embrace the freak

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."

Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."

Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.

"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.

"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."

"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."

He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.

Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.

"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.

It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.

This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.

"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.

He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.

His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.

"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."

His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.

"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"

"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"

“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.

“Jason, you’re joking.”

“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.

You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”

"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."

"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”

His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.

Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."

You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.

His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."

The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"

"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."

Great, now he's holding you hostage too.

"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"

He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."

"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.

"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.

"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."

That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.

A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."

Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."

His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.

"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.

"Dorian Gray?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.

He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.

You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"

"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."

"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."

His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."

"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"

"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."

"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"

"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."

Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."

"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"

You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."

"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"

Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."

He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."

Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.

"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.

There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.

Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.

Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.

“Hey—”

He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.

“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”

His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.

A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.

Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.

“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."

The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.

Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."

Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."

"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"

Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.

"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."

His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.

"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."

He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.

“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”

“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”

Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”

His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.

You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”

He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”

He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.

The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.

Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.

Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.

“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."

“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”

“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”

She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”

Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”

Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.

“There a problem?”

Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"

“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”

“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”

"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.

The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”

You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”

“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."

“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.

You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”

His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."

"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."

"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."

His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.

"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."

It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.

Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.

"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.

"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."

You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.

You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.

Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.

His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.

He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.

"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.

You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"

He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.

In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.

"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"

His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.

"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.

His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.

"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.

Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.

"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.

When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.

Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.

I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."

Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.

He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.

“Jason.”

“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."

"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."

His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."

"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.

"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."

Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.

"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."

"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.

“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.

His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”

You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."

"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"

Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."

When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.

"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all you’re taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."

Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

The sun is blazing hot above the three of you, and despite that— and the added weight of three heavy bags and a beach umbrella— Jason doesn’t break a sweat.

On his left arm; a bright pink bag packed with tinfoil-wrapped sandwiches and cold cans with perspiration clinging to the metal. Next to the pink, is a blue one with the towels, and the last is your white tote-bag (also on his left arm), where you carry all of your stuff. On his right arm, he carries the umbrella.

You had tried to grab something, but Jason just took it back without a struggle while you pulled and tugged. He just raised his brow like are you really trying?

You obviously let him win.

Damian is walking further ahead, inspecting the beach with sharp eyes. He’s dressed in a bright green swimsuit you bought him and a white shirt. Jason is practically the same, except his swimsuit is a boring dark red and his shirt is sleeveless.

The wooden pier feels hot under you, despite wearing flip flops. And pesky grains of sand are stuck to the soles of your feet and slowly rising up your ankles. But you don’t mind, it all fades away the second the scent of sea salt hits your nostrils.

You eye Jason’s bulging biceps and moisten your lips. He flexes them once, rearranging the weight of the food bag. You’re positive you’re going to faint— and not because of the heat.

You quickly set up camp near the shore, and you’re grateful that it’s practically empty. While Jason has gotten more comfortable about his scars around you (and Damian), he’s not exactly ready to parade them around.

Damian crosses his arms and stares at the beach umbrella, a blue-and-white striped thing you bought for only ten bucks.

“You set it up quite poorly, Todd.”

He huffs. “Then why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I would.” He sniffs. “But I’m going into the water.”

You bend over and begin rummaging through the white bag while the other two bicker. You straighten up with a smile.

Both of their faces fall when they see what you have in your hands.

“Please no,” Damian says.

Jason pats his back. “You can’t fight her, kid.”

“But surely—”

Jason slowly shakes his head.

Damian sighs and looks down at the sand. “Fine. But if it gets into my eyes I’m reporting you to Father.”

You grin and click the bottle open. The younger boy looks positively terrified.

It takes two eternally long minutes, according to Damian, to soap him up with white sunscreen. His taut back, his arms, white streaks on the smooth apples of his cheeks, and more gentle touches wherever scars are. He grumbles something and rushes off toward the water.

You and Jason watch him dive in headfirst. Slowly, you turn to him. “You’re not escaping, mister.”

You get rid of your shirt and shorts, standing only in your bikini.

Jason’s jaw drops slightly, but he catches himself almost instantly.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “that hardly seems fair.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To who?”

“To me, obviously.”

He turns around and you squirt a fat dollop of cream onto your palm, applying it directly to the middle of his back. Then you start rubbing it in with slow, soothing motions as your fingers coat the scars and place a kiss under his ear— where the cream hasn’t reached yet.

He goes still for a moment. You pretend not to notice.

Jason turns around again, and you have to go slightly onto your tiptoes to reach his shoulders and arms. You take your sweet time with his biceps, rubbing and admiring them.

Jason snorts. “I’m going to start charging you for staring.”

You roll your eyes. “You're enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

His laughter dims a little when your attention drifts lower, lingering over old scars and hard muscle alike. The quiet is comfortable, with only the soft sand of lapping waves crashing against the shore and the occasional squawk of a seagull.

But then comes his face, and his smile slips away when you tell him to crouch down.

You’re far more careful here, using only the pads of your fingers to spread the sunscreen without risking getting any in his eyes, nose, or mouth. You’re so focused that you don’t notice where his eyes have strayed.

To be completely fair, Jason really tried not to look. He stared at the thin strings of your bikini, but his gaze followed the red downward...

And yeah. Oh.

“That’s it!” You smile proudly.

Jason realizes he’s somehow fallen onto his knees. The burning sand scratches at them, and his skin feels slightly sticky and warm with sunscreen. He’s only half-aware.

“Jason?” You gently lift his chin. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? The sun is right behind your head, a halo of gold crowning you. You’re looking at him with those eyes and wearing that bikini. And he knows it’s not a coincidence that it’s the same shade of red as his suit and swim trunks.

“Oh,” he says. His wide green eyes staring up at you, loose strands of hair falling on his forehead.

Your smile widens. “Oh?”

“You planned this.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“Liar.”

You sink to your knees right in front of him, and link your hands behind his neck. “I knew you’d love this bikini.”

Jason shakes his head once and kisses you anyway. It’s slow and hungry, like eating a juicy peach and trying to get all of the flavour right against your taste buds.

Your lips are sun-chapped but taste like those artificial strawberries— probably from the ice cream you and Damian got at the pier earlier. Sweet, his sweet girl.

He groans and his hands fall to your waist. Big, rough hands that rub against your soft skin, brushing away the scratching sand. You lean further into him.

“This is disgusting.”

It’s practically impressive how quickly you and Jason separate.

Still panting on your knees, coated in hot sand and streaks of Jason’s sunscreen smeared across your chest and thighs.

Damian is drenched, looking like a very angry cat. “Are you two finished being embarrassing?”

Jason smirks. “No promises.”

Damian looks personally offended. “Unbelievable.”

You smile apologetically. “Sorry?”

He huffs. “I may forgive you if you come into the water with me.”

You get up, briefly clutching Jason’s shoulder so you don’t lose your balance. He smirks again.

“You stay.”

Jason snaps his eyes toward Damian.

“Stay here and take care of the fort.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “That's your job, Robin.”

“I'm delegating.”

“Pretty sure that's not how that works.”

“Father delegates constantly.”

Jason opens his mouth, pauses, then sighs. “Fair point.”

You smile Jason goodbye and grab Damian by the hand, running so the soles of your feet don’t burn as you jump into the crystalline water.

That’s when Jason sees it. And his brain, traitor that it is, briefly stops functioning.

Red Hood’s symbol is printed on the back of your bikini bottoms in a brighter shade of red.

Jason closes his eyes. “You're unbelievable.” And insane, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He watches you splash Damian, while Damian loudly insists he isn't having fun. The lie becomes significantly less convincing, when Damian starts splashing back.

Your hand rises above the water, gesturing for Jason to join you.

His smile widens and rushes in.

You end up on Jason’s shoulders, chasing Damian. Slowly, of course— the water is dense, but Jason is strong and Damian allows himself to be chased around.

It did not know about the split skin beneath your gloves, the bruises arranged like ugly fingerprints along your ribs, or the little collection of scars hidden beneath silk and expert lighting. It did not know that the woman selling softness from a billboard had once followed a trafficking broker from a charity dinner to a private club in the East End and broken three of his fingers before midnight.

Gotham knew your face.

Red Hood knew your hands.

He knew them gloved, usually. He knew the way your fingers closed around a baton before violence, the way your wrist flicked before a smoke pellet hit the ground, the way your left hand always went to the blade at your spine only after someone gave you a reason to stop being polite. He knew the shape of you in darkness better than most men knew lovers in daylight. Black armor, fitted mask, hood drawn low, voice flattened through a modulator until nothing personal could escape unless you let it.

He knew you as Mirage.

He had known you for years.

The first time you happened to him, Jason had been twenty, angry enough to turn every alley into a confession booth and young enough to pretend that anger was the same thing as control. He had been hunting a gunrunner through the Bowery, following a trail of modified rifles and dead teenagers until it led him to the back of a pawn shop with barred windows and a loading door painted the color of old blood.

He had expected six men.

There were nine.

He had expected a shipment.

There were children in the van.

That was the kind of math Gotham liked to do.

Jason had taken down four before the fifth managed to get a gun up. Then the alley filled with smoke.

Not normal smoke. Not the cheap gray cough of a canister tossed by an amateur. This was black and silver, thick enough to swallow the light and laced with fragments of reflection that turned every movement into three. The armed men panicked. Jason did not, but only because panic looked different on him. He raised his gun toward the nearest shadow.

Someone dropped from above.

The gunman hit the pavement before Jason fired, his wrist bent at an angle that made him scream. You rose from the smoke like the city had imagined you out of its own bad dreams, all black armor and sharp angles, your baton already moving toward the next man’s throat.

Jason shot the alarm trigger out of a smuggler’s hand and turned his helmet toward you.

“Cute trick,” he said.

You looked over the unconscious men, then at the blood drying across his jacket. “Messy work.”

“I had it handled.”

“One of them had a van full of children.”

His finger tightened against the trigger.

You stepped past him, cutting the lock on the van before he could answer. The children inside stared at you with the frozen terror of people waiting to learn whether the next masked figure would be worse than the last. Your voice changed when you spoke to them. Still distorted, still careful, but lower. Gentler.

“You’re safe,” you told them. “Stay behind me.”

Jason remembered that more clearly than he wanted to.

He had named you Mirage after the third time you interfered with one of his missions, when you used hacked security lights, mirrored decoys, and smoke to make eight men in a warehouse believe there were four of you surrounding them. By the end of that fight, half of them had surrendered to shadows. Jason had stood amid the wreckage with a cracked helmet and blood in his mouth, watching you zip-tie a man to a forklift with more elegance than the situation deserved.

“So,” he said, “Mirage.”

You looked up. “Absolutely not.”

“Too late. It suits you.”

“It sounds like something a man with a branding problem would say.”

“I have excellent branding.”

“You wear a red helmet in Gotham.”

“Iconic.”

“Obvious.”

“Effective.”

“Loud,” you said, and vanished into the smoke before he could decide whether to be offended.

He kept calling you Mirage. You kept pretending you hated it.

Over the years, your paths crossed often enough that coincidence became an insult to both of you. You were not a Bat, though you knew them well enough to keep out of their way when it mattered and irritate them when it did not. You were not one of Jason’s people either, though you appeared in his territory with alarming frequency and a habit of leaving criminals gift-wrapped for the police before he could finish terrifying them. You chased different pieces of the same ugly machine: weapons moving through fashion warehouses, girls disappearing after private parties, donors with clean names and dirty hands, men who hid their violence behind money because Gotham had taught them that enough silk could cover any amount of blood.

Jason learned the shape of your silence.

You would fight beside him without hesitation. You would take his offered hand if you were dangling from a fire escape with bullets carving brick apart around you. You would let him press gauze to your side if you were bleeding badly enough to make pride impractical. But the second a fight ended, you became distant again, all smoke and deflection, humor sharpened into a blade before he could ask a single question that mattered.

He knew you favored rooftops over alleys when waiting for a target. He knew you hated guns but understood them too well to be naive about them. He knew you had expensive gear, better intel than half the people in masks, and a dangerous familiarity with Gotham’s elite. He knew you could walk into a room full of predators and make them think you were prey until the door locked behind them.

He did not know your name.

Gotham did.

That was the joke, though neither of you knew it yet.

By daylight, your name moved through the city like perfume. It rose from magazine covers and flashed across entertainment reports, appeared on invitations, press releases, donor lists, charity boards, luxury campaigns, and the sides of buildings so enormous that Jason had ridden past your face a hundred times without ever thinking to connect it to the woman who once broke a trafficker’s nose in front of him and told him his interrogation technique lacked imagination.

You had been famous long before Red Hood named you Mirage.

You had also been careful long before Jason Todd started looking.

Fame was not a mask you had chosen because you enjoyed being adored. It had begun as work, then leverage, then cover. People spoke in front of beautiful women. They spoke in front of models because they thought looking was a kind of ownership and ownership made them careless. Men who guarded their offices left doors unlocked when they wanted to show off. Men who had trained themselves not to mention crimes in boardrooms forgot themselves over champagne when they believed the woman beside them was too decorative to understand what she was hearing.

You understood everything.

You had learned how to turn being underestimated into a weapon.

You had also learned that no one survived a double life alone.

“Hold still,” Devin said, in the tone of a man who had said it five times already and was two seconds away from making it everyone’s problem.

You stopped flexing your hand.

Devin gave you a sharp look in the mirror. “That was not holding still. That was malicious compliance.”

“I’m holding still emotionally.”

“Wonderful. I’ll put that on your tombstone after I kill you myself.”

He bent over your hand again, his brush moving with the kind of precision surgeons probably envied. Devin had been your makeup artist for six years, which meant he knew your face better than some people knew their own. He was gorgeous in a way that made strangers check their posture, with warm brown skin, close-cropped curls bleached at the tips, and a wardrobe that treated black turtlenecks like a personal religion. He wore gold hoops, silver rings, and an expression of divine irritation whenever your nightlife interfered with his artistry.

He was also the reason half of Gotham did not know its favorite model regularly arrived at shoots looking like she had lost an argument with a brick wall.

“That bruise is deep,” he said, stippling color over the split at your knuckle. “Don’t tell me you fell.”

“I would never insult you like that.”

“You insult me every time you come in here with your face rearranged and expect me to make you look dewy.”

“You are spectacular at your job.”

“Yes, and I’m bisexual, overbooked, underpaid for the emotional labor, and far too beautiful to be color-correcting vigilante trauma at six in the morning.” Devin leaned closer to inspect his work. “Did you at least win?”

You looked at him in the mirror.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. That is why you look smug and concussed.”

“I’m not concussed.”

“You said the same thing last year before you asked me why the couch had opinions.”

“The couch was ugly.”

“The couch was from Milan.”

“It had bad vibes.”

Devin’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Your agent bought that couch.”

“My agent loves me enough to survive the truth.”

“She also loves you enough to cancel Milan if you keep bleeding on my makeup chair.”

From the other side of the dressing room, Marisol looked up from her phone. “I have done it before.”

“You canceled one fitting,” you said.

“I canceled an entire day of fittings, two interviews, and lunch with a man who kept calling me sweetheart in emails even though my signature clearly says Marisol Vega, Agency Representation and Public Strategy.” She smiled without warmth. “I regret nothing.”

Marisol had been your agent for almost as long as Devin had been touching your face. She had started as your booker when both of you were younger, nicer, and less tired. Now she managed your contracts, your press, your charities, your excuses, your disappearances, and the public-facing shape of your life with the competence of a military commander and the loyalty of someone who had once held your hand in a hospital bathroom while Devin painted over a bruise on your cheek before an early morning campaign call.

Your crew was not large, but it was yours.

Devin handled your face and, when necessary, your lies beneath it. Talia, your stylist, had learned to sew hidden pockets into couture without disturbing the line of a gown and could smuggle a collapsible baton into a garment bag with the calm of a woman bringing snacks to a matinee. Nadia, your hairstylist, could hide an earpiece beneath a cascade of waves or a sleek knot so cleanly that security scanners looked like amateurs. Marcus, your driver and unofficial security, knew which alleys had cameras, which paparazzi could be bribed, and which photographers were too predatory to be allowed near the car.

They knew.

Not all of it at first. Not all at once. But bruises told stories, and the people who loved you had learned to read. They had noticed the blood beneath your nails, the torn seams, the exhaustion that followed nights when Gotham’s ugliest men appeared on the morning news with broken hands and no explanation. You had tried lying. Devin had said, with perfect eyeliner and a face like judgment, that he had not survived high school, beauty school, and dating men to be lied to badly by someone he loved.

After that, the lie became a system.

“Your left shoulder is still tight,” Talia said from the garment rack, not looking at you directly. “The gold dress is out.”

“I like the gold dress.”

“The gold dress requires symmetry and a deep breath. You currently have neither.”

“I can fake both.”

“You cannot fake breathing, darling. That is how we ended up with the corset incident.”

Marisol lifted one finger. “We do not speak of the corset incident.”

Devin dabbed concealer along the base of your knuckle. “I speak of it frequently because it was traumatic for me and I deserve community support.”

“You weren’t the one in the corset,” you said.

“No, I was the one explaining to a French photographer why his muse was on the floor breathing into a paper bag while her secret security gremlin threatened to stab him with a hatpin.”

From the doorway, Marcus said, “I did not threaten. I displayed options.”

“You are all impossible,” you said.

Marisol’s expression softened just enough to be dangerous. “We learned from the best.”

You looked away first because affection in a dressing room before a shoot at six in the morning was somehow harder to endure than gunfire.

Devin caught it, of course. He caught everything. He tilted your chin back toward him with two fingers and resumed blending along the edge of your jaw, where a bruise had begun to yellow under your skin.

“Do I need to worry about Red Hood?” he asked.

The room changed so subtly that anyone else might have missed it.

Talia’s hands paused on a hanger. Marisol’s thumb stopped moving over her phone. Marcus became very interested in the hallway.

You kept your face still. “Why would you worry about Red Hood?”

“Because the last time you came back from patrol with that look on your face, it was after you let him stitch your side and then pretended that was a tactical decision.”

“It was a tactical decision.”

“It was a rom-com for people with severe emotional damage.”

Marisol looked up. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Do we need to make a call?”

“To who?”

“Anyone. Everyone. Bruce Wayne, if necessary. The man collects damaged strays like other billionaires collect yachts.”

You almost smiled. “I’m fine.”

Devin snorted. “She says, while I am painting over what appears to be a handprint on her ribs.”

“It was a bad landing.”

“On what? A person?”

You said nothing.

“That silence is legally an admission.” Devin leaned back, inspecting your face with the offended pride of an artist forced to repair a masterpiece after raccoons attacked it. “There. You look rested, luminous, and entirely unlike a woman who spent last night fistfighting organized crime.”

“See? Spectacular.”

“I know. Praise is accepted in cash, compliments, or the name of the man who keeps putting that look on your face.”

“There is no look.”

All four of them stared at you.

You sighed. “I hate you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Marisol said.

You did not.

That was the trouble with being loved by people who knew where the armor ended and the skin began. They made it harder to disappear.

Red Hood did not have that problem, or so you thought.

Hood operated like a warning that had taught itself to walk upright. He had allies, obviously. Gotham’s vigilante scene was too tangled for anyone to be truly alone, whatever they told themselves. He had the Bats, though his relationship with them seemed to shift depending on the night, the case, and how recently Batman had said something emotionally constipated. He had people who would answer if he called. He had hands at his back when the world was ending.

But Hood carried loneliness like an old injury.

You recognized it because you had spent years turning your own into posture.

That was probably why the two of you kept finding each other on rooftops after fights were over, lingering too long in the gray hour before dawn. You would sit on a ledge with blood drying beneath your gloves. He would lean against an access door with the red helmet tucked beneath one arm, domino mask still keeping the last inch of ritual intact. 

Sometimes you talked about the case. 

Sometimes you argued about methods because arguing was easier than admitting how familiar it had become to breathe the same cold air.

Sometimes you said nothing.

One night, after the two of you stopped a shipment beneath the Westward Bridge, Hood found you sitting on the hood of a stolen van with a butterfly bandage half-applied to your cheek and an expression like you were debating whether pride could be used as a medical adhesive.

He held out his hand.

You looked at it. “What?”

“Give me the bandage.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I noticed.”

“Mirage.”

The way he said your name was starting to become a problem. It had been a joke once. A label tossed at a stranger in smoke. Somewhere along the way, it had become familiar enough to make you answer as if it were your real name.

You handed him the bandage.

He stepped close, careful enough to be irritating, and tilted your chin with the back of one knuckle. His hood had fallen back after the fight, rain catching in the dark hair at his temples and the white streak cutting through it. The red mask was gone, leaving only the domino across his eyes and the stubborn line of his mouth when concern tried to disguise itself as annoyance. It should have made him feel less like Red Hood. Somehow, it only made the gentleness stranger.

“You always this difficult with people trying to help?” he asked.

“You always this bossy with people bleeding in your vicinity?”

“Usually I’m worse.”

“That tracks.”

He cleaned the cut with a disinfectant wipe, his thumb resting lightly near your jaw. The sting helped. Pain was easier to manage than his hands being gentle.

“You going to tell me why you were after D’Amico?” he asked.

“You already know why.”

“I know he moves girls through private clubs and auctions guns to men with too much money. I don’t know why you were angry enough to throw him through a windshield.”

“He landed badly.”

“He landed exactly where you aimed.”

You looked past him toward the river.

Hood taped the bandage into place and did not move away. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

That was worse than pushing. Pushing gave you something to resist. Patience asked what you were so afraid of.

A siren wailed in the distance. The air smelled like wet asphalt, gunpowder, and the river.

“He was at a party once,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He went still.

“He thought no one important was listening.”

“And you were?”

You smiled faintly beneath the mask. “People talk in front of beautiful women.”

Hood’s gaze intensified.

You felt the mistake half a second too late.

His thumb, still near your jaw, went motionless. Not enough to trap you. Enough to tell you that something had shifted behind his eyes.

You slid off the van.

“I need to go.”

“Mirage.”

“Don’t.”

You looked at him then, and whatever he saw made him stop.

For all his anger, all his blood and guns and theater, Jason Todd understood the shape of a locked door.

He stepped back.

You fired your grappling line and left him with the body of your almost-confession on the street between you.

After that, he started paying attention differently.

Jason had always noticed things. It was part training, part paranoia, part having died once and come back with a nervous system that trusted danger more than peace. But after that night by the river, he began to notice the edges of Mirage that did not fit into his existing file.

The gear had always been expensive. Not Bat-expensive exactly, but custom, clever, built by people with money and taste. Your armor was too fitted, too cleanly repaired, too elegant in the details no one was supposed to see. Your boots were quiet but not cheap. Your gloves were reinforced at the knuckles and tailored at the wrist. The hidden compartments in your suit were not improvised; they were designed by someone who understood bodies, movement, fabric, and concealment.

You knew high society too well.

You knew which gala entrances had private security instead of city police. You knew the names of donors who never appeared in crime databases but turned up in the wrong rooms with the wrong men. You knew which senators drank too much, which council aides had gambling debts, which fashion houses hired girls too young and too desperate to ask why their contracts included private travel clauses.

People talk in front of beautiful women.

The sentence bothered him for weeks.

Then Bruce disrupted his life by asking him to attend a Wayne Foundation benefit tied to Gotham Fashion Week.

Jason said no.

Bruce did not blink. “You haven’t heard the details.”

“I heard benefit and fashion. That was enough.”

“Several names connected to Black Mask’s distribution network will be there.”

“Send Tim.”

“Out of the country.”

“Dick.”

“Blüdhaven.”

“Cass.”

“Hong Kong.”

“Damian.”

Bruce stared at him.

Jason sighed. “Fine, not Damian.”

“It’s at the Novick Theater,” Bruce said. “The public event is legitimate. The private after-event may not be.”

“May not be.”

“That’s why I need eyes inside.”

“You have eyes inside.”

“I need eyes that do not look like mine.”

Jason leaned back in the chair. “So you want me to play rich dead son at a fashion show.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened slightly at dead, but he did not take the bait. He rarely did when it would be satisfying. “I want you to attend as Jason Todd.”

“That usually goes well.”

“It goes better than Red Hood walking through the front door.”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Jason.”

The name landed with that particular Bruce weight, like a hand on a shoulder that was somehow also a locked gate. Jason hated it. He hated more that some part of him still responded.

He went.

He told himself it was for the case.

The Novick Theater had been restored with the kind of money that made old things look clean enough to forgive themselves. Gold trim shone beneath chandeliers. Velvet curtains framed a runway built over the orchestra seats. Gotham’s elite gathered in black tie and couture, drinking champagne beneath banners that promised art, philanthropy, and empowerment. Jason stood near a pillar with his back to the wall, wearing a black suit Alfred had tailored years ago and an expression that kept most people from trying to make conversation.

Bruce, naturally, found him anyway.

“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Bruce said mildly.

“I’m surrounded by people using the word curated in normal conversation.”

“That would explain it.”

“I found four concealed weapons.”

“This is Gotham.”

“Six if we count the woman near the west bar with the knife in her clutch.”

Bruce glanced once without moving his head. “We count her.”

Jason watched a man near the east corridor adjust his cuff too often. “You owe me.”

“I’ll tell Alfred you said that.”

“That’s low.”

The lights dimmed before Bruce could answer.

Music filled the theater, low and sleek, with a pulse beneath it that made the floor feel alive. Models moved down the runway in structured gowns, black silk, sharp white tailoring, flashes of silver and red. Jason watched because there were exits to monitor and suspects to track, and because if he looked too bored, Bruce would make a comment with three layers of disappointment in it.

Then you stepped onto the runway.

The room changed.

Jason hated that he noticed. He hated the hush that passed through the crowd, the way cameras lifted like worship, the way people leaned forward as if beauty could be breathed in through proximity. You wore a black gown cut clean across your shoulders, the fabric fitted through your body before falling loose around your legs. Diamonds flashed at your ears. Your hair was swept back from your face, leaving every expression visible and somehow revealing nothing at all.

You were beautiful. That was obvious, and Jason did not trust obvious things.

What caught him was the way you moved.

You walked like the room belonged to the idea of you, but your body knew better than to believe it. Every step was smooth, every turn controlled, but there was something beneath it that did not belong only to a runway. Your weight settled like someone who could pivot fast. Your gaze drifted over the room without seeming to search it, pausing for a fraction of a second at the east service corridor, the balcony door, the emergency exit half-hidden behind flowers.

Jason straightened.

Your face was familiar because Gotham had made it impossible for it not to be. He had ridden beneath it, past it, around it for years. Your campaigns filled the city. Perfume, jewelry, couture, charity appeals. You were a public myth in silk, the woman everyone seemed to know without knowing anything at all.

That was not why his mind caught.

Your right hand was covered in makeup.

He noticed because he had spent too much of his life hiding split knuckles to miss it. Foundation had been blended along the base of your fingers, careful and professional, but not enough to disguise the faint swelling near your middle knuckle. Your left shoulder sat a fraction too still beneath the gown. A pale mark near your jaw, mostly hidden by contour and light, looked very much like the edge of the cut he had taped closed two weeks earlier on the hood of a stolen van.

People talk in front of beautiful women.

Your eyes passed over him.

For one impossible second, Jason felt the same assessing attention he knew from rooftops. Not admiration. Not curiosity. Calculation. You looked at him and seemed to measure the distance between him and the exits, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the suit, the way he kept his left hand free. Then your gaze moved on with such perfect disinterest that half the room probably believed it.

Jason stood very still.

Bruce appeared at his side like an expensive haunting. “You saw it.”

Jason did not look at him. “Saw what?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t be cryptic at fashion shows.”

“I’ve suspected for some time,” Bruce said.

That made Jason turn his head slowly. “You what?”

Bruce’s gaze remained on the runway. “There are patterns.”

“There are always patterns with you.”

“She has donated anonymously to clinics in neighborhoods that overlap with Mirage’s activity. Her travel schedule contains gaps that correspond to several interventions in trafficking cases. Men connected to private events she attended have later been found injured, frightened, and far more cooperative with investigators than expected.”

Jason stared at him. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re Batman.”

“I suspected,” Bruce corrected quietly. “There’s a difference.”

Jason looked back at you as you reached the end of the runway and turned beneath the lights. The gown moved around you like shadow poured into silk.

Across the theater, a man stumbled into the path of a waiter. The tray tipped. A champagne flute slid loose.

You caught it by the stem without looking away from the cameras.

Jason heard Bruce breathe out softly beside him.

“Careful,” Bruce said.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “With her?”

“With yourself.”

That was worse.

After the show, the theater rearranged itself into a party. The runway disappeared beneath donors, photographers, stylists, politicians, and the kind of men Jason would have preferred to meet in alleys rather than under chandeliers. He kept you in sight without meaning to. You moved through the room like you had been trained for it, smiling at the right moments, touching a reporter’s arm, leaning toward a donor, turning your face toward cameras as if offering them exactly what they wanted while keeping everything else behind your teeth.

A man with silver hair and a senator’s pin kissed your hand near the champagne table.

Jason watched your shoulders go still.

Only for a second. Less than that, maybe. Then you smiled.

Mirage, his mind said.

The senator smiled back.

Jason wanted to break his fingers and did not know why.

Across the room, a man with perfect makeup and a black turtleneck watched Jason watching you.

His expression turned bright and sharp.

Jason had been threatened by assassins, mob bosses, ancient cultists, and Bruce in a bad mood. Somehow, the makeup artist’s smile still managed to feel personal.

You slipped away to a side corridor ten minutes later.

Jason followed.

He found you in a temporary dressing room behind the stage, one hand braced on the makeup counter while the makeup artist stood in front of you with a brush in one hand and murder in his eyes.

“I cannot fix a hand if you keep making a fist,” the makeup artist said.

“I’m not making a fist.”

“You are emotionally making a fist, and your body is following.”

“I need five minutes.”

“You need a therapist, eight hours of sleep, and possibly a priest, but we work with what we have.”

Jason stopped in the doorway.

The makeup artist’s eyes lifted in the mirror. 

There it was again. That smile. Bright, professional, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Mr. Todd,” he said, sweeping concealer over the split skin at your knuckle with flawless precision. “You’re staring.”

You went still.

Slowly, your gaze rose to the mirror and found Jason behind you.

He should have said something casual. He had not survived this long without knowing how to lie with a straight face. But the sight of you seated in front of a mirror, black gown pooled around your legs, bruised hand held in makeup artist’s careful grip while he painted the evidence away, unsettled him more than any mask could have.

There were garment bags along one wall. A tray of makeup arranged like surgical instruments. A first-aid kit open beneath the counter. A pair of black tactical gloves half-hidden under a silk scarf.

Your world, Jason realized, was not divided cleanly between glamour and violence.

It was stitched together by people who knew exactly where the seams were.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

The makeup artist’s expression suggested he absolutely believed Jason had meant to do several things, most of them suspicious.

“You did,” he said.

“Devin,” you warned softly.

“Oh, don’t “Devin” me. You let a Wayne boy into the dressing room while I’m covering what is very clearly not a backstage injury. I am allowed this complaint.”

Jason’s brows rose. “Wayne boy?”

“You heard me.”

You sighed. “Jason, this is Devin.”

“Makeup artist?” Jason asked.

“Artist, miracle worker, bisexual icon, emotional support menace,” Devin said. “And currently the only thing standing between her and tomorrow’s headline being ‘Gotham Darling Loses Fight with Door.’”

Jason looked at your hand. “Door?”

“You should hear some of her worse lies. Once she told Vogue she fell into a fountain.”

“I did fall into a fountain.”

“You were thrown through decorative water by a man with brass knuckles and no skincare routine.”

“That was one time.”

Devin looked at Jason. “It was not one time.”

Despite himself, Jason almost smiled.

You saw it in the mirror and narrowed your eyes.

Marisol entered then with a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other. She was beautifully dressed, visibly exhausted, and possessed of the kind of authority that made Jason stand straighter before he decided whether he wanted to. Her gaze moved from you to Devin to Jason, then returned to you with terrifying calm.

“Is this a problem?”

You opened your mouth.

Jason answered first. “No.”

Marisol looked at him. “That was not directed at you.”

“I’m figuring that out.”

“Good.” She smiled thinly. “Keep going.”

You pressed your lips together like you were fighting not to laugh. Jason decided, with a strange sense of alarm, that your civilian life might be more dangerous than your vigilante one.

“He knows,” you said.

Marisol’s face went still.

Devin’s brush stopped.

Jason looked at you in the mirror. “I don’t know anything you haven’t let me know.”

That shifted something in the room.

Devin’s gaze flicked toward him, assessing and no longer quite so amused. Marisol studied him as if deciding whether his body would fit in a garment trunk.

You looked away first.

“Who else knows?” Marisol asked.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “No one.”

“Anyone suspect?”

His silence lasted half a second too long.

Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “That was not a comforting pause.”

“People in my family are nosy.”

Devin resumed blending your knuckles. “Do we hate him?”

“Jason?” you asked.

“Obviously Jason. Keep up, babe. The nosy family can wait their turn.”

Jason looked at you.

You looked down at your hand, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “Not yet.”

“Progress,” Jason said.

“No one said that.”

Devin made a thoughtful sound. “I hate him a little less now.”

“How generous.”

“It is. I’m normally very good at first impressions.”

Jason glanced at the open first-aid kit, the hidden gloves, the bruises disappearing under Devin’s brush. “You all know.”

Marisol’s expression softened around the edges, but not enough to become harmless. “Someone has to.”

That landed somewhere Jason did not expect.

He had assumed Mirage was alone because Mirage disappeared alone. He had built that assumption out of his own reflection, out of years of leaving rooftops before anyone could see him bleed. But here you were, surrounded by people who knew what to pack in your garment bags, how to cover bruises, how to kill a story, how to turn a gown into cover and a schedule into an alibi. Not soldiers. Not Bats. A found family armed with concealer, contracts, exit routes, and love sharp enough to bruise.

It made something in him ache.

The dressing room door opened again, and a woman with silver pins clipped to the neckline of her blouse leaned in.

“Talia says the senator wants a photo before the private preview,” she said, then saw Jason and paused. “Oh. Is this Red Hood?”

Jason stared at her.

You put your face in your uninjured hand.

Devin, delighted, said, “Nadia, you can’t just ask people that.”

“Why? He has the shoulders.”

Jason looked at you. “The shoulders?”

“I said nothing.”

“You told them about my shoulders?”

“No,” Devin said. “She has taste, and we have eyes.”

Marisol pinched the bridge of her nose. “Everyone out who does not need to be in here. Nadia, tell Talia we need the black gloves. Devin, finish the hand. Jason Todd, if you are going to stand there looking like unresolved trauma in a suit, at least block the door from photographers.”

Jason blinked.

Then he moved to block the door.

You watched him in the mirror, and the expression on your face was too soft before you caught it.

Devin caught it too.

He lowered his voice, just enough. “Careful.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying don’t.”

You looked up at him.

Devin’s smile faded into something gentler. “I’m saying make sure he knows what he’s holding.”

Your throat tightened.

Jason, pretending not to listen by the door, looked at the floor.

The private preview began at midnight.

By then, Devin had hidden your bruised knuckles beneath black opera gloves, Talia had altered the fall of your gown to account for your tight shoulder, Nadia had arranged your hair to conceal a comm, and Marisol had created a plausible gap in your schedule large enough to contain either a bathroom break or a small war. Marcus waited at the side entrance with the car running and three different routes out of the theater loaded into his phone.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of admiration and discomfort.

Your people did not ask whether you were going to stop. They asked where the exits were. They checked your breathing, tightened a hidden strap, pressed a card into your hand with emergency contacts printed in tiny elegant font, and loved you with the exhausted competence of people who had accepted the impossible and built a system around it.

“You good?” Jason asked quietly when the others stepped away.

You looked at him, black gown brushing the floor, diamonds at your ears, baton hidden beneath silk. Mirage had not put on the mask, but she was standing behind your eyes.

“Usually,” you said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I have.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to your gloved hand. “The senator. Who is he?”

You looked toward the ballroom.

Senator Harlan Crowe stood beneath a chandelier, smiling benevolently while a photographer adjusted the angle. By daylight, Gotham praised him when it needed to feel good about itself. He funded clinics, shook hands with survivors, gave speeches about protecting vulnerable women, and built his career out of language polished smooth enough to hide the bones beneath it. He had kissed your hand six months earlier at a donor dinner and told you your advocacy work was inspiring.

His fingers had been warm, soft, and manicured.

His eyes had lingered too long.

“Someone who thinks public virtue is a locked door,” you said.

Jason followed your gaze. “And private vice is the room behind it.”

“You do have poetry in there somewhere.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I would never ruin your reputation.”

His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed on Crowe. “He hurt you?”

“Not directly.”

That was honest enough to make Jason’s jaw flex.

You touched his sleeve before he could move. The gesture surprised both of you. His gaze dropped to your hand, black glove against black wool.

“Not here,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His eyes met yours.

Whatever answer he would have given vanished when Crowe lifted his champagne glass and looked directly at you.

Recognition did not show on his face. Not real recognition. He knew the public version of you, like everyone did. He knew your name, your campaigns, your usefulness at events like this. He knew how cameras loved you and how donors loved standing near whatever cameras loved.

He did not know that Mirage was looking back at him.

You smiled.

Crowe smiled in return.

Jason felt something cold move through the room.

The preview took place in the restored lower gallery beneath the theater, a private exhibition space lined with photographs from the campaign and couture pieces displayed like artifacts. Attendance was invitation-only, which meant wealthy enough to be careless or useful enough to be bought. Marisol kept you near the center of the room, circulating when necessary, letting you become the thing everyone expected you to be. Beautiful. Polished. Untouchable.

Jason stayed at the edges.

He was good at edges.

He watched Crowe. He watched the man with the cufflinks shaped like knives. He watched two private security guards who did not move like event staff. He watched Devin appear beside you every fifteen minutes with powder and a warning glance, fixing what no one else could see. He watched Marisol run interference with reporters and donors so smoothly that he understood why you trusted her with your life.

Then one of Crowe’s aides disappeared through a staff door with a young model from the event.

The girl was smiling too brightly.

You moved before Jason did.

He caught up to you in the corridor, where the music from the gallery faded into the hum of old pipes and emergency lights.

He said your name under his breath.

Not Mirage. Not the name Gotham’s criminals whispered after the smoke cleared. Your real name, the one printed on campaign contracts and shouted by photographers outside the theater. He said it softly, urgently, and with enough recognition beneath it that it felt more dangerous than the mask.

You did not stop. “Not here.”

“I know where we are,” Jason said. “That’s why I’m using the name everyone else knows.”

That almost made you look at him.

Almost.

“You’re moving like Mirage,” he said.

That stopped you.

For half a second, the corridor seemed too narrow for both versions of you. The public woman in the black gown. The vigilante beneath the silk. Jason in his suit, Red Hood in the way he held himself. He was not threatening to expose you. That was the problem. He was being careful, and somehow that made it harder to keep walking like he had not seen through you.

You turned your head. “You wouldn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

The certainty in his voice did more to disarm you than the threat ever could have.

A muffled cry came from behind the staff door.

You moved again.

The door opened into a narrow backstage dressing room cluttered with garment bags, lighting cases, a makeup counter, and a rack of unused costumes from whatever production the Novick had last hosted before money turned it into a venue for rich people with guilty consciences. Crowe’s aide had the girl pinned against the wall with one hand clamped around her upper arm and the other over her mouth. There was a syringe on the counter beside them.

Jason’s entire body went still.

You got there first.

The aide hit the floor hard enough that the mirror rattled. You put one heel on his wrist and pressed until he stopped reaching for the syringe. The girl stumbled toward Jason, who caught her carefully and moved her behind him with a gentleness that did not match the look on his face.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

Jason reached back and turned the lock without taking his eyes off the aide.

“Cameras?” he asked.

“Not in here.” You tapped the comm hidden behind your ear. “Nadia, kill the hallway feed outside prep room three.”

There was a faint crackle, then Nadia’s voice came through, calm and clipped. “Already on it. You have four minutes before someone notices the loop.”

“Make it six.”

“Do not start negotiating with me while committing crimes in couture.”

Jason glanced at you.

You ignored him.

The girl’s breathing came too fast, sharp enough to hurt. You softened your voice when you turned to her, though the anger in your chest had gone cold and steady.

“You’re safe,” you told her. “Dressing room at the end of the hall. Lock the door behind you. Call this number.” You pulled a card from the hidden slit inside your glove and handed it to her. “Tell them Marisol sent you.”

The girl nodded, shaking.

Jason stepped aside just enough to let her pass. He opened the door a few inches, checked the corridor, then let her slip out. The second she was gone, he shut the door and locked it again.

The aide made a small, frightened sound beneath your heel.

Jason looked down at him. “Talk.”

The aide looked at you, then at Jason. Whatever he saw between the two of you made him pale.

He broke quickly.

Men like him usually did once separated from their pack. He gave up the basement level, the shipment, Crowe’s private security, and the fact that the preview event upstairs was not only cover. It was a marketplace. Blackmail files, weapons, girls, names traded with champagne still on men’s breath. Not all of it would happen tonight. Enough would.

You listened without moving.

Jason watched your face.

The public mask did not crack, exactly. It emptied.

That frightened him more.

“Where?” you asked.

The aide swallowed. “Below the stage. Old trap room. Please, I swear, I don’t—”

You pressed your heel down once.

He stopped.

Jason crouched and zip-tied the aide with his own belt. “Anything else?”

The aide shook his head frantically. “No. No, I swear, that’s everything.”

Jason looked at you.

You gave a small nod.

The aide had enough time to look relieved before Jason struck him once, clean and controlled. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways against the wall, unconscious before his shoulder hit the floor.

You looked down at him. “Was that necessary?”

“He saw us, heard enough to be useful, and was two seconds from screaming the second we left him alone.” Jason checked his pulse with two fingers, then stood. “Yes.”

You could not argue with that.

The room was quiet for half a breath. The locked door muffled the distant music from the gallery. Somewhere above you, people were still laughing over champagne while Crowe moved girls, weapons, and blackmail files beneath their feet. 

You reached beneath the slit of your gown, fingers finding the hidden fastening at your thigh.

Jason’s gaze dropped.

“Turn around,” you said.

His eyes lifted back to yours.

For one strange second, neither of you moved. Then Jason turned without a word and took up position by the locked door, one hand close to the weapon beneath his jacket while you worked behind him.

That was the part that should not have affected you.

The fight was waiting below. You did not have time to linger over trust, especially not here, with your gown still brushing the floor and danger moving beneath the theater.

Still, Jason turned around the second you asked.

Behind him, silk whispered to the floor. He heard the soft clicks of hidden fastenings, the slide of armor pulled from seams, the controlled rhythm of your breathing. The absurdity of it should have been funny: standing guard in a theater corridor while one of Gotham’s most famous women stepped out of couture and into vigilante gear behind him.

It was not funny.

It felt like being trusted with the door.

“You can turn around,” you said.

Mirage stood where the model had been.

The gown lay over one arm, black silk gleaming like spilled ink. Beneath it, you wore the flexible base layer Jason knew too well, reinforced pieces clipped along your ribs and shoulders, your mask still absent but tucked in your hand. You had not fully crossed from one life into the other. Not yet.

Jason looked from the unconscious aide to the gown. “That was dramatic.” 

“You knocked him out.”

“You changed clothes in the middle of a crime scene.”

“You like dramatic.”

“I like efficient.”

“It can be both.”

He loosened his cuffs and removed his jacket. Beneath the suit, he had enough armor to make your brows lift.

“You wore body armor to a benefit.”

“You wore a vigilante suit under couture.”

“That was practical.”

“That was insane.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Jason smiled, quick and unwilling.

You lifted the mask from your hand, but one of the damaged straps caught against your glove before you could fasten it. Jason stepped closer without a word, his fingers careful as he freed the clasp and let you secure it yourself.

The second it settled into place, something shifted between you. Not distance this time.

Understanding.

The fight below the stage was ugly.

Crowe had prepared for police, not vigilantes, but Gotham criminals adapted quickly when terrified. The basement level was a maze of storage rooms, trap mechanisms, old dressing areas, and reinforced crates marked as lighting equipment. Some held weapons. Some held files. One held two girls with zip ties around their wrists and tape over their mouths.

You went very quiet when you found them.

Jason noticed.

He always noticed.

“Get them out,” he said.

“Crowe is mine.”

“Mirage.”

You turned on him. “He is mine.”

Jason’s expression tightened behind the red mask and domino he had pulled on somewhere between the corridor and the stairs. “I’m not arguing that. I’m saying get them out first.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated more that he knew why you needed him to say it.

You cut the girls loose while Jason held the doorway. Gunfire cracked through the basement, loud enough to rattle the pipes overhead. You guided the girls through the side passage and sent them toward the emergency stairs, where Marcus would be waiting because Marisol had already received your coded alert and your people knew what to do when the night turned its teeth on you.

One of the girls clung to your hand for half a second before running.

By the time you returned, Jason was in the middle of the room with blood darkening the edge of his mask and three men on the floor.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“You’re late.”

“To your fight?”

“To subtlety as a concept.”

Despite everything, you almost smiled.

Then Crowe stepped out from behind a row of crates with a gun in one hand and a detonator in the other.

The room went still.

He looked different without cameras. Smaller, somehow, even with the weapon. Men like him always did when the performance ended. His expensive suit was rumpled, his benevolent smile gone flat and mean.

“Well,” Crowe said. “This is disappointing.”

Jason raised his gun. “Drop it.”

“If I do, you shoot me.”

“Probably.”

“Honesty from a masked criminal. Gotham really is changing.”

Your eyes moved over the detonator, then the wires trailing toward the crates. Enough explosives to bury the basement. Not enough to level the theater. Crowe wanted leverage, not martyrdom.

His gaze shifted to you.

The way he looked at your body in the armor made your skin crawl even more than it had at the gala.

“You,” he said slowly. “I know something about you.”

Jason moved half a step forward, placing himself just enough between you and Crowe to make a point.

Crowe smiled. “Protective.”

“Bored,” Jason said. “You going to monologue or bleed quietly?”

Crowe ignored him. His eyes stayed on you. “You have familiar posture. That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But I spend a great deal of time watching women pretend not to hate rooms they willingly entered.”

Your fingers tightened around your baton.

Jason’s voice lowered. “Don’t listen to him.”

Crowe’s smile sharpened. “Ah. There it is.”

You moved first.

The gun fired.

Pain burned across your side, hot and bright where the bullet grazed the seam in your armor. Jason slammed into Crowe before he could fire again, driving him into the crates hard enough to splinter wood. The detonator clattered, skidding across the floor. You lunged for it.

Crowe caught your hood.

The fabric yanked tight. You twisted, but his fingers hooked the edge of your mask before you could break his grip. The fastening snapped with a sharp, ugly sound.

You hit him across the jaw with your baton.

He fell.

Your mask loosened.

For half a second, you caught it with one hand.

Then the broken strap gave way.

It hit the floor between you and Jason.

The basement went silent.

Jason stared at your face.

At the same moment, Crowe laughed through the blood in his mouth.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, that is rich.”

Jason’s gun lowered toward him with lethal calm. “Don’t.”

Crowe grinned up at you from the floor. “Gotham’s darling. The girl on every billboard. Does your agency know what you do after parties? Do your sponsors know? Do all those little girls buying your perfume know their idol spends her nights playing hero in basements?”

You reached for the mask.

Jason got there first.

He picked it up, stepped close, and turned his body so the security camera in the corner caught only his back. His hood was still up, the red mask still covering the lower half of his face. With his free hand, he peeled the domino from around his eyes and pressed it into your palm.

Your breath caught.

His voice was low enough that only you could hear it. “Cameras.”

You stared at him.

Jason Todd stood in front of you in the basement light, hood shadowing his face, red mask still in place, his domino in your hand and your broken mask in his. He had not given you everything. He was not reckless enough for that. But he had given you the part of his disguise that could still save yours.

It was practical.

It was dangerous.

It was the first thing anyone had done all night that made you feel safe.

“Put it on,” he said.

Your hands shook only once.

You secured his domino over your eyes while he stood close enough to shield you from the camera, his body turned deliberately between your face and the lens. Your broken mask hung from his other hand, the snapped strap dangling against his knuckles.

It did not hide you the same way, not really, but it was enough. Enough for grainy footage. Enough for plausible denial. Enough for a man like Crowe to lose the certainty he had been so thrilled to hold.

Jason looked down at him.

Crowe stopped laughing.

“Now,” Jason said, very softly, the voice modulator in his mask turning his voice into something colder, “you were saying?”

By the time the GCPD reached the basement, Crowe was unconscious, the detonator was disabled, the girls were safe, and the evidence against half of Gotham’s philanthropic class was arranged neatly on a crate. Red Hood and Mirage were gone before Gordon could decide whether to be furious or grateful.

You made it as far as the side entrance before your crew descended.

Marisol reached you first.

She did not scream. She did not panic. She looked at the blood on your side, the broken mask in Jason’s hand, the domino across your eyes, and made three decisions in less than a second.

“Marcus, car. Devin, kit. Talia, coat. Nadia, kill every camera angle between here and the east door.”

Nadia was already moving. “On it.”

Devin appeared with the emergency bag, took one look at Jason, and said, “Oh, I hate this.”

Jason blinked. “Me?”

“The situation, mostly. You a little.” Devin turned your chin with a gentleness that did not soften his expression. “Baby, why are you wearing his domino?”

“It was a camera thing.”

“A camera thing,” Devin repeated, in the tone of a man being asked to accept a raccoon as a handbag. “Wonderful. Love that. Very normal evening in fashion.”

Marisol pulled a long coat around your shoulders, hiding the armor and blood from view. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Jason said, “Barely.”

You glared at him through his domino. “Not helping.”

“I’m helping accurately.”

Marisol looked between you. “You can flirt after we prevent a scandal and possible organ damage.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Jason said at the same time.

Devin made an offended sound. “Do not insult me while I’m trying to save your career.”

Marcus brought the car around to the service entrance, blocking the view with his body while Talia gathered the ruined gown and bundled it beneath another coat. Your people moved around you with terrifying efficiency, turning disaster into logistics. Jason had seen combat teams less coordinated under pressure.

He helped you into the car because you let him.

That was the part that made everyone notice.

Marisol slid in beside you. Devin followed with the kit, muttering about antiseptic and fools. Jason started to step back, because this was your world and he had already pushed too far into it.

Your hand caught his sleeve.

“Come with me,” you said.

The car went very quiet.

Jason looked down at your hand.

Then at you.

Devin whispered, “Oh, she is down bad.”

“Devin,” Marisol said.

“What? Am I wrong?”

Jason got in.

For three seconds, the car was silent except for the hiss of Devin opening an antiseptic wipe.

Then you said, “Crowe saw my face.”

No one pretended not to understand.

Jason’s head turned toward you, his hood still up, the red mask covering the lower half of his face. The domino was still over your eyes. It felt strange there, too warm from his skin, too intimate for something meant to be practical.

Marisol looked at you from the opposite seat. “Crowe thinks he saw your face.”

“He knows.”

“He knows something,” she said. “That is not the same as having proof.”

“He said my name.”

“He said a lot of things while bleeding on a basement floor surrounded by evidence of human trafficking, illegal weapons, explosives, and attempted abduction.” Marisol’s voice stayed calm, which meant she had already started building a strategy. “If he starts screaming that Gotham’s favorite model is a vigilante, half the city will think he’s desperate, the other half will think he’s concussed, and the tabloids will call it a breakdown.”

“He had cameras.”

“Nadia?” Marisol said.

From the front passenger seat, Nadia did not look up from her phone. “Bad angle. Worse lighting. Red Hood blocked the only clean shot, which I will be thanking him for never. The rest is motion blur, smoke, his back, and her wearing the domino before the camera gets anything useful.”

Jason glanced toward her. “Never?”

“Do not make this emotional.”

Devin pressed the antiseptic wipe to your side and ignored the way you hissed through your teeth. “Also, people believe nonsense faster when there are options. We give them options.”

You looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Marisol said, “we flood the zone.”

“With what?”

“Other theories,” Nadia said, still typing. “Mirage is your body double. Mirage is your secret sister. Mirage is an ex-model with a vendetta. Mirage is actually three people. Mirage is a Wayne-funded performance art protest.”

Jason went very still. “Do not put Wayne in it.”

Marisol’s mouth curved. “Relax. We’ll keep it ridiculous.”

Devin brightened. “Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Jason stared at him.

“What?” Devin said. “Too ridiculous?”

From the driver’s seat, Marcus said, “Clark Kent is Superman.”

Nadia snorted. “Please. The reporter from Metropolis?”

“He is tall,” Marcus said.

“So are lampposts.”

Despite the pain in your side and the fear still sitting cold beneath your ribs, a laugh escaped you.

Jason looked around the car as if he had accidentally climbed into a vehicle full of lunatics. “This is your damage-control plan?”

“This is step one,” Marisol said. “Step two is legal pressure. Step three is every sponsor and charity board calling Crowe unstable before breakfast. Step four is making sure any real footage becomes one more blurry clip in a sea of conspiracy edits.”

“You make that sound easy,” Jason said.

Marisol smiled at him. “I am very good at my job.”

You looked down at the broken mask in Jason’s hand. The snapped strap hung loose against his knuckles.

“He still knows,” you said quietly.

Jason’s gloved hand closed around the broken mask. “Then he lives with knowing something no one will believe.”

His voice was still altered by the red mask, low and rough and cold enough to belong to the man Gotham feared. Then his gaze dropped to the hand you still had curled in his sleeve. Carefully, he covered it with his own.

“And if he tries to use it,” he said, “he deals with all of us.”

Devin made a small sound. “Oh, I hate that I liked that.”

Marisol looked at Jason for a long moment, then nodded once, as if he had passed some test he had not known he was taking.

“Fine,” she said. “He can come upstairs.”

Your apartment looked different with him in it.

It was too clean, too high above the city, too full of expensive silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Gotham. Across the avenue, one of your billboards glowed above the traffic, the campaign image enormous and flawless. In it, you wore red silk and a mouth painted to match. The woman in the advertisement looked untouchable.

Jason noticed.

Your crew swept in behind you and transformed the space with the ease of people who had done this before. Devin set up at the kitchen island with the medical kit. Marisol took phone calls in a voice so calm it became threatening. Talia disappeared into your bedroom and returned with soft clothes. Nadia checked the security feed. Marcus stood near the door, arms crossed, like any paparazzo foolish enough to approach would be introduced to the architecture.

Jason stood in the middle of it all, too large and too quiet.

You sat on the edge of the couch while Devin cut away the damaged portion of your base layer with small silver scissors.

“You are not allowed to bleed on custom fabric this often,” he said.

“I’ll put it on my calendar.”

“Add sleep while you’re there.”

“Unrealistic.”

“Selfish.”

Jason watched Devin clean the wound with practiced hands. “You’ve done this a lot.”

Devin did not look up. “I’m amazing at many things. Unfortunately, field medicine became one of them.”

“It was never supposed to,” you said softly.

“No, babe.” Devin’s voice gentled without losing its bite. “A lot of things weren’t supposed to happen.”

That silence carried history Jason did not know.

He looked away.

Marisol ended a call near the window. “The story is controlled. Crowe had a medical emergency. The police response is being attributed to a credible threat. You left early due to exhaustion.”

“I did?”

“You will. Publicly.” Marisol looked at Jason. “Bruce Wayne is asking if his son is alive.”

Jason sighed. “How did he get your number?”

Marisol smiled. “I’m very good at my job.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Yes.”

She handed him the phone.

Jason took it and walked toward the window. “I’m alive.”

Even from the couch, you heard Bruce’s low voice on the other end.

Jason looked tired suddenly. Younger and older at once.

“No, I didn’t compromise the case.” A pause. “No, I’m not at the theater.” Another pause, longer this time. “She’s alive too.”

You looked down at Devin’s hands.

Devin looked at you.

His brows rose.

You mouthed, Don’t.

He mouthed back, Pathetic.

Jason ended the call and returned the phone to Marisol. “He says thank you.”

“No, he didn’t,” Marisol said.

Jason’s mouth twitched. “He implied it in emotionally repressed billionaire.”

“I’ll bill him for the translation.”

Devin finished taping gauze over your side and leaned back. “There. You’ll live, though I am begging you to consider a hobby like ceramics or adultery. Something less hard on the face.”

“You always suggest adultery.”

“It has costumes, secrets, dramatic entrances. It’s practically the same thing, but fewer concussions.”

Jason made a sound that might have been a laugh.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Marisol saw it. Devin saw it. Talia and Nadia definitely saw it. Marcus looked at the ceiling as if he were asking God for professional strength.

Your found family, traitorous and beloved, began making excuses to leave.

Marisol claimed she needed to handle the press. Devin said he needed to save the gown from bloodstains and bad decisions. Talia gathered the ruined fabric. Nadia said something about security footage. Marcus announced he would be outside the door for twenty minutes and then downstairs, which was both a statement and a threat.

Devin paused before leaving.

He pointed a makeup brush at Jason. “You.”

Jason lifted his brows.

“She loves like she’s making contingency plans, which means she will try to turn this into strategy if you let her. Don’t be an idiot.”

Your face went hot. “Devin.”

“And you,” he said, turning to you, “do not use emotional intelligence exclusively on criminals and then act surprised when your personal life looks like a warehouse fire.”

“Are you finished?”

“For now.” Devin leaned down, kissed your forehead, and softened just enough. “Call me if the bleeding gets worse.”

“I will.”

“You won’t, but I love pretending.”

Then he left.

The apartment became quiet around you and Jason.

Not empty. Your people had been there too vividly to leave emptiness behind. Their coats, their voices, their care still lingered in the air. But the door closed, and for the first time all night, you were alone with him.

Jason stood near the coffee table, still in his torn shirt and half-hidden armor, his domino gone, his face bare. He looked at the closed door, then at you.

“They really love you,” he said.

“They’re nosy.”

“That too.”

You pulled Marisol’s coat tighter around your shoulders. “They saved my life before they knew what I was doing with it.”

Jason sat beside you, leaving space. He was always careful at the worst possible times. “Why tell them?”

“I didn’t. Not at first. Devin figured it out because I kept coming to shoots with injuries makeup couldn’t explain. Marisol figured it out because nobody gets food poisoning before every suspicious gap in their schedule. Talia found a knife in a gown lining. Nadia found blood in my hair. Marcus saw someone follow me from an event and handled it before I could.”

“You let them stay.”

“They refused to leave.”

“Smart people.”

“They’re idiots.”

“They’re family,” Jason said.

You looked at him.

His gaze was on the billboard across the avenue. Your own face looked back from the glass, distant and perfect and impossibly smooth. “I thought Mirage was alone.”

“So did I, once.”

“What changed?”

“They didn’t ask permission to love me.”

Jason went very still.

You had not meant to say it that plainly. The truth sat between you now, too large to pretend it belonged to the room and not to both of you.

Jason looked down at his hands. The knuckles were bruised. There was blood beneath one nail, though you were not sure whether it was his or someone else’s.

“Must be nice,” he said, and then his mouth tightened as if he hated himself for it.

“It is,” you said. “It’s also terrifying.”

He glanced at you.

“When people love you, you become something that can be lost.”

Jason’s expression changed, not dramatically. He was too practiced for that. But the words landed. You saw it in the small shift of his jaw, the slight lowering of his gaze, the way he absorbed the sentence like it had found an old wound and pressed gently.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the part no one advertises.”

You laughed softly.

It hurt your side.

Jason noticed and moved closer without thinking. His hand hovered near your waist, then stopped before touching. The hesitation undid you more than contact would have.

“You can,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Touch me,” you clarified, because you were tired and hurt and done speaking in code.

Jason’s hand settled carefully against your uninjured side.

Warmth moved through you, startling in its simplicity.

He looked at you for a long moment. “You sure?”

“No.”

His hand started to withdraw.

You caught it.

“I’m sure I want you to,” you said. “I’m not sure I know how to be normal about it.”

Jason’s mouth curved, sad and fond at once. “Normal’s overrated.”

“You would think that.”

“I died. I get some perspective.”

“You make jokes at terrible times.”

“Yeah.” His thumb moved once, slow against the fabric of the coat. “And you hide behind sarcasm when you’re scared.”

You wanted to deny it. You were good at denial. You had made a career out of making people believe the face you gave them.

Jason looked at you like he would let you lie if you needed to, but he would know.

“I don’t know what you want from me now,” you said.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“What you’re offering.”

Your breath caught.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and warm.

You looked at his mouth. Jason noticed because he always noticed, and the air between you changed. It had been changing for years, maybe. On rooftops, in alleys, in the space between his hand holding gauze to your skin and yours closing around his wrist before you let go too quickly. Suspicion had become familiarity. Familiarity had become trust in motion. Trust had become something neither of you named because naming gave a thing edges, and edges could cut.

“I’m tired of disappearing,” you said.

Jason’s eyes softened. “Then don’t.”

It was not that simple.

It was also exactly that simple.

You leaned in.

Jason met you halfway.

The first kiss was careful, almost unbearably so. His mouth was warm and firm against yours, his hand lifting to your jaw without touching the bruise Devin had painted over that morning. You felt the restraint in him, the strength held back so tightly it trembled. Red Hood was violence in a mask. Jason kissed like someone terrified of becoming a weapon in the wrong hands.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

His breath caught.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “Tell me if your side hurts.”

“My side hurts.”

His mouth twitched. “Then tell me if it gets worse.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive,” he said. “I want you to stay that way.”

Something inside you opened painfully.

You kissed him again, less carefully this time. Jason’s hand slid into your hair, dislodging what remained of Nadia’s careful work, and you loved that more than you should have. His other hand settled at your waist, warm through the coat and the thin fabric beneath, careful around the bandage Devin had just placed. Even that felt like a question.

You answered by shifting closer.

Jason made a low sound and broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t say yes because tonight was bad.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t say it because I know now.”

Your throat tightened.

You touched his face, fingers brushing the white streak in his hair before settling along his jaw. “I’m saying yes because you knew enough to protect me before you asked for anything. I’m saying yes because you gave me your mask when mine broke. I’m saying yes because I want you.”

Jason closed his eyes for a second, like the words had struck somewhere deep.

When he opened them again, the green was almost too much to bear.

“Okay,” he said softly.

He kissed you as if permission were sacred.

The pace changed after that, though it did not become rushed. He helped you stand and move toward the bedroom, one arm around your waist, patient with your bruises, careful when your breath hitched. Your bed was still unmade from the morning, a black garment bag thrown across the bench at the foot of it, a pair of heels abandoned near the dresser. The room looked too human after the polished silence of the living room. Jason seemed to notice that too.

He paused by the bed. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“You can change your mind.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him, at the blood on his hairline, the bruising along his jaw, the worry he was trying to turn into patience. “I trust you.”

Jason went still.

The words were not grand. They were not dramatic. But in your mouth, after years of vanishing, they were almost obscene in their honesty.

He touched your face with the back of his fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed you again, softer than before.

He helped you out of the coat first, then the damaged armor piece by piece, pausing whenever your breath caught for the wrong reason. His hands learned you through caution before desire: the curve of your shoulder, the bruises along your ribs, the line of your spine, the places that made you lean closer and the places that made you wince. You had been undressed professionally under bright lights, unzipped and pinned and arranged until your body felt less like yours than a garment someone else had borrowed.

Jason undressed you like he was returning you to yourself.

When the torn top came off, his gaze moved over you with open want and visible restraint. The wanting made heat rise beneath your skin. The restraint made you trust him more. He touched your uninjured side first, then your hip, then the soft skin below your ribs, his fingers callused and reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

You laughed faintly, defensive before you could help it. “That’s the general consensus.”

Jason’s gaze returned to your face. “I don’t care what they think.”

The words stole the smile from your mouth.

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, your cheek, the place beneath your jaw where the mask usually sat. “I’m telling you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

He kissed down your throat with a tenderness that made your hands curl in the sheets. You felt too exposed and somehow not exposed enough, caught between the woman Gotham touched with its eyes and the woman Jason touched with his mouth, as if both of them deserved gentleness. His hand slid to your thigh, then higher, slow enough that you could stop him.

You did not.

“Still okay?” he asked against your skin.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His mouth brushed your collarbone. “Keep telling me.”

Your laugh turned into a gasp when his fingers dipped beneath the last layer of fabric.

Jason watched your face as he touched you, learning each reaction with the same focus he brought to rooftops and violence. It should have embarrassed you to be seen that closely, but his attention did not feel like a camera. It did not take you apart for consumption. It gathered evidence of what made you feel good and treated the information like something precious.

You caught his wrist, not to stop him, only to hold on.

His thumb moved in a slow circle, patient and sure, until your hips shifted despite the ache in your side. He kissed your mouth, swallowing the sound you made, then kissed down again, over your chest, your stomach, the safe path around your bandage. He looked up from between your thighs, hair falling over his forehead, eyes dark with want.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

“I want to.” His hands moved along your thighs. “Unless you don’t.”

You swallowed. “I want you to.”

His mouth curved. “Then lie back, sweetheart.”

The endearment should have sounded too easy. From him, roughened by want and softened by care, it slipped beneath your skin like warmth.

You lay back against the pillows, his hands careful as he settled between your legs. The first touch of his mouth made you breathe his name. He paused as if the sound mattered, then did it again until your fingers found his hair and held on. He was patient in a way you had not expected from him, thorough and attentive, one arm braced carefully across your hips to keep you from twisting against your injured side.

The city watched itself in the windows.

Your billboard glowed across the avenue, bright and false and impossibly far away.

For once, you did not feel trapped beneath your own face.

Jason made you feel present. His mouth, his hands, the low approving sound he made when you stopped trying to swallow your pleasure. Heat built slowly, then all at once, your body tightening beneath him until you were shaking with it. He laced his fingers through yours when you came, holding your hand against the mattress while his mouth eased you through the aftershocks.

When he climbed back up your body, you pulled him into a kiss and tasted yourself on his lips.

He groaned softly, and the sound broke some last fragile thread between restraint and need. You reached for his shirt, clumsy with urgency, and he helped because there was still too much between you. Fabric, armor, weapons, grief. You wanted skin. You wanted weight. You wanted proof that he was real in a way Gotham could not take from you.

Jason stripped down with less ceremony than he had given you, but there was a moment when his shirt came off, and your hands stilled against his chest.

Scars crossed him in pale lines and rough patches, old wounds layered over newer ones, a history written in damage. Your fingers hovered before touching.

He watched you carefully.

You traced one scar near his ribs, then another along his shoulder. “Can I?”

His throat moved. “Yeah.”

You kissed the scar beneath your fingers.

Jason went still in a way that had nothing to do with danger.

You kissed another, then the center of his chest, then the place over his heart because you could not help yourself. His hand slid into your hair. He did not push. He only held you there, breathing unevenly while you gave gentleness back to him in the only language either of you seemed to understand.

By the time he eased you down again, both of you were shaking.

He moved over you carefully, mindful of your side, one forearm braced beside your head so his weight did not press where you were hurt. You guided him closer with your legs around his hips, and he looked down at you with an expression so open it made your chest ache.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

You believed him.

The first slow press of him inside you made your mouth part around a breath you could not quite catch. Jason lowered his forehead to yours, giving you time, his body tense with the effort of holding still. You slid your hands up his back, feeling muscle shift beneath scarred skin.

“Move,” you whispered.

He did, slowly at first, each thrust deep and controlled, his mouth brushing yours without quite becoming a kiss. Softness did not make him less intense. If anything, it made him more devastating. Jason touched you like every sound mattered, like every gasp was a confession he intended to keep safe. He murmured praise against your cheek, your throat, your mouth, low words that made heat pool beneath your skin.

“Beautiful like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not for them. Just here. Just you.”

Your eyes stung.

You pulled him down into a kiss before the feeling could become too large to survive. He let you hide in it for a moment, but only a moment. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth and slowed until you had to look at him again.

“I see you,” he whispered.

You came apart with his name caught in your throat.

Jason followed soon after, his rhythm breaking, his breath shuddering against your neck as he held himself over you and let go. For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved. The rain had softened outside. The city was still there, still hungry, still full of men like Crowe and masks that broke at the worst possible time.

But Jason was warm above you.

He eased away with a care that made you ache for reasons more emotional than physical, then returned with a damp cloth and the medical kit because apparently even sex could not stop him from being irritatingly practical. You complained about this. He told you to hush and checked your bandage anyway.

Afterward, he climbed into bed beside you.

You expected awkwardness. A joke, maybe. Some retreat behind sarcasm now that the wanting had been answered and the room was too quiet.

Instead, Jason pulled the blanket over both of you and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm warm around your waist and gentle enough not to press against your bandaged side.

You let him.

Your head rested against his chest, your palm spread over one of his scars. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. That felt impossible and precious enough that you stayed very still, as if sudden movement might wake you from it.

Across the avenue, your billboard continued to shine.

Jason followed your gaze. “She looks lonely.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The billboard girl.” His fingers moved slowly along your arm. “She looks like she’s waiting for someone to tell her she can stay.”

You did not answer for a while.

Then you said, “Maybe she is.”

Jason pressed a kiss to your hair. “Then let her.”

The words settled over you with the warmth of his body and the ache of your own.

Morning came quietly.

You woke to pale light touching the windows and Jason’s arm heavy around your waist. For once, you had not vanished before sunrise. Your broken mask lay on the bedside table beside his domino and red mask, both of them useless in the honest light.

Jason was awake. You could tell by his breathing.

“You staring at me?” you murmured.

“Investigating.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Find anything useful?”

“Yeah.” His hand slid carefully over your hip, warm and possessive in a way that felt less like ownership than wonder. “You drool.”

You turned your head and glared at him. “I do not.”

“Little bit.”

“I regret trusting you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You should have. It would have been smarter. Safer. Easier.

Instead, you rolled carefully toward him, mindful of your side, and found him watching you with a softness that made the whole city outside feel distant. His hair was a mess. There was a bruise along his jaw. He looked nothing like the ghost Gotham had made of him and everything like the man who had held your mask in place before asking who you were.

“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”

His smile was small and real.

Your phone began buzzing somewhere on the floor. Then Jason’s chirped from the pile of discarded armor. 

Gotham, impatient as ever, came knocking at the edges of the room.

Neither of you moved immediately.

Then a key turned in the front door.

Jason’s entire body went alert.

You caught his wrist. “Don’t shoot my agent.”

The bedroom door was still mostly closed, but Marisol’s voice carried from the living room. “I heard that, and I appreciate the warning.”

Devin followed a second later. “If he shoots me, I will haunt both of you with contour advice.”

Jason stared at the ceiling. “They have keys.”

“They have emergency keys.”

“Of course they do.”

“They also have breakfast.”

That made him pause.

From the living room, Devin called, “And coffee, because some of us contribute positively to society.”

You smiled against Jason’s shoulder. “You can run if you want.”

Jason looked at the broken mask on the bedside table, the billboard beyond the window, the door behind which your found family was pretending not to give you privacy while absolutely listening. Then he looked at you.

“I’m good,” he said.

Your chest warmed.

“You sure?” you asked.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “Yeah.”

Devin knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer. He took in the bed, Jason, your bandage, your hair, the general state of the room, and placed one hand over his heart.

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “The sexual tension was becoming a hostile work environment.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it. “Please. I’m an artist.”

Marisol appeared behind him with coffee trays and an expression of long-suffering victory. “I assume everyone is alive?”

Jason lifted a hand. “Mostly.”

“Good. Bruce Wayne has called twice, Crowe is in custody, three sponsors want statements, and TMZ is convinced you left the event because you’re secretly pregnant, feuding with another model, or joining a cult.”

You sat up carefully. “Which cult?”

“I told them nothing, obviously, but if we need to choose, I can work with cult. It has mystery.”

Devin pointed at Jason. “He looks like a cult.”

Jason, still shirtless and scarred in your bed, looked at him flatly. “Thanks.”

“It was not a compliment, but you’re welcome.”

Marisol set the trays on the dresser, then looked at you. Her expression softened in that dangerous way that always made you want to hide. “How’s the wound?”

“Fine.”

Jason said, “Not fine, but stable.”

You glared at him. “Traitor.”

Marisol smiled at him. “I like him.”

“You do not get to like him before I decide what I’m doing.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Devin said, handing you coffee you did not remember asking for. “You decided somewhere between letting him into the car and letting him ruin Nadia’s work.”

Jason glanced at your hair. “It looks good.”

Devin pointed at him again. “Correct answer. Hate him less.”

The morning unfolded around you in a way that should have felt impossible.

Marisol took calls in the kitchen while Marcus guarded the hallway and Nadia scrubbed security feeds from a laptop. Talia arrived with a soft robe, a replacement mask, and the ruined black gown sealed in a garment bag like evidence. Devin sat at the foot of your bed and fixed the bruising near Jason’s jaw because, apparently, “if he’s going to be photographed leaving the building, he will not do it looking like a back-alley divorce.”

Jason submitted to the brush with visible suspicion.

“You’re tense,” Devin said.

“I don’t usually get makeup done.”

“Everyone says that until they see themselves with properly corrected under-eyes.”

“I wear a mask.”

“And yet your pores persist.”

You laughed so hard your side hurt.

Jason looked at you, and the annoyance left his face.

Devin saw that too. Of course he did. This time, he said nothing.

Later, when the calls slowed and the coffee went cold, you found Jason standing by the window. He was wearing his shirt again, though it hung open at the collar, and one of Devin’s tiny flesh-colored bandages sat over the cut near his cheekbone. Across the avenue, your billboard watched the city with manufactured longing.

“She’s not going anywhere,” you said.

Jason looked over his shoulder. “The billboard girl?”

You came to stand beside him. “Contracts.”

“Right.”

“She pays for a lot.”

“Armor?”

“Armor, clinics, safehouses, Devin’s emotional damages.”

Jason smiled faintly.

You looked at your own face in the distance. “I don’t hate her. Sometimes I think I should, but I don’t. She gets into rooms Mirage can’t. She makes people underestimate me. She protects the people who protect me.”

“She’s part of you,” Jason said.

“So is Mirage.”

“I know.”

You turned your head. “Do you?”

Jason looked at you then, and there was no mask, no domino, nothing but the man who had seen both of your masks break and still chosen to stand in front of the camera.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The answer was simple enough to be terrifying.

You touched his hand where it rested near the glass. His fingers curled around yours.

Behind you, Devin yelled from the kitchen, “If you two are having a meaningful window moment, wrap it up. I need to discuss the press statement, and I refuse to let romance ruin my schedule.”

Jason closed his eyes.

You smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

He looked at you. “That a threat?”

“Usually.”

His laugh was low and warm.

Gotham still loved a beautiful lie. It would keep loving her. It would print her face, buy her perfume, whisper her name, and mistake distance for grace. It would look at the woman on every billboard and think it knew her.

Jason Todd knew better now.

So did Devin, and Marisol, and the small, ferocious family waiting in your kitchen with coffee, cover stories, and three different plans for getting Red Hood out of your apartment without being photographed.

The city would keep looking.

Let it.

For once, when morning found you, you did not vanish.

Your heart absolutely stopped for a second. What? You can’t even hear your own voice.

He laughs. Nothing serious. He’s just worried you’re hungry.

Huh? Your voice is still raspy from sleep.

Just come.

So now you’re here, climbing the stairs to the VIP lounge. And it’s just your luck that someone is guarding the door.

He scans you up and down, then shuffles a bit closer to block the entrance.

"Hi, um, my friends are inside waiting for me."

He raises a brow. "Sure.”

"Yeah," you insist. "Roy and Jason—"

His face falls. "You’re Jason’s girl?"

"Sorry?" You blink twice. "What do you mean—"

But you’re interrupted for a second time. You frown and check your phone again, to see if there are any missed calls. There’s not.

The man turns around and taps his earpiece. A moment later, he spins back to you, smiling brightly. "You can absolutely come in." He opens the door for you. "Jason’s girl."

You mumble a thanks, still very weirded out by the whole experience.

The second you step inside, all eyes snap to you. Granted, there are only five other people besides Roy and Jason, but it’s still very weird for everyone to be tracking your movements and whispering to each other.

You ignore the stares and make your way to the boys’ table in the corner of the room. Just where Jay would’ve chosen it— away from any potential threats.

"Roy! Jason!" you call.

Jason is rambling to Roy, waving his hands around and smiling brightly. But the second he hears you, his whole body freezes. Even his hands stop mid-gesture. His pretty green eyes immediately start scanning the room until they land on you.

And then he waddles. He waddles toward you. His movements are clumsy as he tries to grab you, nearly walking straight into a decorative plant.

"Baby!"

You catch him just as he’s about to collapse on top of you. Struggling to support his weight, you try to steady him.

He lets you. Then he picks you up.

He kisses you on the nose, and all you can do is blink in confusion before he throws you over his shoulder.

"Jason?" you whisper-yell. "Put me down right now."

"Nuh-uh." He sounds smug. "Can’t."

The world flips again as he plops you down beside him on the velvet couch. Now you’re sandwiched between the two of them.

You look at Roy, raising a brow. "What did you even give him?"

He smirks, raising his hands innocently. "He said he could handle it."

Jason is playing with your hair. He tugs on a strand before curling it around his index finger.

"Why is everyone looking at us?"

Roy laughs, bright and loud. "Jason couldn’t stop telling everyone about you. The cocktail guy, the—"

"Bouncer?"

He snaps his fingers. "Yeah." Roy grins. "You know, I thought he'd eventually run out of facts."

You blink. "Facts?"

"Oh, yeah." He starts counting on his fingers. "You brush your teeth for ten minutes— you’re a psycho for that, by the way. You like your toast overly done. You cry at movies, even if they’re not sad. He’s dissected the meaning of all of your favourite songs...”

You’re too dumbfounded to properly answer. Roy continues.

"You apparently have the prettiest smile in the tri-state area."

Jason nods solemnly. "It's true."

Roy whistles. "He's got it bad."

Jason is still playing with your hair. "You’re so pretty."

You turn to him with a smile, brushing his cheek softly. He immediately nuzzles into your touch. "Not as much as you."

He shakes his head. "No, no. You’re ridiculously pretty. Sometimes"— he drops his voice, as if you’re sharing some great secret—"when you smile, I forget how to think. Or when you do anything, really."

He wraps an arm around your waist until there isn’t even an inch of space between you. You can feel every line of his body, the hard muscle beneath his clothes. "My pretty, pretty girl."

You place a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jay."

"And you also make me really hard."

Roy’s laughter is impossible to ignore. He slams a hand on the table, wheezing as he mumbles something between fits of laughter. You see him fumble for his phone out of the corner of your eye.

"Yesterday, for example, when you—"

"Jason," you say sternly.

His face falls. "Don’t be mad at me." He’s frowning now, his big green eyes glossy and wide.

You cup his face. "I’m not angry, baby."

"Oh, okay." He nods slowly. "I’m sorry I told Roy you snore."

"I do not—"

Roy nudges your shoulder. "According to Jason, you do."

Jason nods matter-of-factly. "When I can’t sleep, I listen to you breathe. So yeah. You snore."

Your heart pounds in your chest, steady and hard. You want to kiss him. Not just his lips. Everywhere.

Because who decided kisses on the lips were the most intimate? You’d kiss every scar, every freckle, every crook of his beautiful body. You want to worship him with kisses.

"And you make me soup," Jason continues, completely oblivious to the look of pure love on your face.

Roy blinks. "Okay?"

Jason sighs dramatically. "Not canned soup. Actual homemade soup she spends time and effort making."

"Congratulations.”

He rolls his eyes. "You don’t get it." Then his eyes find yours, unwavering. "But you do. You get me, and you love me."

"Of course I do, Jay.” You smile softly.

Jason smiles before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His eyes flutter shut as you run your fingers through his hair. "You’re my definition of an angel."

The next morning, Jason wakes up with a killer hangover and his entire body wrapped around you.

Then he bumps into Roy in the kitchen. He dies of embarrassment the second Roy holds up his phone to show him something.

The video shows nothing but the club ceiling, dim lighting, and red velvet. The audio, however, is crystal clear.

What if she’s hungry?

Jason physically cringes at the sound of his own whiny, worried voice. He’s never drinking again. Roy is barely holding in his laughter, the phone slightly shaking.

She’s an adult, man.

She forgets to eat. There’s a frustrated grumble. I can’t unlock my phone. Stupid numbers. A brief shuffle. The password is her birthday. You call her.

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.