woman who believed she had swallowed part of a glow stick when the charge nurse’s radio crackled from across the station. The lingering amusement disappeared from her expression as she listened to the information coming through her earpiece.

“Trauma activation in five minutes,” she called, and the department shifted around her before she had finished speaking. “Twenty-seven-year-old male with a penetrating injury to the upper thigh. Significant bleeding controlled with a tourniquet. Blood pressure is stable for now.”

Abbott had already set down his coffee and started toward the trauma bay. “What caused the injury?”

The charge nurse listened for another moment, and her expression became increasingly difficult to interpret. “A crossbow.”

Parker slowly lowered the sunglasses she had only just removed from her face. “A what?”

“A crossbow bolt went through his thigh during an accident at a haunted house. EMS says the projectile is still in place.”

The station fell silent for exactly one second before everyone began moving.

You followed Abbott toward the trauma bay, pulling your hair back more securely as you walked. “Please tell me he wasn’t dressed as a cowboy.”

Jack glanced toward you without slowing. “Would that make the injury worse?”

“No, but Parker would never let me recover.”

Behind you, Parker called out that she had heard the comment and intended to remain at the hospital long enough to inspect the costume personally. Santos followed her toward the trauma bay, tying back her hair as she walked and asking which position needed coverage.

The ambulance sirens became audible beyond the bay doors, growing louder as the team gathered around the empty stretcher. Abbott took his position on one side while you stepped into yours, the easy humor of the evening giving way to the precise focus you shared whenever a patient’s life depended on what happened next.

The doors opened, and the paramedics rolled in a pale, frightened man wearing blood-soaked medieval armor, a plastic crown, and enough fake chain mail to complicate every medical decision waiting for you.

One paramedic guided the stretcher while the other kept a hand near the embedded crossbow bolt. “Haunted castle employee,” he explained. “He was playing the king.”

The patient turned his head weakly toward Abbott. “It was supposed to be a prop.”

Jack looked at the bolt protruding through the metal costume and into the man’s thigh before meeting your eyes across the stretcher.

“Apparently,” he said as he reached for his gloves, “it wasn’t.”

The paramedics transferred the man onto the trauma bed with painstaking care, keeping the injured leg supported while everyone else worked around the crossbow bolt protruding from his upper thigh. Up close, the costume was even more elaborate than it had appeared from across the bay. Layers of fake chain mail had been strapped over a padded tunic, a velvet cape was tangled beneath his shoulders, and the plastic crown remained crookedly wedged into his damp hair as though no one had possessed either the time or the heart to remove it. Blood had soaked through the silver fabric around his leg, turning the cheap material dark and heavy, while the wooden shaft extended several inches from either side of his thigh.

Abbott moved to the head of the bed as the monitors were connected, his voice calm enough to give the frightened man something steady to follow. “I’m Dr. Abbott, and this is Dr. Henson. We’re going to take care of you, but I need you to stay as still as possible while we assess where the bolt went.”

The patient’s eyes moved between the two of you, wide beneath the stage makeup someone had used to age his face. “You’re not going to pull it out, are you?”

“No,” you assured him as you reached for the trauma shears, although the question made Parker stop beside the medication cart and glance toward you with concern. “The bolt may be helping control the bleeding, so it stays exactly where it is until we know what structures are involved.”

The man released a trembling breath, his fingers closing around the edge of the mattress. “The paramedic said the same thing, but then he also said he’d never seen this before, which wasn’t very comforting.”

“That is because most haunted houses use rubber weapons,” Abbott replied while checking the monitor. “Apparently, yours has a more ambitious safety program.”

Despite his fear, the patient managed a short, breathless laugh, although the movement caused him to tense around the injury. The monitor showed a rapid heart rate, but his pressure remained stable, and the tourniquet high on his thigh appeared to have slowed the bleeding without stopping circulation entirely. Santos positioned herself beside Parker, preparing medications while you and Abbott examined the wound from opposite sides.

“Can you tell me your name?” you asked as you began cutting through the costume carefully, following the seams rather than risking movement near the bolt.

“Evan.”

“All right, Evan. Do you know what happened?”

“I was standing on the platform in the throne room, and one of the knights was supposed to shoot past me into a target behind the wall.” His voice shook as he spoke, although concentrating on the explanation seemed to give him some relief from the panic. “We’ve done it every night this month, except tonight someone switched the prop crossbow with the display one from the lobby.”

Parker looked up from the medication tray. “Your haunted house keeps a functional crossbow in the lobby?”

“It’s part of the medieval weapons exhibit.”

Santos stared at him. “Your haunted house has a medieval weapons exhibit?”

“It’s supposed to be educational.”

Abbott glanced toward the wooden shaft lodged through Evan’s thigh. “I suspect tonight’s lesson will be memorable.”

You concealed your smile by lowering your attention to the costume, although the absurdity of the situation was difficult to ignore. The chain mail was not metal, as you had feared, but thick plastic rings stitched over fabric, and the trauma shears cut through it with enough resistance that Parker was forced to hold the material away from the wound. Beneath the costume, the bolt had entered through the outer portion of Evan’s upper thigh and emerged along the inner side, narrowly missing the groin but passing close enough to the femoral vessels that no one in the room was willing to call him lucky yet.

“Distal pulse?” Abbott asked.

You placed two fingers over the artery at Evan’s ankle and felt a steady rhythm beneath the skin. “Present, although slightly weaker than the other side. His foot is warm, and capillary refill is under three seconds.”

“Can you move your toes for me?” Abbott asked.

Evan flexed them with visible effort.

“Any numbness or tingling?”

“Not numb,” he answered, swallowing hard. “It feels like my entire leg is on fire.”

“That is understandable,” you said, looking toward Santos. “Let’s give him fentanyl, but start low. We need him awake enough to continue the neurovascular checks.”

Santos nodded and prepared the medication while Parker placed another IV, speaking to Evan in the reassuring tone she usually reserved for children and adults who were pretending not to be terrified. “You’re doing well. The worst thing you can do right now is look down, so keep watching me instead.”

“I already looked.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“My first mistake was taking this job.”

“Fair,” Parker conceded as she secured the line. “Looking down was probably fourth or fifth.”

The pain medication eased some of the tension from Evan’s face, but the fear remained visible beneath the makeup. His hand continued gripping the mattress, his knuckles pale with the effort, and when the blood-pressure cuff tightened around his arm, he flinched as though he expected another injury.

“My wife is going to kill me,” he whispered.

You glanced toward him while covering the exposed wound with sterile gauze. “I think she may have to wait her turn.”

“She told me not to take this shift because we were supposed to go trick-or-treating with our daughter.” His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again, the panic had been replaced by something closer to shame. “She’s six. She wanted us to dress like characters from that movie with the snowman.”

“Frozen?” Parker asked.

Evan nodded miserably. “I was supposed to be Kristoff.”

Parker looked toward his blood-soaked medieval tunic and crooked crown. “That is a significant costume change.”

“One of the other actors called out, and they needed a king.”

Abbott continued examining the leg, but his voice softened when he answered. “Your daughter is going to care more that you come home than what costume you were wearing when you got hurt.”

Evan looked toward him, and something in Abbott’s expression seemed to settle him more effectively than the medication had. Jack did not offer empty reassurance, and there was no false promise that everything would be fine, but his steadiness carried its own kind of comfort. He spoke as though getting Evan home was not merely a possibility but a task that had already been assigned.

You caught Abbott’s eye across the bed, and the understanding between you passed without either of you needing to explain it. The bolt’s position was too close to the femoral artery to risk manipulating it in the emergency department, and even with palpable distal pulses, the slight asymmetry suggested the possibility of vascular compression or partial injury. Evan needed imaging, surgery on standby, and a room prepared for the situation to deteriorate without warning.

“Let’s activate vascular and trauma surgery,” you said, already reaching toward the computer. “Portable X-ray first, then CTA if his pressure holds. We leave the tourniquet where it is until we have a surgeon ready to control the vessel.”

Abbott nodded. “Type and cross four units, repeat CBC and lactate, and keep him NPO. Call CT and make it clear he goes next.”

Parker glanced between the two of you before returning to the IV line. “Do either of you ever finish a thought separately?”

“Occasionally,” Abbott answered.

“When?” she asked.

“At home.”

You looked toward him. “Are you sure about that?”

His gaze met yours for half a second, amusement flickering beneath the concentration. “No.”

The portable X-ray team arrived several minutes later, and the trauma bay became an exercise in controlled coordination. Everyone repositioned without disturbing the bolt, placing the plate beneath Evan’s leg while he breathed through the pain. The image confirmed that the projectile had passed through soft tissue without striking the femur, although the path remained close enough to the major vessels that the room’s relief was cautious rather than complete.

Evan stared at the ceiling while the team worked, and the paper crown finally slipped from his head and landed beside his shoulder. Parker picked it up before it could fall to the floor, examining the flimsy gold plastic before placing it carefully on the supply cart.

“You saving that?” Santos asked.

“His daughter might want it.”

“It has blood on it.”

“I’ll clean it.”

Santos looked at Parker for a moment before returning to the medication record, the small smile on her face suggesting that she understood exactly why Parker had refused to throw it away.

The trauma surgeon called back while you were arranging transport to CT, and Abbott stepped just outside the bay to give the report. He described the entry and exit wounds, the tourniquet time, the asymmetry in the distal pulses, and the patient’s current stability with the concise precision that made it easy to forget how unusual the mechanism was. Nothing in his voice suggested that the patient had arrived dressed as a medieval king or that the weapon had come from an educational haunted house display. To Abbott, the bizarre circumstances were secondary; beneath the costume and the embarrassment, Evan was simply a frightened man with a potentially devastating injury.

You stayed beside the bed, reassessing the pulse in Evan’s foot while Parker finished securing the dressings around the shaft. “Your wife is on her way,” you told him after the charge nurse passed along the message. “She’s bringing your daughter to her mother first, and then she’ll meet you upstairs.”

Evan closed his eyes. “She sounded mad, didn’t she?”

“She sounded scared.”

“That’s worse.”

“It usually is,” you admitted. “Anger gives people something to do with fear when they don’t know where else to put it.”

His gaze shifted toward you, and for a moment the joking expression disappeared completely. “Am I going to lose my leg?”

The question quieted everyone standing close enough to hear it.

You could have offered reassurance, but Evan deserved honesty more than comfort built on guesses. “Right now, your foot still has blood flow, and you can move your toes, which are both very good signs. The bolt is close to important vessels, so surgery needs to remove it somewhere they can control any bleeding immediately. I can’t promise what they’ll find, but I can tell you that you got here with circulation intact, and that gives them a strong place to start.”

Evan nodded slowly, although his eyes remained fixed on your face as if he were searching for something you had deliberately left unsaid. Before he could ask again, Abbott returned to the bedside and rested one hand against the rail.

“The surgical team is ready for you,” Abbott explained, resting one hand against the rail while the transport monitor was secured beneath the stretcher. “We’re taking you for the scan now, and unless the imaging changes the plan, you’ll go directly from there to the operating room.”

Evan’s eyes moved toward the unfamiliar faces gathering around his bed. “Are you coming with me?”

“Parker is going with you,” Abbott said, nodding toward the nurse as she checked the portable monitor and gathered the medications she might need during transport. “She’ll stay beside you through the scan, keep checking the blood flow in your foot, and call us immediately if anything changes. The trauma and vascular teams are already waiting for the images.”

Parker stepped into Evan’s line of sight and rested one hand against the stretcher rail. “You’re stuck with me, Your Majesty. I’ll try not to overthrow you before we reach radiology.”

His mouth lifted slightly, although the fear had not completely left his face. “You promise they aren’t going to pull it out down there?”

“No one is touching that bolt until the surgeons are ready,” Abbott assured him. “The scan is only going to show us exactly where it traveled and what it passed near.”

Evan nodded slowly, tightening his fingers around the blanket as Parker performed one final check of the pulse in his foot. Abbott gave her a concise handoff, confirming the tourniquet time, medication doses, vascular findings, and instructions to return directly to the trauma bay if Evan’s pressure dropped rather than continuing with the scan.

You moved aside as the transport team guided the stretcher through the doors, watching Parker walk beside Evan with one hand near the monitor and the other resting against the rail. Once they disappeared into the hallway, Abbott turned back toward the department, where the patient board had already added two more names during the few minutes you had spent in the trauma bay.

Parker returned from radiology nearly forty minutes later, pushing an empty wheelchair in front of her while carrying Evan’s plastic crown beneath one arm. The exaggerated solemnity on her face lasted only until she reached the nurses’ station, where she deposited the crown beside the cardboard skeleton and announced that the king had successfully survived his journey through the imaging department without being overthrown.

“The CTA shows the bolt displaced the femoral artery without entering it,” she reported, accepting the bottle of water Santos passed across the counter. “There may be a small branch-vessel injury, but vascular took him directly upstairs. His wife met him outside the operating room and alternated between kissing him and threatening to kill him herself.”

You released the breath you had not realized you were holding. “That sounds promising.”

“It does,” Abbott agreed from the computer beside you, although his eyes remained on the report as he scrolled through the images. “He still needs exploration and removal in the operating room, but an intact femoral artery gives them considerably more room to work.”

Parker placed the crown inside Evan’s belongings bag and sealed it carefully. “His wife said their daughter is going to make him wear it for the rest of the year.”

“That may be the most effective form of injury prevention,” Santos said.

The crossbow case should have been the strangest event of the night, but Halloween appeared determined to defend its reputation. Before ten o’clock, the department had treated a teenager who fractured his wrist attempting to jump from one moving golf cart to another while dressed as Spider-Man, a college student who mistook liquid latex for an edible special effect, and a middle-aged man wearing a blood-soaked vampire cape who insisted the bite on his forearm came from an actual bat rather than the frightened raccoon animal control had discovered inside his garage.

By midnight, the waiting room had become an accidental costume parade. Princesses sat beside zombies, superheroes held ice packs against swollen joints, and a man dressed as a priest attempted to comfort his friend, who was wearing little more than angel wings and a hospital blanket. The plastic spiders decorating the monitors had begun falling loose from the constant movement, and someone had placed a surgical mask over the cardboard skeleton’s face after deciding that management should at least pretend to follow infection-control procedures.

The humor helped until it didn’t.

That was the strange rhythm of emergency medicine. One moment, Parker was arguing with a man dressed as a werewolf about whether the fur glued to his chest needed to be shaved before an EKG; the next, an ambulance arrived carrying an unconscious woman whose costume concealed injuries no one had recognized at the party where she collapsed. Laughter disappeared without ceremony, replaced by airway equipment, medication doses, and the clipped precision of people who understood that there was never time to mourn the mood that had existed before the doors opened.

Hours passed that way, measured less by the clock than by completed charts, abandoned coffee, and the names changing across the patient board. You worked beside Abbott through each shift in the department’s temperament, moving from absurdity to fear and back again without ever discussing the transition. He anticipated what you needed before you asked, and you had learned to recognize the slight turn of his head that meant he wanted another set of labs, another consultation, or simply another pair of eyes on a patient whose story did not quite fit.

It was nearly three in the morning when you first noticed the change in the way he walked.

The difference was slight enough that anyone who had not spent months working beside him might have dismissed it as exhaustion. His stride had shortened on one side, and the easy balance with which he usually crossed the department had become more deliberate, as though every step required a calculation he did not want anyone else to see. He continued moving at the same pace, continued answering questions and reviewing charts, but the tension around his mouth deepened each time he stopped and started again.

You watched him leave Room Seven after examining a patient with a dislocated shoulder. He paused outside the door, one hand closing briefly around the edge of the counter before he straightened and continued toward the nurses’ station. The moment lasted less than a second, and when he noticed you looking, his expression returned to its usual guarded calm.

“You need something?” he asked.

The question was casual, but it carried the subtle warning of someone who already knew what you had noticed and hoped to redirect your attention before you named it.

You held up the chart in your hand. “Radiology wants clarification on whether you’re ordering a CT of the abdomen and pelvis with contrast or whether you enjoy making them guess.”

“With contrast.”

“That was my assumption.”

“You could have entered it yourself.”

“I did.”

Abbott’s eyebrow lifted. “Then why are you asking me?”

You studied him for another moment, giving him the opportunity to volunteer an explanation he clearly had no intention of offering. “I wanted to confirm that your judgment remained intact.”

“My judgment is fine.”

“That was not the word I used.”

Something flickered in his expression, although it disappeared before you could identify it. He reached for the chart, but when he shifted his weight forward, the movement sent a visible line of discomfort through his body. His hand tightened around the edge of the counter again, and this time he could not pretend you had imagined it.

“Jack.”

“I’m fine.”

The answer arrived too quickly, carrying the same automatic certainty with which he had refused Parker’s invitation to the bar. You lowered your voice, aware of the nurses moving around you and unwilling to turn his discomfort into a public discussion.

“You are limping.”

“I have a prosthetic leg.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then the mystery has been solved.”

He started to move past you, but you stepped to the side and followed him toward the quieter hallway leading to the staff lounge. You did not block his path or reach for him, because both would have transformed concern into confrontation, but you also refused to let the dismissive answer end the conversation.

“I have seen you work fifteen-hour shifts without walking like that,” you said. “Something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Something hurts.”

His shoulders stiffened, and for several steps the only answer he offered was the uneven sound of his shoes against the tile. The hospital lights were dimmer in the hallway, removed from the bright urgency of the central department, and the silence between overhead announcements made his refusal feel more obvious.

“You don’t have to make it a medical emergency before admitting you’re uncomfortable,” you continued.

“I’m not making it anything.”

“That is exactly what you’re doing.”

Abbott stopped beside the door to the physicians’ lounge and turned toward you. Exhaustion had sharpened the lines around his eyes, and without the noise of the department surrounding him, the effort required to maintain his composure became easier to see.

“It’s been a long shift,” he said. “The socket is rubbing, and I’ve been on my feet for most of the night. It happens.”

The admission was delivered without emotion, arranged carefully into clinical facts that required no sympathy and invited no further questions. You recognized the tactic because you used it yourself whenever someone asked about something you preferred to keep at a distance.

“Is it because of Saturday?” you asked.

His gaze shifted away from yours. “Saturday didn’t help.”

For one terrible second, embarrassment replaced the pain in his expression, and you understood that he had not merely been awkward about dancing. Every reluctant step had cost him more than he had allowed anyone to see, yet he had stayed because Parker had challenged him and because you had taken his hand.

Guilt settled immediately in your stomach. “Jack, I shouldn’t have dragged you onto the floor.”

“You didn’t drag me.”

“I absolutely did.”

“I could have said no.”

“You did say no. Repeatedly.”

“And then I changed my mind.”

His voice remained even, but something firmer had entered it, as though he could tolerate the pain more easily than the possibility that you would rewrite the memory into one where he had been helpless. You nodded slowly, understanding that an apology offered too forcefully would sound like pity, which was clearly the one thing he wanted least.

“Then you made a bad decision,” you said.

The tension in his face shifted. “That’s your professional assessment?”

“It is. Fortunately, Halloween has established that bad decisions are not automatically fatal.”

A reluctant breath of laughter escaped him, but it ended with another tightening of his jaw. He reached for the lounge door, and you followed him inside before he could suggest otherwise.

The room was empty except for the humming refrigerator and a television mounted in the corner with the volume turned low. Abbott lowered himself into one of the chairs beside the lockers with considerably more care than he would have used if you were not watching, then rested both hands against his thighs while waiting for the pain to settle.

You stood near the doorway, uncertain how close you were permitted to come. “What do you need?”

“Five minutes.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to remove it?”

His eyes lifted toward you, and the guardedness returned immediately. “Adeline.”

The use of your name instead of the nickname told you exactly where the boundary had appeared.

“I’m asking as a doctor,” you said, keeping your voice calm. “Not because I think you need rescuing.”

“I know how to manage it.”

“I know you do.”

“Then go manage the department.”

The words were sharper than anything he had said to you that night, although the anger beneath them was directed less toward you than toward the fact that you had witnessed something he had successfully hidden from everyone else. You could have challenged him, but forcing help on someone who had not asked for it would only confirm every fear he seemed to have about being seen as less capable.

You nodded and moved toward the door. “Five minutes.”

Abbott looked away, his attention settling on the dark television screen.

“If you are not back in five minutes,” you continued, “I am sending Parker in here.”

His head turned toward you immediately. “That’s unnecessary.”

“She will ask questions.”

“I’m aware.”

“She may also bring the cardboard skeleton.”

“Adeline.”

“She has formed an emotional attachment to it.”

The corner of his mouth moved despite his best effort to remain irritated. “Five minutes.”

You rested your hand against the doorframe. “Five minutes, Jack.”

This time, he nodded.

You left the lounge and returned to the nurses’ station without telling anyone what you had seen. Parker was attempting to remove fake fur from an EKG lead, Santos was on the phone with radiology, and the patient board had acquired three new names in the brief time you had been gone. The department continued without pause, indifferent to private pain and the small bargains people made to keep functioning through it.

You covered Abbott’s rooms without announcing that you were doing so. When a nurse asked where he had gone, you said he was reviewing a case in the lounge, which was close enough to the truth to prevent further questions. You entered two orders under your own name, answered a page from orthopedics, and checked the clock only once.

Abbott returned after four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

His stride was more even, although not entirely effortless, and the fatigue remained visible beneath his controlled expression. He moved to the computer beside you and resumed reviewing the patient board as though the conversation had never happened.

You allowed him the silence for nearly a minute.

“Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds,” you said eventually.

He kept his eyes on the screen. “You timed me?”

“I was preparing to deploy Parker.”

“That would have been a disproportionate response.”

“She was ready.”

Across the station, Parker looked up from the tangled EKG lead. “Ready for what?”

“Nothing,” Abbott and you answered together.

Parker’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Santos called her name before she could investigate. Abbott waited until she turned away, then glanced toward you.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

The words were almost lost beneath the ringing phones and the monitor sounding from Room Nine, but you heard them.

You did not ask whether he meant for covering his patients, keeping his secret, or leaving when he asked. Perhaps he meant all three, and perhaps naming any of them would make the moment harder for him to accept.

You reached for the next chart and handed it to him. “Room Eleven. A man dressed as a scarecrow believes he has tetanus because he stepped on a plastic rake.”

Abbott accepted the chart, reading the chief complaint with the same solemn attention he gave every patient. “Is the rake available for questioning?”

“I believe security has detained it.”

He looked toward you, and the warmth that entered his expression was quieter than a smile but no less unmistakable. “Lead the way, Trouble.”

You walked beside him toward Room Eleven, matching your pace to his without allowing it to appear that you had done so.

The final hours of Halloween passed with less spectacle than the beginning, although no one was foolish enough to interpret that as mercy. The man dressed as a scarecrow did not have tetanus, but he did require six stitches after discovering that the decorative rake in his neighbor’s yard contained more metal than plastic. The college student with the glued-on fangs eventually admitted that he had used industrial adhesive after deciding the costume-store version was not sufficiently permanent, and Santos spent nearly twenty minutes explaining why dissolving the glue would require patience rather than the pair of pliers he kept requesting. Somewhere around five, a woman dressed as a fortune-teller vomited into the cardboard skeleton’s lap, which Parker declared an unnecessarily accurate prediction of how the night would end.

Evan came out of surgery shortly before six.

The bolt had missed his femoral artery by less than an inch, although the surgeons had repaired damage to a smaller branch vessel before removing the projectile. He would keep his leg, and barring infection or complications, he would eventually regain full use of it. Parker read the update twice before carrying the news through the department as though she had personally negotiated the outcome with vascular surgery.

“The king lives,” she announced, replacing Evan’s plastic crown on the cardboard skeleton’s head. “His wife says he is never allowed inside another haunted house, medieval restaurant, renaissance festival, or sporting-goods store for the rest of his natural life.”

“That seems difficult to enforce,” Santos observed as she gathered the abandoned wrappers from the counter.

“She sounded motivated.”

You looked toward Abbott, who had paused beside the patient board when Parker delivered the news. His expression changed only slightly, but the relief was there, visible in the way the tension eased around his eyes before he returned his attention to the remaining names on the screen.

“He was lucky,” you said quietly.

“He was,” Jack agreed. “Although I suspect his wife will make sure he doesn’t forget it.”

The department gradually emptied as morning approached, sending home the walking wounded and transferring everyone who required more than the emergency room could offer. Daylight had begun pressing faintly against the dark windows, washing the Halloween decorations in a gray light that made them appear tired rather than festive. Several streamers had fallen from the ceiling, half the plastic spiders were missing, and the cardboard skeleton remained seated at the nurses’ station wearing Evan’s crown and a stained hospital blanket across its lap.

Parker left first, although she objected when Santos suggested that putting on her coat before reaching the parking garage would save time. She insisted she needed fresh air, then complained about the temperature before the automatic doors had fully opened. Santos followed several minutes later, promising to return to her own shift only after she had slept long enough to forget agreeing to cover this one.

When the day team arrived, the department entered its familiar period of overlap, with introductions and handoffs competing against ringing phones and the final complaints of those who had been waiting since midnight. The night loosened its hold slowly, releasing each of you only after the last report had been given and every unfinished responsibility assigned to someone else.

You remained at the nurses’ station after most of the overnight staff had gone, determined to finish the final chart before leaving. The notes had begun blending together somewhere around three in the morning, and you had already discovered two sentences in which you had referred to the crossbow bolt as an arrow. Your coffee had gone cold hours ago, but you continued drinking it out of habit while reviewing the documentation for the unconscious woman who had arrived from the costume party.

The surrounding computers were beginning to empty when someone passed behind you, close enough that a shoulder brushed lightly against yours.

You shifted automatically, expecting an apology from a nurse trying to navigate the crowded station, but Abbott stopped beside you instead. His arm had touched yours for no more than a second, the contact incidental and entirely ordinary, yet awareness moved through you before logic had the opportunity to dismiss it.

“Still here?” he asked, setting his tablet on the counter.

You kept your attention fixed on the screen, although the cursor had stopped moving. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m waiting for trauma surgery to call back about the Spider-Man patient.”

“The one who believed the laws of physics were merely a suggestion?”

“The very same.”

You resumed typing, hoping the motion would conceal the unreasonable attention you had begun paying to the space beside you. “You should tell him the web-slinging privileges have been suspended pending orthopedic clearance.”

“I’ll include it in the discharge instructions.”

Jack remained there rather than moving to an open computer, and when his gaze shifted toward your screen, he leaned closer to read what you had written. One hand settled against the counter on the far side of your keyboard, his arm braced beside yours while his shoulder hovered near the edge of your own. The position placed him close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your scrub top, and although nothing about it was intentionally intimate, your body reacted as though it had failed to receive that information.

His sleeve pulled slightly across his upper arm as he leaned forward, outlining the firm shape of his bicep beside you. You had seen those arms perform compressions, reduce fractures, and hold frightened patients still while someone else worked, yet you had never examined them in this context before. Until Saturday, Jack Abbott’s body had existed in your mind only as part of his competence, another instrument he used with the same controlled precision as his voice or his hands.

Now you remembered the weight of those hands around yours on the dance floor.

The thought arrived with enough force to send a small, unmistakable tightening through your chest.

You swallowed and focused deliberately on the chart. “Do you normally read over people’s shoulders, or is this a new leadership strategy?”

“You documented that her Glasgow Coma Scale improved from eleven to fifteen before discharge.”

“It did.”

“You also documented that she remained unconscious.”

Your eyes moved rapidly through the paragraph until you found the sentence he meant. “She remained unconscious upon arrival.”

“That is not what you wrote.”

You leaned closer to the screen, which only reduced the distance between you. His shoulder pressed briefly against yours, and neither of you moved away at once. The contact remained for a fraction longer than necessary, warm and solid through the fabric of your scrubs, before you shifted enough to correct the sentence.

“This is why no one should be required to chart after sunrise,” you said, deleting the offending phrase. “The human brain was not designed to complete medical documentation while watching the cafeteria prepare breakfast.”

“I’ve seen their breakfast. I’m not convinced humans designed it.”

You laughed softly, and Jack’s head turned toward you. He was close enough that the movement brought his face into the edge of your vision, forcing you to become aware of details you had successfully ignored during countless shifts. The tired shadow along his jaw, the fine lines gathered near his eyes, and the small scar near his temple all belonged to a face you knew well, but familiarity had begun changing shape. You were no longer only recognizing him; you were noticing him.

That distinction felt dangerous.

You turned your attention back to the monitor and placed the cursor at the end of the corrected sentence. “Anything else, Dr. Abbott?”

He read the paragraph once more, remaining braced against the counter beside you. “You wrote that the patient denied alcohol consumption.”

“She did.”

“Her blood alcohol level was point-two-one.”

“I documented what she said, not what her liver believed.”

The laugh that left him was quiet and tired, but you felt it more than heard it because his arm remained beside yours. “You might want to clarify that distinction.”

“Would you like to finish this chart?”

“No.”

“Then your editorial privileges have been revoked.”

“You asked me to look.”

“I asked why you were still here.”

“That was before I discovered the inaccurate documentation.”

You looked up at him, prepared with another argument, and found that he was already watching you. The humor remained in his expression, but something quieter existed beneath it, softened by exhaustion and the private understanding that had formed between you earlier in the shift. You had seen him in pain, and he knew you had protected that knowledge instead of turning it into a discussion. The secret rested between you without becoming a burden, altering the space you shared in a way neither of you seemed prepared to acknowledge.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

The hospital continued around you, indifferent to the pause. A printer began spitting out discharge papers, a phone rang near triage, and someone from environmental services dragged a garbage bag filled with ruined Halloween decorations through the hallway. Nothing had changed, yet your awareness had narrowed until it contained only the warmth at your shoulder and the way Jack’s hand remained planted against the counter beside yours.

His gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes.

The movement was so small that you could have imagined it.

You decided immediately that you had.

“Your five minutes helped,” you said, lowering your voice enough that the comment belonged only to the two of you.

Jack’s expression tightened slightly, although he did not retreat. “It did.”

“You should probably take more than five when you get home.”

“I intend to.”

“That sounded suspiciously cooperative.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“How unsettling.”

His mouth curved, and for a moment you thought he might thank you again. Instead, he straightened and removed his hand from the counter, taking the warmth and the unexpected sense of enclosure with him. The absence registered more sharply than the contact had, leaving you unreasonably aware of the cool air where his arm had been.

“Finish the chart,” he said, collecting his tablet. “Then go home.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took two steps before looking back. “And fix the note about the blood alcohol level.”

You placed one hand over your heart. “Your faith in my medical judgment is overwhelming.”

“Your medical judgment is fine. Your grammar deteriorates after twelve hours.”

“That is deeply personal criticism.”

“You’ll recover.”

Jack turned toward the physicians’ lounge, his stride more even than it had been earlier, although you still noticed the care with which he moved. This time, you did not slow your own pace or offer to help. You had begun to understand that respecting him meant allowing him to manage what he could while remaining close enough for the moments when he could not.

You returned to the chart and corrected the final sentence, but your concentration did not recover as easily as you had claimed it would. The spot where his shoulder had brushed yours seemed to retain the memory of the contact, while the image of his arm braced beside you remained with embarrassing clarity.

It was ridiculous.

You had worked beside attractive men before. You had stood much closer to colleagues during procedures, crowded around beds where personal space ceased to exist, and passed instruments hand to hand without assigning meaning to any of it. This was no different. Jack had leaned over to read a chart, caught an error, and then told you to go home.

There was nothing romantic about grammar correction.

Your chest disagreed.

By the time you signed the note and closed the chart, Jack had disappeared into the lounge to collect his things. You remained seated for another moment, staring at the empty space beside you and attempting to place the feeling into a category that would make it easier to ignore.

It was not love, and it was not even close to anything deserving that name. It was only attraction sharpened by familiarity, a flicker of interest given room to grow because you had seen him laugh outside the hospital and trusted him inside it. It was the beginning of a workplace crush, inconvenient but manageable, and adults developed them all the time without allowing them to become anything more.

You gathered your belongings and stood, repeating that explanation until it almost sounded convincing.

Then Jack stepped out of the lounge wearing his jacket, glanced toward you, and waited beside the hallway instead of leaving without you.

“Ready, Trouble?”

The small feeling in your chest returned immediately.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked toward him. “I thought you were ordering me to go home.”

“I was.”

“And now you’re supervising?”

“I’m making sure you don’t stop to rewrite another chart.”

“You really know how to show a woman a good time.”

“So I’ve been told.”

You left the department together, walking beneath the remains of the Halloween decorations while morning spread pale and cold across the hospital windows. Jack did not touch you again, and nothing passed between you that anyone else would have recognized as significant.

Still, when your shoulders brushed once more as you stepped into the elevator, neither of you hurried to create more space.

Chapter 6

------------

You woke up , covered in cold sweat, heart pounding roughly against your chest , to a point you thought it would tear up your ribcage. You blinked, yet every time you did so your vision remained dark, you could not see anything.With a deep exhale,you pushed yourself out of the bed, blindly walking to your window and in one swift motion moved the curtains to the side.Light enveloped the room, small particles of dust immediately became visible in the air.

You opened the window, and slowly positioned yourself against the sill ,allowing yourself to breathe in the fresh air. The city was quiet at this hour, less traffic, less noise, less people— something that almost felt whimsical, straight out of a book.

Minutes , passed rather quickly. You took a cold shower to ease whatever nerves had been triggered and wash away the bad energy that still clung to you after your rather poor sleep. Your feet took you to the fridge right after, scanning whatever ingredients you had left that would make a proper satisfying meal that would not require much time to cook. You got to work, a playlist of old songs echoing in the empty walls of your apartment , you lip syncing to the music as you prepped the food. You found yourself craving something rich in taste and nutritious so you ended up filling four containers with what was known as a Buddha bowl.

You blamed none other than Shen. Typically, you only cooked enough for yourself and in cases you found yourself not exhausted ,you loved to food prep in advance and just let it sit in the fridge, saving yourself some energy or money to not resolve to take out.

***

“Switch?” Shen cocked an eyebrow as he pointed between your meal and his. Frankly speaking, the pizza he had ordered from the Italian restaurant down the street seemed very tasty— so temptation, and gluttony accepted in a heartbeat.

You enjoyed your pizza, as he gobbled down your homemade food and he kept making appreciating sounds, complimenting your food.

“Family recipe?” He asked ,wiping his lips with a napkin while keeping his eyes on yours.

“Internet one.” You chucked softly, enjoying the last slice of the pizza. “Remind me to book my next vacation to Italy. It’s a shame I’ve yet to try the authenticity of their exquisite cuisine.”

“You’ll love it!”

“What will she exactly love?” Cut the voice of none other than your silver fox attending, Doctor Abbot as he was passing by, getting himself a bottle of water.

“Italian cuisine.” Shen answered lazily, then what could only be perceived as one mischievous smirk from his side, took over his face. “One the other hand, you’d love her cooking. It’s to die for, really.”

***

You made yourself some coffee, the black kind today. It felt like it would be one of those days, and you wanted to be prepared in advance. You strolled to your couch, made yourself comfortable and carefully placed your phone on your side , ‘ In my head ‘ by Bedroom played in the background. You crossed your legs, flipping through the pages of a thick notebook that you use to keep track of your dreams. Your therapist had suggested you do so, as it would help you both explore your subconscious and process hidden feelings that would be difficult to articulate or so she said.

You closed your eyes, trying to remember as many details you could from the dream that haunted your sleep. You definitely blamed everything on your childhood friend, J for having suggested the German series ‘Dark’ and having you question your literal existence, a crisis that was not very much welcomed . You recalled characters from the series being present in your dream, sometimes you would inhibit their bodies and see the situation from a different pov. You saw dead bodies, burnt wounds that tracked from ear to ear having fried the face to a point behind recognition ,crows dropping dead from the sky, time was an illusion, everything was was.

A voice whispered in your ear constantly “not where, but when.” A faceless man, always observed you from a distance. You got stuck in a loop, and the part that made you jolt awake was none other than that creepy machine being placed against your will on your eyes, a song constantly playing in the background torturously spiking your anxiety, the spinning started and the burn felt real. Too real.

***

The hospital, was only a good twenty minutes walk from your apartment. You let yourself get lost in a Spotify playlist, containing a series of songs that Doctor Abbot had suggested to you throughout the time you had spent on the night shift. His music taste, was elite but you would not very much accept it out loud, especially after he openly criticised your generation for its bland music.

He was right, very much so but something in you stirred every time people of his age criticised your generation and well the whole topic later on had shifted into political views about the difference about said generations and there had pretty much been no winner ,given that an ambulance had arrived at the bay with a patient that had been in a critical condition.

***

“Hi ,there sweet cheeks.” Dana warmly smiled at you.

“Dana.” You returned the smile,nodding at her.You crossed your arms, taking a look at the board. Okay, your favourite night crawlers shared the shift with you, Shen, Ellis and Abbot. It’s not like you were not on good terms with the rest, but you felt like the night went by faster if these three tagged along. “Ton lots of patients today.”

“They will be your problem in around—“ she flicked her wrist upside down, peaking at her watch and nodding “ ten minutes or so.”

***

The night was quiet, something you dared not to say out loud as everyone in the medical field believed the jinx that followed the words. The treated patients were stable, the line outside felt like it got shorter just for you to blink and suddenly new faces popped up shortly after. You loved being ‘a night crawler’ a nickname that was suggested by Doctor Abbot, who apparently had been called a holy man for the longest time, as back in the day when it originated they considered the nickname baptism.

Your early weeks as an R1 had been only on the first shift, supervised by Doctor Robby. It was chaos, not due to his fault by any means because he was one hell of a talented doctor but in general the worst cases cursed the day. The nights were a bit quieter, the people were tired so the conflict that one tended to create during the day from the many circumstances ,seemed to die down due to the hazy feeling that overwhelmed the body at night. There was barely any spark of adrenaline.

Of course it was not a ray of sunshine either ,harsh cases flooded the night as well, deaths lingered on the halls, ambulances sirens were never not heard but working with this team, that did not need to verbalise lots of things, that avoided cherry picking cases made this whole ordeal a tiny bit better.

You had taken care of whatever patients had been appointed to you by both Shen or Abbot. Even though this was your final year of residency you had so much more to learn, knowledge that they always were eager to share. You were ambitious, after all had you not been ,all those years of hard work would have been worthless so that’s why they trusted you more, they pushed you more.

“Finish up checking on the case in South 17, and join us for a quick bite.” Abbot’s voice was low, looking straight ahead at the board, arms crossed on his chest.

“Mhm.” You nodded absent minded, lip caught between your lips as you had been engrossed in your thoughts.

“What’s on your mind? You’re unusually quiet today.” He moved his eyes to yours and after a few seconds, you shifted your attention to him. “Not that I’m complaining.” His lips curled upwards and you could not help but roll your eyes at that. He seemed to find that pretty amusing.

“I’m thinking about the said patient in South 17.” Alex, a seventeen year old boy had had an accident since the early hours of the morning. He had lost control of his bike, accidentally riding straight into high pavement which made him fall from his bike, the latter’s steering wheel having fallen straight down to one of his ribs, which had punctured his spleen, leading to internal bleeding.

The parents said he had come home with pain, but after an hour or so after some pain killers they had decided that he was okay and the poor boy had slept it off, or so they said. His eyes had formed dark circles and obviously with the turmoil inside his body , it was guaranteed that he did not sleep a wink.

Noticeably, his abdomen had changed colour. A dark shade of purple which had alarmed them into calling the emergency services to bring the boy to the hospital.You and Abbot performed the surgery and after you were done so, it felt like you had butchered an animal as the second the spleen got removed, a clogged blood clot exploded, covering the two of you in blood. The boy’s stats dropped, you almost lost a pulse but he made it through. He did.

“He’s one lucky kid. The chances of surviving internal bleeding with a punctured organ throughout the night are very slim.” He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes looking at you with an intensity that he only saved for you…or maybe that’s what you liked to believe. “He made it through the worse part, he got another chance at life… a luxury that maybe most people who walk inside these doors do not have.”

“Do you think we’re good doctors, Abbot?” You looked at him under your lashes. He sensed your hesitation, he noticed the way you tried to make yourself seem smaller, he noticed the vulnerability in your voice.

“We’re the best they can find.” He sighed, dropping his hands to his pockets, fixing his posture so he could face you. He took a step closer, eyes never leaving yours,trying to read more into you, about what you were exactly thinking about. The proximity between you, was close, yet neverimproper. It was—professional. Your tongue poked your oral commissure, thinking about his words.

“True.” You rubbed your temples, stretching your left hand on your face, easing some of the tension that built there.

“Self-doubt does more to sabotage individual potential than all external limitations put together.” His voice was calm, firm , and unshaken.

“Mark Twain.” You let his words sink in. He was right, he always was and sometimes you hated that he was. You were not found of the idea that he was the only person you knew that could say exactly the kind of words you needed to hear, no matter the situation. “Thank you.” Your voice was soft, gentle, genuine.

“For?”

“Always saying the right words.”

“I’m merely citing them.” He chuckled, offering you a kind smile.

***

“De-li-cious!” Shen hummed, stuffing his face in the food you had prepared.

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Ellis agreed immediately. “While Shen is a pathological liar, now he speaks nothing but the truth. Your cooking has to be the best one I have tried.”

“How am I a liar?!” Shen revolted, and you shared a look with Abbot who just nodded dismissively as he ate his food.

“You’ve cheated more times than I can count on the betting board.” He squinted his eyes , as he dared Ellis with a look. “Inside information is cheating as far as me and my ten bucks are concerned.”

“Get off my neck, you’re only mad because your source had the information wrong.” He let out a full on Belly laugh, purposefully trying to agitate Ellis which led to an argument between the two of them that lasted for what felt like decades.

While those two were busy, Jack had finished his meal and was ready to dismiss himself. He almost did.

“Woah —woah.” Shen put his hand on the air, stopping Jack on his track. “Now hold on ,Abbot.” Jack’s features hardened, his face visibly showing his confusion. He tilted his chin up, awaiting for Shen to speak. “No comment on our lovely resident’s cooking?”

You felt your cheeks heat up, as you felt all three looking at you. You felt like you were back in high school and the teacher called you out in front of the class to talk about a lesson. Though this was different, ever since you switched to night shift Jack’s opinion has always been of importance no matter what trivial thing it regarded. You seek his approval, attention and validation in a way that perhaps crosses professional boundaries.

“The chef knows I keep her in high regards.” Three pair of eyes were looking at you, yet only one made your stomach clench, heart beat faster and make you feel like a teenager girl with a stupid crush. Gosh, you felt awful. Then he ran a hand through his curls, biting his lip as he suppressed a smile. “ Do not fall for their flattery , they’re trying to make you cook for them again.”

You squinted your eyes at both, lips forming into a thin line, head tilting slowly.

“They got twenty bucks on whoever convinces you to do so.”

Oh. So this is why they had been showering your food with compliments before they even got to taste it. You couldn’t believe them, and betting on that was ridiculous. If they asked nicely you’d so but now that that money was on the table you definitely wouldn’t.You flipped off both of them and mutter unbelievable under your breath.

“Never cooking for you two again.”

Shen and Ellis were one second way from going off at Jack but the latter, just pointed at both of them ,then with a smile plastered on his face he held his hand on the air. They sighed, then each of them handed him twenty bucks, he looked pleased with himself.

“And then, I’m the cheater!” Shen looked annoyed. You were confused for a good minute. Trying to understand whatever the hell was happening.

“That’s low even for you , Abbot. “ Ellis placed both hands on her hips, scrunching her nose and curling her upper lip up in disapproval.

“Pleasure doing business with you two.” Jack pocketed the money, smirking like he just won the lottery. “Let me treat you to a drink ,later.” He pointed at you with his chin. You stood there, tutting as you kept your eyes on his.

“You’re just as bad as those two y’know.” You sighed in disbelief after you understood what happened.

“You love me.” He teased. His words are said so casually, yet you could not help the way they made you feel. The idea of how those words would feel if he said them from heart…it was stupid really.

He was your attending, your mentor, a figure of authority you looked up to. His career was in its peak, he was older so surely someone so well accomplished would not bother himself twice with the idea of entering himself with someone like you.

“Cheapskate.” You shooed him with your hand.” Trying to bribe me with forty bucks.” His eyebrows shot up and Ellis and Shen’s synchronised laughter almost infected you. You bit your lip. “Double the price, and I will think about it.”

He gently patted you on the back, voice low, intimate. “Just give this old man some company, money is not an issue.” You felt your cheeks heat up, yet tried not to show the way he affected you.

“Abbot’s on some sugar daddy behaviour.” Ellis laughed, making the lot of you join her, even Abbot.

“Just daddy.” He paused. “Ladies do not ask for sugar while in my lovely company, really.” He winked at Ellis and your body literally malfunctioned for a good minute. Daddy, he definitely seemed like a man who’d get off on that kink, and was the sex so good women never asked him about anything in return? You had no doubts, just by looking at him you could definitely tell.

“I owe Santos ten bucks.” You rolled your eyes, and suddenly Abbot fixed his eyes on you, a curious look lingering on his eyes.

“You didn’t-“ Shen gasped, uncontrollably laughing now, tears streaming down his face.

“On my defence-“ you shrugged, eyes on Jack—who was definitely expecting an explanation.

“On your defence…” Jack pushed, mouth slightly agape,eyes half lidded.

“I didn’t peg you as the type with the kink.That’s all.” At least that was what you told yourself when Santos opened the topic. You got flustered and she had already been teasing you about him, since her first weeks of being here.

***

”He definitely loves being called daddy in bed.”You both had been catching up with your charts, Jack was being hit on by a patient who was flirting rather loudly. “Ew by the way, she got that same desperate look in her eyes, that you do when he talks to you.”

“I do not look at him like that” You emphasised, glancing in his direction, a pang of jealousy making you tap on the keyboard with more force than intended.

“So you do agree, he’s definitely got a daddy kink.”

”No he doesn’t.” At this point you just wanted to change the topic.

“I say this calls for a bet.” She rubbed her hands, mischievous smile on her face.

”You haven’t even paid me for the last three bets I won.”

”I told you I will.”

***

“Is that what residents discuss in their free time now?” Abbot questioned yet there was no ill intention on his voice, on the contrary. He was apparently enjoying the topic. “Next time all you have to do is ask , sweetheart. I don’t shy away from my sex life.”

His hand found his jaw, slowly scratching it with the pads of his fingers. It was unfair, the way his words made you feel weak at the knees, the way your body started feeling hotter. Fuck him, like literally…or maybe not so literally…this was complicated.

”I smell an HR hearing for both of you.”Shen stated, but nevertheless he seemed to be enjoying the topic as much as Abbot was.

“Close your nose shut, before HR hears about the extracurricular activities you and that new nurse in the upper floor were doing in the hospital last week.” You teased him, and his eyes widened.

”Yup, message received. Keeping my mouth shut.”

“Woah—Woah!” Jack started laughing.” I definitely want to know what happened now.”

”You tell a soul, I take yours.” Shen pointed at you, his voice had an edge to it.

”I’m afraid I will have to corrupt her.” Jack spoke, his eyes finding yours once again,his voice sultry.” In the most non—perverse way ,I will make sure you’re drunk enough and then have my way with you till I make you spill all of your secrets…” he paused “regarding Shen.”

”That definitely sounded very ‘non- perverse’.” Shen formed air quotes with his fingers.

“Trauma one, we need an attending!”