Gemini Twin

You walked into the department balancing one of those cardboard drink trays from Dunkin’ Donuts with practiced ease, scanning the room until your eyes landed on John.

Instant smile.

“There you are,” you said warmly.

Several heads lifted immediately.

Because nobody—nobody—talked to John Shen like that.

John looked up from his charting, and the second he saw you, his entire face softened in a way nobody in the department had ever witnessed before.

Actually softened.

Not polite.

Not professional.

Soft.

It stunned everyone into silence.

“You brought coffee,” he said, standing up immediately to take the tray from you.

“Obviously,” you teased. “You forgot breakfast again.”

A few nearby nurses exchanged looks.

Whitaker nearly dropped a chart.

You reached up automatically, fixing the slightly crooked collar of John’s scrubs before kissing his cheek lightly.

And that—

That was the moment the entire ER collectively lost its mind.

“WHAT?” someone blurted from across the desk.

You blinked.

John sighed quietly like he already knew exactly what was happening.

Langdon looked personally betrayed. “You’re married?!”

John glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Since when?” Cassie demanded.

John frowned slightly. “Three years.”

“THREE YEARS?!” Whitaker repeated.

You looked between all of them in confusion. “Wait… none of you knew?”

A chorus of no’s answered you.

Dana folded her arms, staring at John. “You never mentioned having a wife.”

John shrugged once. “It never came up.”

“It absolutely would’ve come up!” Langdon argued. “That’s huge information!”

You laughed softly while John handed you your own coffee cup from the tray.

“He’s kind of private,” you admitted.

“Kind of?” Cassie echoed. “We barely know what music he listens to.”

John took a sip of his iced coffee calmly while the department continued spiraling around him.

“You guys are being dramatic,” he said.

“The man has a secret wife and we’re dramatic?” Whitaker said incredulously.

“Secret wife?” you repeated, amused.

Dana pointed at John. “Do you know how many times this man has worked double shifts and never once mentioned going home to another human being?”

John looked genuinely confused. “Why would I bring that up randomly?”

The entire desk groaned.

You laughed harder now, leaning lightly against his side while he steadied the drink tray with one hand.

And somehow that made everything worse.

Because now everyone had to process the fact that John Shen apparently had a soft domestic side.

Cassie narrowed her eyes. “Oh my god.”

“What?” you asked.

“You’re telling me this guy goes home and acts like a husband?”

John looked offended. “I am a husband.”

“Yeah, but like…” Langdon gestured vaguely. “You’re so… John Shen at work.”

You grinned. “He’s still John Shen at home.”

John nodded once. “Correct.”

“But nicer,” you added.

John looked at you for a moment before the tiniest smile appeared again.

The room erupted instantly.

“Oh, that’s insane,” Whitaker muttered.

Dana pointed aggressively. “See? See what happens when she’s here? He has facial expressions.”

John sighed. “I’m going back to work now.”

“No, absolutely not,” Cassie said. “We’re interviewing her first.”

You laughed. “Interviewing me?”

“We need details,” Langdon insisted. “How did you even get him to date you?”

John immediately resumed charting like he planned to ignore the conversation entirely.

You smiled knowingly. “Honestly? He brought me coffee first.”

The room went silent.

Then every head slowly turned toward John.

John paused mid-typing.

“…traitor,” he muttered under his breath.

The thrill of the catch—having an epiphany during an odd case, and grabbing hold of a diagnosis others were so far from discovering, made you feel invincible, and all the trials and tribulations thus well worth it in the end, however. You were saving lives. How many others can say the same about their occupation? Most otherwise work in trade or retail or from cushy corner offices. Which isn't to say that they're not all vital bees in the buzzing hive which is the world, but they're no Michael Robinavitch or Dana Evans or Jack Abbot.

Local rockstars to you they are. Or...were.

That began before long, too: burnout. Your days turning into a monotonous, psychologically draining cycle. No more do you walk out the Pitt's doors and it feels like you're coming back through them again, greeted not by smiles and welcoming sentiments, but by screaming, ungrateful patients who just keep dying.

Covid leveled your world and ripped the rose-colored glasses from your eyes that you once wore so happily. It ingrained such trauma within you that you didn't know where to put it.

There was no time for therapy.

Not that you probably would've gone had there been—making such an appointment was like accepting defeat; admitting that something had gone wrong with you.

That your brain was sick.

You power through the nightmares; the fleeting reminders of things you'd rather forget when a machine beeps a certain way, or an item of PPE flashes in your peripheral as a co-worker pulls it on. It'll move through you eventually, you tell yourself; work its way out of your system just like a virus or a nasty cold.

It won't last forever.

Or...you'd thought as much, anyway.

Lately, for the last few months, things have gotten exceptionally hard. You're both sleeping and not. When you get home, it's all you really want to do. As of late, you forgo dinner in favor of it. The scale in your bathroom reflects this change.

Runway models should really invest in giving healthcare a go for awhile instead of diet pills, you think. It'd work faster.

When you do rest, however, it's fitfully. You toss and turn, toss and turn. No more does your head hit the pillow and it seems like your alarm is screaming at you to get out of bed to get back to it.

You're withdrawn at work. Talking expends energy. Effort, even. Not that you want to conserve it. You just don't much like people anymore.

They've changed. At once they were so friendly. Human beings you liked talking to. Now, you'd rather drink bleach than carry on any sort of conversation at length. The same kind of goes for patients. You've thus been faltering in your bedside manner, and little handout review sheets reflect it. Something new enacted by those at the top of the hospital.

There's no thanks for the good you do, only chastisement for the bad. Bad, bad, bad. That's what you are.

You think maybe others can see it: this grotesque thing that's broken inside of you. You can't fix it. Not when you're not wholly sure what it is. Just...a part that can't be reached, you suppose. It's okay, though, if people don't want you around. You've never been terribly good with them, you think. Always saying the wrong thing, or making the moment needlessly awkward by inserting yourself where you clearly were never wanted.

It's better now—you pulling away. Retreating. Retracting.

They're happier, it seems, with you removed from their everyday.

The thoughts begin as mere daydreams in time, since you find yourself with little else to do in the quieter moments: pills, razors, rope, a speedometer climbing well past ninety. You toy with them like a Rubik's Cube—turning them this way and that, figuring which best suits you.

It becomes sort of exhilarating, really—knowing that there's such an incredibly easy way out of it all. And that it's always there, awaiting you. Like a friend. Something you can both lean and rely on.

You like that fact.

That peaceful feeling becomes...very hard to escape once it's implanted itself within your mind like a hard to pull root from a noxious weed. As in, impossible.

It haunts your steps in the hall, sits with you in the staff lounge, visits with you at home... It even comes with you to the toilet, it's so prevalent.

You could always take a bottle of pills from work. Ones that would just let you drift off to sleep. Peaceful and painless. No better option, in your opinion.

You tuck the thought away for possible later use.

You throw yourself fully into your work and turn on blinders to anything outside of it. You let yourself become a machine—merely doing as you are bid without quarrel. It seems to please people when you go along with them; are at their beck and call and always of agreement with their opinions and assumptions. It's strange how different social hierarchy becomes when you've set aside any personality of your own.

But you're not perfect. Sometimes your mind becomes fuzzy. You think maybe it's atrophying. And that equates to the occasional mistake.

Abbot dislikes when you give a patient double the dosage of a medication of what he instructed you to. It made them a little sick—some vomiting and a seizure—but they survived. Meanwhile, he'd pulled you aside and you stared while occasionally blinking as he told you why what you did was so dangerous.

Bad, bad, bad.

At one time, he'd liked you. Gave you extra attention and often let his hands rest on your shoulders or lower back. One time he caressed your cheek, which had made it warm pleasantly in response. Now that you're no longer his shining star, though—having burnt out so long ago—you think he'd rather you weren't around.

You should do something about that fact.

"We cannot afford mistakes like that, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that opens us up to?" He questions. Pressing one finger to the other, he supplies you an answer so you don't have to come up with one. You're glad for that.

You don't think you could if you tried.

"Lawsuits, a revocation of your medical license, an inquiry by the Medical Board..." He trails off after counting off so many digits.

You nod. "I understand, Doctor Abbot," the girl devoid of light and life says. "It won't happen again. I promise."

He gives a smile and a nod, pats you on the shoulder—a gesture which you flinch away from since you really dislike being touched lately for some reason—and tells you that that's exactly what he wants to hear before walking away from you.

You should just kill yourself.

It's what you think anytime you screw up now. Drop and break a glass at home? Suicide. Get berated by a superior at work? Suicide. Take too long to go after a light has turned green and a driver behind you honks their horn? Suicide.

Such a burden you've become. Maybe you've always been? You're not sure. You hope not, but if so, you wouldn't be surprised.

You start making preparations before your big, metaphorical trip.

Typing away on a computer, you drown out the hubbub of your surroundings—choosing to instead focus solely on the digital chart before you. When your eyes begin to grow a bit blurry, however, you glance up and idly watch as individuals in blue and black and grey scrubs come and go.

You pick Doctor Robby to observe for a bit.

You'd adored him at one time. For awhile, actually. You liked how tall he was, and his neatly trimmed beard. His Carhart pants and how he commanded authority while still being gentle in instruction. The timbre of his voice reverberating through your ear canal when he stood close as you tended to patients sent chills up your spine. It was like finely ground coffee: dark, but nevertheless smooth and tempting.

When he started calling you by various pet names around the Pitt, you'd stupidly humored yourself by believing that perhaps he felt similarly—had a hidden crush, same as you. You'd become almost certain of it one night when he gave you a ride home because your car wouldn't turn over due to a corroded battery.

Your heart had rhythmically thumped away between your breasts as you watched his hands turn the steering wheel—half hoping he'd take you home with him like a stray.

He never did.

Now, he doesn't so much as give you a second glance.

Maybe it makes you a narcissist to have assumed there was a mutual attraction. Not everyone wants you. In fact, no one does. If only you'd figured it out sooner, you would've saved yourself so much trouble in chasing after those who only wanted to get far away from you.

You lower your head then turn to the left where Santos sits with a recorder, dictating her own patient's chart. You wait until there's a pause, then speak—take your first steps in making your plan a reality.

"Hey, Trinity?" You ask quietly.

Swiveling around in your direction from atop an office chair, she toys with her recorder. "Yeah?"

"Do you like records?"

Her brows furrow. "Yeeeah. Why?"

You shrug indifferently while typing a few more words. "I'm getting rid of my collection. I thought that maybe you'd like to have them."

Her brows raise in surprise. "I mean, how much are you asking?"

You shake your head while hitting the space bar. "No charge."

She scooches closer—sure that this is too good to be true. "Wait. Are you actually serious? I mean, vinyl is like stupid expensive right now. You wanna just give yours away? To me?"

You nod. "I don't listen to them anymore." Picking up your phone, you wave it haphazardly before tossing it down with a thud. "If I want to listen to music now, I just stream it."

You look at her over your shoulder. "They're just collecting dust. You can have them all. Do whatever you like with them. Keep them, sell them, gift them." You shrug. "Makes no difference to me."

She beams at the prospect of furthering her collection, and for entirely free, at that. "Yeah, hundred percent I want them."

You save the chart you've just completed. "They're in my trunk. I'll get them to you once our shift is through."

For the next two weeks, you continue on with offloading your life onto others. You give Samira your clothes in multiple garbage bags. Mel your books, McKay some decorative figures you kept on your bookshelves for her son, Javadi your jewelry and accessories, and the nurse's station your stationary in all its organized glory.

When Dana tries showing concern—asking as to why you're doing this, sarcastically asking if you're moving—you shrug it off and tell her it's just a bit of spring cleaning.

She frowns, knowing that it's the tail-end of summer.

Once your apartment is nearly devoid of any sign that you once lived in it, you cry from joy.

You're so close now. Just a few more loose ends, and you'll be ready to go.

Abbot is the first to go out of his way to speak to you. He deems it good—great, even—that you're in a better mood today. He's heard...troubling news. Spring cleaning, you'd called it to Dana. But sometimes people just choose to declutter their lives, right? Especially in this line of work, it's way too easy to let your living space become an absolute wreck because you can't be bothered to expend the energy to clean it up on a regular basis.

Makes it easier the less you've got to deal with. And when you practically live in scrubs... Well, who needs dress clothes, right?

Bumping his shoulder against yours, and sending your fingers flying across the keyboard you stand at, you begin backspacing to fix your typos.

He doesn't like those.

"You seem better today," he remarks. "That's good. Got some big plans after work or somethin'?" He asks curiously.

You smile with warmth. If you were the sun—which, here in the Pitt, at one time you were—he could stand within the light your rays provide for forever. "I do," you say quietly, with cheer.

He raises a brow and his lips tug into a smirk. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

You shrug. "It's a surprise."

He leans in close. "Not for me, is it?" He whispers.

You turn to him, and he nearly stumbles back. The tone of your voice and your general demeanor... They don't match the vacant look in your eyes whatsoever. They don't... They don't even look like they're yours.

"You're a good doctor, Jack," you say while gently resting a hand against his upper arm. "I don't think I've ever told you how grateful I am that I was given a chance to learn from you. PTMC is really lucky to have you here."

His brows furrow and the smile slips from his face. "Sweetheart, you're starting to freak me out here."

Couldn't even do that right, you think. Just further confirmation that you're indeed making the right choice. "I'm sorry," you say while stepping away. "It won't happen again. Have a nice evening, Dr. Abbot."

You give Mel an unexpected hug before she's due to head home for the day. She stumbles back, hesitates for a moment, then returns it with a feeble embrace. "Becca is really fortunate to have such a caring sister. It makes me happy you two have one another," you tell her with a squeeze.

She steps back while flushing and nervously adjusting her glasses. "Y-Yeah. Me too."

You part from her with a nod, and let her go on her way.

Later on, you catch Mohan at her locker and lean against your own. Yours, which can been completely cleaned out, minus your stethoscope. They'll open it eventually. You left a note to please give the item to someone who needs it. Or just...keep it in the inventory as an extra incase another's becomes faulty.

"I know Robby has been kind of hard on you lately," you say quietly.

She doesn't speak.

"But you have so much talent with patients. You take their feelings into consideration. A lot of providers let this job get the better of them and their care suffers for it." You gently grip her wrist. "Don't let him turn you into someone you're not."

Just as she turns to say something, you've gone.

Dennis has just slung his backpack over his shoulder when you jog to catch up to him by the ambulance bay's doors. "Hey," you say, settling a hand atop his shoulder.

He turns with a surprised look on his face.

"I wanted you to know that I think what you're doing for Amy and her baby is really...sweet. Commendable." You drop your hand and smile. "Are you happy?"

He grins and glances down to his shoes while nodding. "Yeah. I-I am. I think she is, too."

You turn your head to the right and watch as a truck pulls up outside. "Don't let her go, Dennis." You look back to him. "Family is important. Make sure you don't let this place become the only one you have."

He raises a brow and makes to step forward—to question what's going on—until you take a few steps back. "I gotta go, but you two drive safe. Okay?"

"I'll see ya tomorrow, kid," Dana calls from behind you.

Slowly turning round to face her, you look at Emma who's seated just to her side. "You've got a good teacher here," you say while nodding to the older blonde. "So you listen to her and soak up everything you can. Having Dana as your guide here in the Pitt is invaluable."

Emma nods with a toothy smile. "I will."

Your eyes flit back to Dana. "See you around," you whisper.

By the end of your shift, things feel different. For the first time in maybe years, you feel content. At peace. Could it mean that things are...worth a second try? You'd not even considered that such a thought would cross your mind.

But there it sits, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Exiting through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay, you step out from beneath the overhead coverage that extends outward and stare up at the stars. You'd meant to be dancing amongst them tonight, but...plans can always change.

You look to the right, and find Robby strapping a bag to the rear luggage wrack of his motorcycle. Maybe... Maybe he can help? He'll know what to do, because you know this moment won't last. You have to reach out and ask for him to hold your hand through this while you've still got the mental fortitude at your disposal to do so.

Crossing your arms, you walk over to him. "Hey, Robby?"

Tightening a bungee cord into place, he raises a brow. "Hm?"

"Could I talk to you about something? It's—"

He sighs with irritation and runs a tired hand down his face. "I was really hoping to get going. Guess I didn't move fast enough." He turns to you with crossed arms as well, matching your stance. "Can this not wait until morning?"

Your eyes flit between his.

So much happens in that moment.

Your resolve shatters into irreparable shards which slice through any hope you'd had but a moment ago, and a confirmation is granted to you. Confirmation that you chose right all along.

What's meant to be will be.

And with the small orange bottle in your pocket, you'll make it so.

It's okay now.

You force a reassuring smile and shake your head. "Sure. It wasn't important. It doesn't matter." You take a step back. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a nice night. And—and drive safe, ok?"

He barely pays you any mind as he mounts his motorcycle and drives away.

Waiting for your Uber to arrive, you continue studying the stars. They just...look like they'd take such good care of you, y'know? Never would they let you fall or falter. They act as one.

But, so, too, are they already dead.

You suppose that's rather fitting.

"You need a ride?"

Glancing to your left, you find Frank watching you with a curious look on his face.

You shake your head. "No, thank you, I have an Uber coming."

He nods. "Car in the shop?"

You shrug and look away. You donated it to a local charity yesterday, actually. You'd been rather surprised to find out such things existed. They repurpose them for homeless youth and single mothers and the like. It'll go to someone in need.

That makes you happy.

Your phone dings that your driver is 5 minutes away.

Standing, you pad over to Frank. "I'm really proud of you for going to rehab, Langdon."

He tucks his phone away into his pocket. "Yeah, well, Robby didn't exactly give me another choice."

You chew your lip. "It was the right thing. For you...and your children." Meeting his eyes, you crook your head to the side. "They need their dad. Your sobriety is a big deal. You should be proud of it, too."

His brows furrow.

"This hospital needs you here. I'm glad you came back."

Tires crunch against asphalt, and a white SUV pulls up.

When you start toward it, Frank takes a small step forward. "Are—are you okay?"

After popping open the back passenger door, you look at him over your shoulder. "I am. I know what I have to do now."

He thinks to reach out for you. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

You swing a leg inside. "Goodbye, Frank."

With that, you shut the door behind you.

An empty plastic bottle crinkles quietly between your shaking hands.

On the floor, a pill bottle lies on its side. It's contents currently dissolving in your stomach acid.

Looking around the nearly empty space you occupy, you tell yourself that you can't go back. There's nothing left. Even out in the hall sits yet another box of odds and ends you didn't know what else to do with. So you merely drew on the front of it 'FREE' with a smiley face and sat it next to your apartment door.

Someone will rifle through it and take what they like; give the things inside a second home.

Leaning back against the headboard behind you, you swallow thickly as hot tears practically singe your cheeks. The truth you don't want to admit now is that you're scared. You don't want to die like this: alone, and in what has now become a strange place.

What if no one comes in the next few days? You don't want them to find your body bloated and rotting; infested with flies and maggots that crawl inside your mouth and ears.

Fighting against how your head swims when you turn it, you reach for your phone. You grip it as hard as you can and jerk your unsteady limb back to you. Plopping the device onto the mattress you're seated upon, it takes four tries before you manage to punch in the correct pin code.

You dial 3 numbers, then wait.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Pleeease," you slur. "I changed my mind."

"—Female. Unconscious. Pulse is bradycardic and thready," the EMT informs Abbot and his team as he rounds the back of the van. "She told 911 about a half hour ago that she swallowed a bottle of Prozac."

Popping open the door, he turns back to Abbot and shoves the empty bottle into his hands. "She must've stole them, seeing as a man's name is on the bottle. We found it on the floor of her apartment. I figured you all would want it when you try to treat her."

Helping his partner get the gurney out of the van, the bottom wheels fall and clatter to the ground before locking into place.

"Oh my God," McKay exclaims before clamping both her hands over her mouth.

Having come back around to morning time, the rest of the day shift will soon be arriving.

Meanwhile, Abbot knows he can't leave now.

He'll work a 24 hour fucking shift if he has to.

When the other EMT exits the rig, he looks between the crowd of unmoving bodies. "You all know her or something?"

"She fucking works here," Toomarian replies before stumbling back.

Jack shakes his head, then begins firing on all cylinders as his body jumps into motion. "McKay, Shen, you two are with me. Henderson, get your ass inside and tell Handzo that I need a room cleared. We're going to intubate and then perform a gastric lavage."

He glances around. "I said now! Move your asses!" He shouts.

Standing outside, Robby watches as your body lifts off the hospital bed you've been transferred to. With numb, shaking fingers tangled painfully in his hair, he yanks tightly against the strands. Jack glances to the monitor, shakes his head, then commands McKay to try again.

"Please," he cries through clenched teeth. "Fuck," he curses. "It's all my fucking fault."

When he came in for his shift, your room was the first one he bothered peeking into, and it stopped him cold in his tracks before he barked at Whitaker to help him suit up so he could help.

A gesture which didn't last long when he backed into a tray of sterile instruments once inside, and thus sent them scattering across the floor. Panicking, he tried picking them up as a series of apologies spilled from his lips. Aimed toward you, Jack, or the team which was trying to save you, he's unsure. In the end, he sliced his hand open with a ten blade. As blood oozed from the wound, Jack shouted for him to get out. To have someone stitch him up while he otherwise kept his focus strictly on you.

"No, I-I have to s-stay. I can do it. We have to fucking save her, Jack."

Jack had leveled him with a glare. "I am going to do every goddamn thing I can to ensure that she doesn't slip away from us, but you have got to leave this room. You're breaking my concentration. It's already hard enough!"

Forcing her way inside, Dana shoved against his chest to guide him out of the room. Stumbling backward, Robby pointed at Jack. "You fucking bring her back. You bring her back to us or I'll never forgive you!"

Now, here he stands in the middle of a fast-moving ED with over a dozen stitches in a hand that's wrapped in gauze, praying to a God who stopped listening long ago to take him instead if it meant sparing you.

It's all his fault.

You had tried to talk to him. Had given living one last try. And he couldn't be bothered to spare five minutes.

The lump in his throat becomes too much to breathe or swallow over.

Robby starts choking on his own saliva.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest and his knees buckle out from under him.

Falling to the floor, Dana runs to his side. "Hey, Rob, Robby, look at me. What's goin' on, big guy?"

He clutches at his chest. "MI," he pants.

"I need a gurney over here!"

A panic attack.

He'd hoped for worse, because then it would mean God had actually obliged his only request.

Sitting in a hospital bed with his head held hopelessly between his hands, he refuses to face the room that lies across the way. Peds.

So much horror its walls have bore witness to.

But also love and care.

Like the day of PittFest. Another moment which saw Robby at his lowest; collapsed in on himself like a dying star. You were the one who pulled him out of the darkness, though.

Caressing his face between careful hands, you swiped tears from his cheeks while telling him that you understood—had been where he sat so many times (why didn't he see it then?)—but still nevertheless needed him that day. That you both had essential work to do which you wanted him at your side for, and after is when he could break. In your arms, if that's what he required.

Did he kiss you then? Or was that an imagined dream he drew up in his muddled head?

Shoving off the bed he occupies with a huff, Robby does exactly that: gets to work. It's what you would want. And the only way he won't fall apart again. Because if he continues sitting there thinking up worst case scenarios, he'll never make it out of here alive.

The whole department has spent the day on-edge. Jack has assured them that the worst has passed, but until... Unless you woke up, you weren't totally out of the woods.

Practically everyone sticks around until well after their shifts are through—waiting with bated breath—to see if you'll open your eyes.

For what it's worth, piles of your things begin arriving in droves when people realize you hadn't just been cleaning out your apartment like you said.

You'd been preparing never to come back.

For the absolute worst of reasons.

They each take turns visiting with you. Apologizing. Or just telling stories.

Besides Robby and Abbot, Frank takes it the hardest. He was the last person you spoke to. He tells Jack over and over and over again that he should've stood in front of the fucking car if it meant making you stay. That he knew—he knew—in his gut what you had planned.

Mel has bumped into patients and coworkers alike so many times while passing by your room that 'sorry' has become her word of the day.

Dana stays quiet. She merely watches from beneath the board, awaiting the opening of your pretty eyes again.

Javadi quietly asks Jack when—not if—you wake up, he'll have you put on an involuntary psyche hold. He tells her that psyche will be called for a consult, but what happens from there will be out of his hands. All he knows is that he has to make sure this never happens again.

When his chin begins to wobble as he smooths hair from your brow is when she takes her leave.

When his shift nears 20 hours, Jack finally takes a seat at your bedside. Holding your limp hand between each of his, he presses it to his lips. "You have people waiting for you," he murmurs. "I am waiting for you. Robby is. Sweetheart," he cups your cheek and your head lulls to the side. "I love you."

He begins to cry. "Why the fuck I didn't say it sooner I—" He shakes his head. "I thought it'd be unprofessional. You were my subordinate." He lowers his head. "Goddamn coward." Lifting his head again, he kisses your fingertips. "I'm saying it now. I mean, how could I not fall for you?"

A knock sounds from the door.

Robby.

Pushing open the glass entrance, he steps inside. "Still nothing?" He asks quietly.

Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. But she'll wake up soon. She has to."

Seating himself on the side of your bed, Robby cups your cool cheek in his palm. "You came to me. You needed me and I wasn't there." He runs the pad of his thumb along the curve of your jaw. "But I am now. I will spend as much time as I have to fixing this; making it up to you."

Leaning down, he hesitates, then presses a soft kiss to your lips.

But that only works in the stories...

"Rest of my life if I have to."

Jack falls asleep slumped over in his chair—his head resting beside you and his fingers firmly intertwined between your own. Robby took up position at your side in bed. Holding you close to him with his hoody draped over your chest, he tucked you just beneath his chin before drifting off.

As long as your heart still beats, they've each something to hold onto.

Your awakening is sluggish; gradual. Pulling yourself from the primordial sludge which deigned to hold you meant fighting a battle you weren't sure you could win.

But when you stir quietly, and feel warm bodies on either side of you, accompanied by the sound of quiet snoring, you know you've come out the other side victorious.

"Welcome back," drawls a thickly accented, feminine voice from across the way. "Had a lot of people worried, kid."

The rumbling chest you're pressed against quiets, then shifts. Pressing your head back against the soft pillow beneath it, you stare up at Robby's tear-stricken face. He doesn't speak. He merely smiles before cupping your cheek in his palm and pressing his lips to yours.

You're far too exhausted to think on it.

You'd thought he didn't care. What else have you been wrong about as of late?

Your right hand suddenly released, Jack stands, then seats himself on your bedside. "We're going to take care of you. Alright? I promise."

Leaning down, he kisses you next.

Dana turns back to the nurse's station.

The fluorescent lights in the conference room hummed like a swarm of indifferent bees overhead. You stood at the head of the long mahogany table, laser pointer in hand, clicking through the final slides of the most important presentation of your career. The regional directors from three states had flown in for this. Contracts worth millions hung in the balance. Your boss, Elena, sat at the far end, nodding approvingly as you outlined the projected Q3 deliverables for the new distribution partnership.

Your voice stayed steady, professional, laced with that practiced Nashville warmth that always sealed deals. “And as you can see from the data modeling, shifting to the hybrid logistics model will reduce overhead by eighteen percent while maintaining our commitment to same-day service in the metro area.”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. You allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile. This was it. Months of late nights, endless Excel sheets, and caffeine-fueled revisions had led here. You could already taste the promotion.

Then it hit.

It wasn’t dramatic, no clutching your chest or stumbling backward like in a movie. Just a sudden, sickening wave of dizziness that made the edges of your vision blur and the floor feel like it was tilting beneath your sensible black heels. Your stomach flipped. A cold sweat prickled across your forehead and the back of your neck. The laser pointer suddenly felt impossibly heavy in your fingers.

*Oh God. Not now.*

You knew this feeling. It had happened once before, years ago during college finals after pulling three all-nighters. Vasovagal something-or-other, the doctor had said. Low blood sugar, dehydration, stress. Usually manageable. But right now, in the middle of the biggest pitch of your life, it felt like your body was about to betray you spectacularly.

You gripped the edge of the table, forcing your knees to lock. “If you’ll turn to page seven in the packet,” you continued, voice only slightly thinner, “you’ll see the competitive analysis against…”

“Everything okay?” Mark from Operations asked, frowning. He was two seats down, always the observant one.

You nodded quickly. Too quickly. The room spun again. “Fine. Just... need to sit for a second. Continue for me, Elena?”

Your boss gave you a concerned look but picked up seamlessly as you lowered yourself into the nearest chair. The relief of being off your feet was immediate, but the dizziness didn’t fade. You needed the floor. Horizontal. Now. The carpeted conference room floor suddenly looked like the safest place in the world.

You slid out of the chair as gracefully as possible, knees hitting the carpet first, then your palms. A couple of gasps went around the table.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Sarah from Marketing was already halfway out of her seat.

You waved her off, pressing your forehead to the cool carpet for a blessed second. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little lightheaded. Low blood sugar, probably. Skipped breakfast.” The lie came easily. You didn’t need them hovering or calling an ambulance. Not when the directors were staring.

“You don’t look so good,” Mark said, crouching beside you. “Your face is white as a sheet.”

“Sit tight,” Elena added, her voice tight with worry. “We can pause this. Water?”

You accepted the bottle someone handed you and took small sips, breathing slowly through your nose. The dizziness began to ebb after a minute or two on the floor. Color slowly returned to your cheeks. “See? Already better. Let’s just finish the presentation. I’ve got this.”

They fussed for another minute, but you insisted, and eventually the meeting resumed with you back in your chair, contributing where you could. The directors were polite, but you caught the sidelong glances. The deal closed anyway, shaky but successful. Elena clapped you on the shoulder afterward. “Go home early. That’s an order.”

You smiled gratefully. “I’m really okay. Just need some lunch.”

What you didn’t do was text Ryan.

Ryan Hart, Lieutenant Ryan Hart of Station 113, with his easy Southern drawl, broad shoulders, and that modern-cowboy charm that still made your knees weak after eight months together. He was on shift today, probably running drills or checking equipment or doing whatever heroic firefighter things kept Nashville safe. You weren’t about to pull him away from that over a silly dizzy spell. He was worried enough as it was.

By the time you made it back to your desk in the open-plan office, the worst had passed. You nibbled on a protein bar from your drawer and chugged another water. Coworkers stopped by Sarah with ginger ale, Mark offering to cover your afternoon calls. You brushed them all off with laughs and “I’m fine, promise.”

You should have known better.

Ryan found out forty minutes later.

The business doors were open to the warm Nashville afternoon when Ryan’s walked in. His shift had ended early thanks to a quiet day, and he’d been looking forward to surprising you at your work with takeout.

Instead, he ran into Sarah in the parking lot.

“Ryan! Hey, wait, have you talked to her today?” Sarah asked, concern knitting her brows.

He slowed, instincts immediately sharpening. “Her? You mean my girl? No, why?”

Sarah hesitated, then spilled. “She almost passed out in the big presentation this morning. Just dropped to the floor in the conference room. Said she was fine, but she looked terrible. White as a ghost. We tried to get her to go home, but she powered through.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “She what?”

“Yeah. Elena sent her home early, but I saw her at her desk twenty minutes ago. She didn’t want us calling anyone. Especially not you, I guess.”

The worry hit first, sharp and protective. Then the flash of frustration. She hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Nothing.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he said, voice clipped but polite. He was already pulling out his phone and heading back to his truck.

---

You were halfway through answering emails when the familiar heavy footsteps approached your cubicle. You looked up just as Ryan appeared, all six-foot-something of him in his Station 113 polo and work pants, expression a storm cloud wrapped in Southern politeness.

“Hey, cowboy,” you said lightly, hoping the casual tone would deflect. “Shift end early?”

He didn’t smile. Those blue eyes, usually warm and teasing, were locked on you with laser focus. “Conference room and you hitting the floor. Almost passed out. And you didn’t think to mention it?”

You winced. “Who told you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, you didn’t.” He crouched beside your chair so he was eye-level, one large hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin. “You okay now?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, covering his hand with yours. “Really. Just a dizzy spell. Low blood sugar, stress, whatever. The presentation went great.”

His jaw flexed. “You hit the floor in front of clients and directors and didn’t call me.”

“I didn’t want to worry you while you were on shift.”

“Baby.” The word was soft but edged with that lieutenant tone he used when he wasn’t taking excuses. “That’s exactly when you call me. That’s the deal. We don’t hide the important stuff.”

You sighed, leaning into his touch despite yourself. He smelled like soap and faint smoke and safety. “I powered through. Closed the deal. See? All good.”

Ryan stood, offering his hand. “Up. We’re leaving.”

“Ryan, I have..”

“Elena already cleared it. I checked.” He gave you that look, the one that said arguing was pointless. You took his hand and let him pull you up. The world stayed steady this time.

He kept a protective arm around your waist as you gathered your things, nodding politely to your coworkers who were pretending not to watch. In the elevator down to the parking garage, he pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You scared the hell out of me when Sarah told me,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry.”

“You will be,” he said mildly, but there was no real heat in it. Just worry.

---

At your apartment, Ryan moved like he owned the place, which, lately, he practically did. He settled you on the couch with your feet up, then disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, the fridge humming.

“Ryan, I can make something…”

“Sit.”

He returned ten minutes later with a tray: a grilled cheese sandwich, extra gooey, just how you liked it, a bowl of tomato soup, a banana, and a bright blue sports drink. He even added a little side of pretzels.

“Eat,” he ordered, sitting on the coffee table across from you. “All of it.”

You picked up the sandwich, taking a bite. It was perfect. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Yeah, I did.” He watched you eat for a moment, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “What happened exactly?”

You explained, the sudden dizziness, the need to get low, brushing off the coworkers. He listened without interrupting, but his frown deepened with every detail.

When you finished, he shook his head. “You’re running yourself ragged. This promotion chase is gonna kill you if you don’t slow down.”

“I’m fine,” you said around a mouthful of grilled cheese. “It was one bad moment.”

“‘Fine’ is what you said when you had that migraine last month and still went to work. ‘Fine’ is what you said when you twisted your ankle on our hike and hiked the last two miles anyway.” His voice softened, but the scolding was there. “I love how strong you are. I do. But you don’t have to be strong alone anymore. That’s what I’m here for. Let me take some of it.”

You set the sandwich down, throat tight. “I didn’t want to pull you away from the station. What if there was a call?”

“Then they’d handle it. I’ve got a whole crew. You’ve got me.” He reached over and squeezed your knee. “Next time something like this happens, dizzy, chest pain, whatever, you call me. Or text. Or send a damn emoji. But you tell me. Understood?”

You nodded, the fight draining out of you. “Understood.”

“Good.” He leaned in and kissed you properly this time, slow, relieved, tasting faintly of the mint gum he chewed after shifts. When he pulled back, some of the storm had cleared from his eyes. “Now finish eating. Then you’re taking a nap. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” you teased.

“Close enough. I’ve got advanced first aid certification and a stubborn girlfriend who needs looking after.” He handed you the sports drink. “Electrolytes. Drink.”

You obeyed, sipping while he cleaned up the kitchen. By the time you finished the food, the exhaustion from the day, and the adrenaline crash, hit hard. Ryan helped you to the bedroom, tucking you in with the same careful efficiency he probably used on patients at scenes.

“Stay?” you asked sleepily as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” He kicked off his boots and stretched out beside you, pulling you against his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist, warm and solid. “But if you pull that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense again without telling me, we’re gonna have words, darlin’.”

You smiled into his shirt. “Noted, Lieutenant.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through you. “Get some rest. I’ve got you.”

As sleep tugged you under, safe in Ryan Hart’s arms, you realized something. The presentation had been important. The deal had been crucial.

But this, being cared for, even when you fought it, was everything.

---

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Ryan humming an old country song in the kitchen. Your body felt reset. No dizziness. Just a faint embarrassment about yesterday.

Ryan appeared in the doorway with a mug and a plate of eggs and toast. “Morning, trouble. How’re we feeling?”

“Better. Really better.” You sat up, accepting the coffee. “Thank you. For yesterday. For the scolding. For the grilled cheese.”

He grinned, that crooked cowboy smile that made your heart flip. “Anytime. But next time, you skip straight to telling me.”

“Deal.”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for you this weekend that involve zero conference rooms and a whole lot of taking it easy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Plans?”

“Picnic by the river. My truck. Blankets. No work emails. And if you so much as look dizzy, I’m carrying you back to the truck myself.”

You laughed. “Bossy.”

“Protective,” he corrected, sitting beside you. “There’s a difference.”

There was. And as you ate breakfast together, trading quiet conversation about his shift and your now-successful deal, you felt the truth of it settle warm in your chest.

The rain hammered Nashville like it had a personal grudge. You were halfway through a glass of cheap red when the knock came,sharp, impatient, the kind that said the person on the other side was barely holding it together.

You opened the door and there he was: Lieutenant Ryan Hart, soaked through his dark Henley and worn jeans. His short hair was plastered down, water dripping from his jaw. He smelled like rain, cedar cologne, and the faint ghost of station smoke that never quite washed out.

“Ryan,” you said softly. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away. Those sharp blue eyes, usually steady with that Hart-code certainty, looked wrecked. “Papers came today. Samantha… she’s done waiting.”

Your stomach twisted. You’d known this was coming. The late-night texts, the way he’d shown up after bad shifts more and more often, the careful distance he kept even when the air between you crackled. You were the safe harbor outside the firehouse and the Hart family circus. Not quite a secret, but not something he could claim in daylight either.

“Come in,” you murmured, stepping aside.

He hesitated on the threshold, water pooling at his boots. “I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. I still got a ring on my finger, technically.”

“Then why’d you drive over?”

Ryan’s jaw flexed. “Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not drowning. And every time I close my eyes lately, it’s you I see.”

The confession hung heavy between you. You reached out, fingers brushing his wet sleeve. That was all it took.

He moved fast for a man carrying that much guilt, crowding you back against the wall in your narrow hallway, one broad hand cupping the back of your neck as his mouth crashed into yours. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was months of restraint snapping, teeth and tongue and the low groan that vibrated from his chest. Rainwater soaked into your shirt where his body pressed flush.

“Tell me to leave,” he rasped against your lips, forehead resting on yours. His voice had gone thick with that Tennessee drawl that got deeper when he was emotional. “Tell me right now and I’ll walk out. Swear on my code.”

You slid your hands up his soaked chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “I’m not telling you to leave, Ryan.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. Then he was kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, walking you backward toward the living room until the back of your knees hit the couch.

Clothes came off in a messy trail. His Henley hit the floor with a wet slap. You tugged at his belt while he peeled your shirt over your head, calloused palms skating over your ribs like he was memorizing terrain. When you finally got his jeans open and shoved them down his hips, he kicked them away along with his boots.

Ryan naked was a sight that short-circuited your brain every time. Broad shoulders and chest carved from years of hauling hose and ranch work, strong thighs, the faint white scars from calls gone sideways. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, curving slightly up. A bead of pre-come glistened at the tip.

He didn’t let you look long. He pushed you down onto the couch, following you down so his weight pinned you deliciously. One knee nudged your thighs apart.

“Been thinking about this too damn much,” he muttered, lips dragging down your throat. “Every quiet moment at the station, every time I drove past your exit… knew it was wrong. Still couldn’t stop.”

His mouth found your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. You threaded fingers through his damp hair, tugging. He groaned in approval.

Ryan took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him. He kissed down your stomach, nipping at your hip bone, then settled between your spread thighs like he belonged there. The first slow lick up your center had your hips jerking.

“Easy, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I got you. Gonna make you feel good tonight. Least I can do after dragging you into my mess.”

He ate you out like a man starving, long, deliberate strokes of his tongue, then focusing on your clit with tight circles that had you panting. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right. The stretch was perfect, the calluses adding that extra edge of friction.

Every time you got close, thighs trembling, breath hitching, he pulled back. Edged you with merciless patience.

“Ryan…please…”

“Not yet,” he said against your slick folds, voice vibrating through you. “Want you shaking for me. Want you so desperate you forget every reason this is complicated.”

He brought you to the edge three times, mouth and fingers working in tandem, only to ease off each time with soft kisses to your inner thighs and murmured praise. “Good girl… so wet for me. That’s it, breathe. You’re doing so good holding it for me.”

By the fourth build-up you were whimpering, hips rocking helplessly against his face, tears of frustration pricking your eyes.

“Please, Ryan. I need, fuck, I need to come.”

He finally took mercy, sucking your clit hard while his fingers pumped deep and fast. The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out. He didn’t stop until you were twitching and oversensitive, only then did he crawl back up your body, lips shiny with your release.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Beautiful,” he whispered, kissing you so you could taste yourself.

You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He was hot and heavy, twitching at your touch. Ryan hissed, hips jerking forward.

“Condom?” you managed.

He shook his head, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”

Something raw flashed across his face, gratitude mixed with fresh guilt. He notched the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it came from his soul.

“Goddamn, you feel like heaven,” he gritted out, staying still inside you to let you adjust. “So tight. So perfect. How the hell did I stay away this long?”

He started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that ground against your clit on every downstroke. The couch creaked beneath you. Rain continued its steady drum on the roof, masking the wet sounds of skin on skin and your mingled moans.

Ryan braced on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to rest lightly at the base of your throat. His palm was warm, fingers spanning wide. He didn’t squeeze yet, just held you there, a silent question in his eyes.

You nodded, covering his hand with yours and pressing down slightly. “Yes. Please.”

His gaze darkened with lust and careful control. As his thrusts picked up pace, he applied gentle pressure, enough to make your head feel light and floaty, enough to heighten every sensation without real fear. Your pulse hammered under his thumb.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice dropping into that lieutenant tone that brooked no argument. “Eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You obeyed, staring up into his face as pleasure coiled tight again. The light choke made everything sharper: the drag of his cock inside you, the way his hips snapped, the slap of skin.

He edged you again with his cock this time, slowing whenever you got close, grinding deep instead of giving you the friction you craved.

“Ryan, fuck, don’t stop,”

“Not yet, darlin’,” he panted, sweat mixing with the rainwater still drying on his skin. “Want to feel you fall apart when I say. Need this to last. Need to remember how good you take me when everything else is burning down.”

The desperation in his voice cracked something open in you. This wasn’t just sex for him. It was an escape. Confession. Absolution he didn’t think he deserved.

You dragged your nails down his back, hard enough to leave marks. “Then take what you need. Use me tonight, Ryan. Let it all out.”

Something in him snapped at your words. The careful control fractured.

He sat back on his heels, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. One hand returned to your throat, firmer this time, thumb pressing just right against the side, while the other gripped your hip, guiding you as you rode him. The new angle hit deeper, making you gasp.

“That’s it,” he growled, Southern drawl thick and filthy. “Ride my cock like you own it. Fuck, look at you… taking every inch so pretty. You’re gonna ruin me for anyone else.”

You moved faster, grinding down on him, chasing the high he kept denying you both. His hand on your throat made the pleasure spiral higher, head spinning in the best way. When your rhythm faltered from exhaustion and overwhelming sensation, Ryan took over, thrusting up hard, meeting you halfway with powerful snaps of his hips.

He edged you one final time, holding you down fully seated on his cock while he pulsed inside you, refusing to let either of you tip over.

“Please..” you sobbed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Ryan, I can’t..need to come so bad.”

“I know. I know.” His voice was wrecked. “Let go for me now.”

He squeezed just a fraction tighter, perfect pressure and thrust up hard at the same time. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, vision whiting out as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. You cried out his name, body shaking violently in his lap.

Ryan followed right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he spilled deep inside you. His hips stuttered through the aftershocks, hand loosening on your throat immediately to stroke soothingly over the skin he’d marked.

For long minutes, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the rain.

He held you close, still buried inside you, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. You carded gentle fingers through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

Eventually he pulled back enough to look at you. Guilt was already creeping back into his eyes, but so was something softer. Tender.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “But God help me, I don’t regret a single second.” His thumb brushed over the faint redness on your throat. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you assured him, leaning in to kiss him slow and sweet. You traced the line of his jaw. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. The honesty cost him. “I don’t want to make you a secret or a rebound crutch. You deserve better than that. If you’ll have me, messy as I am, I want to do this right. Slow.”

You smiled against his mouth. “One night at a time, Lieutenant. Starting with you staying until morning.”

Ryan huffed a quiet laugh, the first real one you’d heard from him in weeks. “Yes, ma’am.”

He finally slipped out of you, both of you hissing at the loss. Then he scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the hall to your bedroom. The rain had eased to a gentle patter.

In bed, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm banded around your waist. His fingers idly traced patterns on your hip while the other hand kept returning to your throat, stroking the skin with reverent care.

You laughed softly, already drifting. “Bold of you

You fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart and the distant wail of a siren somewhere across Nashville, another call for Station 113, another night he wasn’t answering.

It starts with coffee.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it the first time—just grabbing your usual order on the way in, then pausing for a second before adding another.

Same place. Same size.

You hesitate, staring at the second cup.

Then shrug.

He’ll drink it.

John looks up from his desk when you set it down in front of him.

“…You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

He eyes it for a second. Then you.

“…How’d you know what I take?”

You blink. “You always order it when we’re on shift together.”

A pause.

“Oh,” he says.

Like that means more than it should.

He takes a sip.

Doesn’t say anything else.

But the next morning—

There’s a coffee waiting for you.

It builds from there.

Not intentionally.

Not planned.

Just… small things.

You start grabbing his food if you’re already in line.

He starts doing the same.

You remember he hates pickles. He remembers you always forget to eat unless someone reminds you.

“Did you eat?” he asks one afternoon, not even looking up from his chart.

“…Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“I had a granola bar.”

“That’s not food.”

You open your mouth to argue—

He slides a container across the desk toward you.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter.

“Eat.”

You do.

It’s the little touches that sneak up on you.

The ones that shouldn’t feel as natural as they do.

You’re standing in front of him, mid-conversation, when your hands lift without thinking—straightening his collar, smoothing it down like it’s second nature.

John freezes.

You don’t even notice at first.

“…What?” you ask, glancing up at him.

His eyes are on you.

Not your hands.

You.

“Nothing,” he says after a second.

But he doesn’t move away.

So you don’t either.

Other people notice.

Of course they do.

It’s impossible not to.

“You two are disgustingly domestic,” one of your coworkers mutters under their breath as you hand John his lunch without even asking what he wants.

“I literally didn’t even say anything,” you protest.

“You didn’t have to.”

John says nothing.

Just takes the food.

But later—

“…We’re not,” he says quietly.

You glance at him. “Not what?”

“Together.”

There’s something careful in the way he says it.

Measured.

Like he’s testing the words.

You nod slowly. “Right. Yeah.”

A beat.

“Obviously.”

He hums.

But neither of you sounds convinced.

It gets harder to ignore after that.

Not because anything changes—

But because you both start noticing it.

The way he automatically walks on the outside of the sidewalk when you’re leaving together.

The way you reach for him first when something goes wrong.

The way silence between you isn’t awkward.

It’s comfortable.

Familiar.

Dangerously so.

The shift that does it is long.

Exhausting.

One of those days where everything piles up and refuses to let go.

By the end of it, you’re both running on fumes.

You drop into a chair beside him with a quiet groan, rubbing your face. “I’m done.”

“Yeah,” John mutters.

A pause.

Then—

“Here.”

You glance over as he holds something out to you.

Your usual snack.

The one you always get.

You stare at it for a second.

“…You went out of your way for this.”

He shrugs. “Was already there.”

“You weren’t.”

Another shrug.

You take it anyway.

“…Thank you.”

He nods once.

Silence settles.

But it’s not heavy.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… there.

“You realize,” you say after a moment, voice quieter now, “this is getting a little ridiculous.”

John glances at you. “What is?”

“This.”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you.

“The… whatever this is.”

He leans back slightly, considering.

“…Yeah.”

“That’s all you have to say?” you ask.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Something that makes it make sense.”

Another pause.

Then—

“I like taking care of you,” he says simply.

Your breath catches.

“And you like taking care of me,” he adds.

You don’t argue.

Because he’s right.

“That doesn’t mean—” you start.

“I know what it doesn’t mean,” he cuts in, gently.

You swallow.

“Then what does it mean?”

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And for once, he doesn’t have a quick answer.

“…I don’t know,” he admits.

The honesty hits harder than anything else could.

You nod slowly.

“Okay.”

Neither of you moves.

Neither of you fills the silence.

Because for the first time—

You’re both fully aware of it.

Of this.

Whatever it is.

You were worried, but you haven’t had the chance to truly ask him, not when you were constantly fenced in by relatives wanting to congratulate you.

The relief that had flooded Jack’s eyes when you sat together at the center of the banquet during the speeches had long died down. He was fighting through the exhaustion and nerves and anxiety—he didn’t want to let you down. 

One of his aunts, or maybe a cousin—you weren’t sure—was talking to you when Jack came up to you. He was limping a little, his mouth clamped tight, but when your eyes met his, he smiled. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he muttered. 

He pulled you into his side and planted a tender kiss in your hair, then glanced at you. Just as his lips parted to say something to you, the DJ’s voice echoed through the speakers. 

“May we ask Mr. and Mrs. Abbot to return to the dancefloor now? We’re oh-so-desperate to see them back here.”

Just for a second, Jack’s face fell. And you saw it.  All eyes immediately snapped to the two of you, big smiles all around. Everyone seemed so utterly happy, but you didn’t care about them. You only cared about Jack.

“We don’t have to, Jack,” you mumble, low enough that only he caught it. “We can take a break.”

If you had one wish guaranteed, you’d ask the universe for Jack to never look at you again the way he did in that second.  Embarrassment flushed his face, and something in his eyes broke. You knew his stubbornness, having been on the receiving side of his pride a million times, but you didn’t expect him to be like this, not today. 

“No, baby, let’s go dance,” he replied and took your hand.  He pulled you into the middle of the dance floor, waiting for the music to start. Not once did his eyes catch yours. 

The song that began to play was slow, with violins and gentle piano notes filling the air. Jack’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you close enough that you could feel his breath ghost over your cheek as he peered past you, anywhere but at you. 

You smelled the sweat on his skin, the tell-tale sign of his utter exhaustion. As he started guiding you over the floor, his breath catching any time his right leg hit the ground, you tried to lead. Tried to make him slow down, tried to get him to lean onto you, tried anything to make it a little easier for him. But Jack was stubborn. He had worked 12, 15, hell, 24-hour shifts on his prosthetic; he had done the physical therapy—he wasn’t going to skip a single dance with you, not on your day. Not when today was the day he was meant to prove that he was worthy of you.

“Honey,” you whispered, desperation tinting your voice, “It’s okay. We can… we can sit this one out. Have… have some more cake.”

This time, his gaze bore into you, determination burning in his eyes.  “No, sweetheart. I want to dance with my wife. I don’t need a break,” he rasped. 

You briefly loosened your hand from its spot on his shoulder to wipe the dampness from his brow. Jack practically flinched away. 

“I mean it,” he muttered. “I can do it. Just… dance with me, baby. Please.”

So you kept dancing, ignoring the sound of your heart breaking for him with every step he took, every wince he suppressed. You couldn’t wait for the song to end.  But once it did, the next one played. And then the next one. 

You saw the light dwindling in Jack’s eyes, his soft grunts turning into pained whines. The moon had long taken over the sun’s spot in the sky, surrounded by dark blues. 

As Jack continued to bite his tongue instead of giving in, the pain growing more and more obvious, you decided to put an end to this. 

“I’m so thirsty,” you declared, loud enough for the couples around you to hear it. “And my feet hurt sooo bad. These damn heels.”

Jack gave you a look—a mix of shame and relief.

“You sure, baby?” he asked. “I… I don’t want you getting bored.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you replied. “Let’s have some more champagne.”

You pulled him to the bar, basically forcing him onto the chair. All the guests were dancing, distracted. As the barkeeper passed you two glasses of champagne and then moved to the other side to “give the newly-weds some privacy”, you gave Jack a sharp glance. 

“Take it off,” you muttered. 

Jack shook his head immediately. “No. Not here, not today.”

“Honey,” you murmured. “Please. You’re hurting. No… no one’s gonna say anything. Everyone here loves you. I love you, with two legs or with one.”

He shook his head again, lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“I don’t need to take it off. I won’t.”

For a moment, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Anger bubbled up in you like venom, but you refused to let it boil over. Jack wasn’t being unreasonable for the fun of it—he was behaving like this out of fear.  Then you said, “You’re coming with me. Right now.”

Even as he began to protest, your fingers enclosed his, and you pulled him out of the large hall, heading towards one of the smaller rooms used for storage. Your body pressed into his, making him lean on you a bit.

“Sweetheart, I- I can do it—” Jack insisted again, but you didn’t let him finish. 

You forced him onto the floor and kneeled down in front of him. The tulle of your skirt got in your way, making you cry out in frustration.  “Jesus,” you hissed, then pressed down the force of the dress.  Your shaky hands were quick to start cuffing Jack’s pant leg. 

“Maybe you can do it,” you acknowledged angrily, “But I can’t. I can’t keep watching you grit your teeth through the pain. It hurts me to see you like this.”

With quick, practiced ease, you loosened the prosthetic and leaned it against the wall next to him. 

Jack gasped, both from shock and relief. He had never seen you like this. 

“Baby…” he began, then lowered his head. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you answered immediately. “Not for this. Not with me.”

You sat in silence for a while. Once the anger in your veins had eased, you moved to sit next to Jack. He hesitated before he slowly lowered his head to rest on your shoulder. You felt the tension leave both your bodies instantaneously. 

“Why would you do this to yourself?” you asked softly. “Why… why didn’t you… just take a break?”

Jack sighed so deeply you felt his entire chest deflate. 

“I… it’s embarrassing,” he muttered. 

You took his hand between yours and squeezed insistently.  “You don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s only me and you,” you whispered. 

“It’s our wedding day,” he murmured. “I… I’m your husband now. I’m supposed to take care of you and keep you safe and—”

“We’re supposed to keep each other safe,” you interrupted. 

His fingers played with yours as he stared straight ahead. The sun-kissed skin of his arms stood out against the white of your dress.

“I just want to be good enough for you. I want to—I want to deserve you,” he said quietly then. 

His words tugged at your heartstrings so forcefully that you were afraid it would shatter. 

“Jesus, Jack,” you whispered, “Why would you… You are good enough for me—fuck, you’re more than good enough. You’re a great man, the only man I could ever want.  Whether you have two legs or one, it—it doesn’t matter to me. I love you for you. And if you need to take a break, I’ll be sitting right there next to you.”

Jack chuckled wetly, the sound sending goosebumps down your arms. You cupped his face and turned it towards you. A single tear ran down his cheek. 

“Oh, honey,” you gasped. You pressed your forehead against his, the proximity almost allowing you to taste the salt on his face. His skin felt hot against yours. 

“I don’t know how I got so lucky with you,” he mumbled.

“Just shut up,” you replied, but there was no bite to it. 

“No, I mean it,” he insisted. “I… you kinda got the short straw with me. I work nights, and I carry a goddamn boatload of baggage with me. The leg—that’s just the fucking cherry on top. When I… when I proposed, I couldn’t believe that you said yes to this… this fucking mess.”

“Stop it,” you pleaded. “Jack, I’m so serious right now. I don’t wanna hear any more of this. I said yes because you asking me, getting down on your knee—it meant the world to me. I knew what I was getting into. And I’d do it all over again. A million times. There’s no… no parallel universe where I wouldn’t kill to be your wife.”

Jack was quiet for a while. You could almost see the way his brain worked to make space for your words. 

“You really mean that?” he asked. 

“Of course I do,” you replied. “I love you.”

Through the walls of the room, you heard the music play on, but neither one of you cared to return to your party. Jack kissed your knuckles one by one and exhaled.  “It’s only me and you, right?”

Gosh, he was tiny.

Barely six years old, eyes shut closed, a horrifying ring of red marring his throat. His chest was barely moving, a few of his limbs twisted at an awkward angle, clothes tattered.

And blood. So much of it, you couldn’t tell where one injury ended and the next began. 

You look up, eyes darting between Al Hashimi and the mom and the other two residents, trying to get a hold of yourself. You swallow thickly, the scar at the back of your neck prickling with a far away memory.

You push it down, worry spilling over at the boy in front of you.

“What am I looking at?” Your question joins the throng of a screaming heart machine and rustling scrubs. Trinity is the first to look up, her gloved hands at work accessing the boy's injuries.

“A five year old boy, car crash. Major neck trauma and multiple breaks. No breath or lung movement. He’s not conscious or responding.”

“Okay, let's work on getting him an airway,” You nod, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and gently prodding the area around his neck. “How did you crash?” 

You glance back at the woman- at the mother, her hands clasped together in fear, tears running down her face. She's practically being held up by Baran, still conscious because of the adrenaline running through her.

“We were hit from the side… his side. A drunk driver.” You swallow thickly, biting your lip as you glance down at the boy’s face. The woman continues, as you take the ultrasound wand Mel hands you, trying to get a better view of his lungs, “I thought his seat belt was on. He always puts his seat belt on, always. But we were hit- and he just went forward-”

She breaks off into a wet sob, Baran wrapping her arm tighter around the woman. She looks at you, eyes wide with the caring concern she always carried before moving on to the residents.

“Whats the plan of action?”

“Uh, try to intubate and bag?” Trinity suggests.

“No,” you shake your head, already moving to grab the tube Perlah had ready for you. “We won’t get a clear airway, his esophagus is completely blocked.

“Do we crike?”

“Can’t,” Al Hashimi shakes her head. He’s too-”

“Young! She’s too young. Please! You have to do something. That’s my baby!”

You shake your head, grimacing quietly as you shove down the memory threatening to surface. Not now. You couldn’t risk this child’s life thinking of another-

Pink cheeked smile, dark curly hair, freckles that littered her skin-

“Well what about a needle crike?” Trinity’s question pulls you back. 

“No, we won’t be able to ventilate through that.”

Hands cross over the boy’s body and you work, trying to think. The trauma door opens, an all too familiar gravely voice joining the crowd of dark scrubs.

“What have we got here?” Jack’s voice is calm, eyes cautiously moving from the crying mother to the boy on the gurney. Trinity presents as you try and get a good look at the boy’s airway, the view of the boy’s vocal chords blocked from the swelling.

You curse, glancing up at Jack once. Just once.

It’s all you allow yourself, his hazel eyes lingering on you for a moment too long as Trinity mentions the crash. The moment stretches, as he takes in the significance of the situation.

“What are we doing?” He asks. He points the question to you, like he already knows there's no way you're stepping away from this boy now.

“This kid needs an airway fast. He’s going to go into cardiac arrest if we don’t help him breathe soon.” Jack nods, moving to the other side of the gurney to stand across from you.

“Mel, any ideas?” She looks between you and Jack with wide eyes. 

 “It’s already been too-”

“-Long. Somebody please! Is my daughter alright? Please, I have to know.”

“Ma’am. You need to sit down, you’re injured. We’re trying to take care of your daughter and get her breathing again. We need you to stop and-

“- breathe. It’ll take too much time to get a trake set up.” You just catch the tail end of Mel’s words, her shoulders scrunched in discomfort. 

“This kid won’t last twenty minutes, no less sixty seconds- we have to figure out what to do fast,” Jack says quietly, glancing back as Al Hashimi guides the crying mother to look away. You take a shaky breath, glancing at Perlah who nods, already handing you a pair of clear surgical gloves.

“We won’t do a regular trake,” you say, voice trembling. Jack and the girls look at you. You swallow. “We’ll do a slash trake.”

Jack’s brow lifts in surprise, a procedure he knows you’ve only done once before. On which carried bad memories as well as a terrible risk.

“Are you sure?”

It's not a question of whether you can do it or not. He knows you can. It's a question of whether you should. Of whether you want to be here. The silent worry he's trying not to let take over his professionalism.

You just meet his eye, nodding.

“I have to be. It's the kid's last fighting chance.”

For a moment, a moment that feels like eternity, you both look at each other. Not as doctors, not as colleagues. But as partners. A husband and wife, equally messed up and equally determined to give this boy a chance to live. 

You look at each other with that aching sense of hope, the haunting memory that has followed the two of you around for three years glistening in your eyes.

Jack nods, mouth quirking. “Okay. Okay, Perlah, she’ll need a ten blade.”

“Already got it boss,” the nurse murmurs as she hands you the blade. Trinity and Mel share a look, watching with intensity as you stand over the boy. 

You take a breath, the seconds ticking as you lean in-

You had to work fast. Had to see past the blood. Past the feeling of her flesh beneath your hands, working to get her an airway so she could breathe. So you could hear her talk. Hear her laugh.

She’d just been laughing- just been waving goodbye to Jack. Her gap tooth smile bright, pink ruffled shirt rustling as she looked over at you smiling.

“Come on baby,” you sob, your vision blurred between tears and blood. “Come on, I need you to breathe. Just breathe.” 

Just-

“Breathe,” you whisper beneath your breath as you make the incision, carefully placing your fingers between flesh as you had those years ago.

Jack passes by you, almost reaching out to touch you but thinking better of it. His hands work to dab the dark black blood oozing from the incision, nodding to Trinity as he instructs her on how to insert the tube. You watch, your mind split between the procedure and the memory which had broken through the haze. There’s a lump in your throat as you take a step back, watching Jack suction the airway. 

“Bag him, and we’ll wait for his SATS to stabilize.”

“Hopefully,” Trinity mumbles with uncertainty.

You wait with baited breath, bloody fingers trembling slightly as you wait. And wait. The numbers are all over the place, rising and falling, dipping and spiking. 

And then they level out, and the boy gets his first breath with the bag. A real breath. A long way from being okay. But it was a start.

Jack nods, looking over to you. 

“It worked.”

You nod, clearing your throat as relief floods your body. Relief and something sharper. Something that bit harshly. Painfully.

“Good. um, Mel, why don’t you work on suctioning and Trinity you can sew the tube. Make sure to get any remaining bleeders.”

“That was crazy,” the girl says, laughing with disbelief. 

“My son?” The mother sobs from the corner of the room. “Will he be okay?”

“He will be,” Al Hashimi nods. “No thanks to our Dr. Abbots.”

You give the mom a small smile, eyes faraway. 

“Now lets get you looked at. I’ll explain the next steps…” Al Hashimi’s voice trails off as she guides the mom to the next trauma room. Jack eyes you, moving to stand next to you. 

“You okay?” He whispers. You just take a shaky breath and nod. Not exactly convincing when you refuse to look at him. 

The trauma room door opens, Dr. Garcia pushing her way through.

“What happened here?” She asks, eyeing the blood on your gloves and the boy on the gurney. You don’t say anything, and Jack clears his throat, hands behind his back. 

“A slash trike. Fractured esophagus."

“Slash trike?” Garcia hisses with disbelief and something bordering praise. “You guys trying to one up us in the OR?”

You huff, eyes narrowing as you peel off your gloves. Garcia observes the boy, shaking her head.

“Did you guys take a hacksaw to this kid?  It’ll take forever to fix.”

“No,” you hear yourself saying before any of the other doctors can answer. “We did what we had to. He was going to die other wise.”

“Risky,” she sighs, standing nonchalantly. “I’m sure the OR will be thrilled to clean up your mess.”

You bristle. 

“Or maybe they’ll thank us for not letting him die.”

The room stills with an uncomfortable silence, Jack watching you closely.  You shake your head, turning on your heel and pushing the door open with more force than necessary. 

You storm out into the Pitt’s hub, passing the nurses station with a hazy look in your eye. Everything was too loud. Too bright. You felt like you were about to fall, the sweat dripping down the back of your neck reminding you too much of blood. 

Blood spilling down your neck, the nerves tingling with something akin to pain. You're not sure though. Your leg doesn't move like it should, the tips of your fingers numbs as you work.

“Maam. please, we need to give your injuries attention.”

“But my daughter!”

“Your daughter is being taken care of-”

“Please she isn't breathing. We have to get her breathing. I can help her. Please-"

“Sweetie?” Dana steps in front of you, blocking your stormy path to the elevator. “Hey, you okay? You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” You shake your head, brushing her off as your feet continue to move. “I just- I just need some air.”

Dana watches with a concerned frown as you punch the button, your hands shaking. 

You shake your head, trying to rid your self of the image of the bleeding boy. The image of your daughter replacing him just as easily.

Don’t. Don’t think of her.

You press your palms against your eyes, trying to block it all out.  

Don’t think of her. 

You try and run through the exercises your therapist had practically drilled into you. Trying to name the sights. The sounds.

But all you can think of is her. 

Your Hannah Abbot.

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

She was not the first surprise you and Jack had during your many years of marriage. She wasn’t even the biggest surprise. 

She was tiny. 

She was the perfect combination of the two of you.

She was Hannah Abbot.

Jack and you had always talked about kids. The conversation had come up during long distance phone calls across the sea when he was away in the army. It had come up when you were visiting your parents, eyes meeting with embarrassing awkwardness. In hospital rooms and during therapy sessions. During late night frustration and quiet early mornings. 

But life had gotten in the way. Jack’s time in the army. Your medical residency. A schedule that flipped on its head constantly. A job that took more than it gave.

The idea of having a family just sort of… took a back seat. 

Until a sunny afternoon and a routine pregnancy test turned your world upside down.

Hannah changed everything for the better. She was the ray of sunshine that kept the two of you grounded in spite of the chaotic and grim jobs you shared. She brought the best out in Jack, who you quickly learned was born to be a girl dad. 

Jack was patient and funny and kind with her in all new ways. He played tea party and doctor with stuffed animals, made pancakes with way too many chocolate chips because he couldn’t say no, fell asleep on the couch with glittery stickers covering his leg.

He let her keep her little monkey friend on the dash of his truck, tucked her into bed each night before work- even if it was too early for her bedtime, learned to french braid and dutch braid until he was the only one allowed to touch her hair.

You fell in love with him ten times over with each smile he gave your daughter, each whispered I love you. Each time he would look at you, that proud smirk on his face. 

“She’s ours. We made that.” 

Each milestone. Each memory. 

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to remember that last time you saw that smile. The last time Hannah Abbot was just a seven year old girl with no cares in the world.

“Mommy, I thought we were going soon?” “We are honey. I have to get the keys from your dad so we can go.” 

“But you have your own keys,” Hannah points to the jingling set clutched in your hand. You give her a smile, glancing over your shoulder at where she sits on Dana’s favorite chair. 

“But only daddy has a key to his truck.” 

“Oh.” She frowns, her freckled cheeks puffing out as she tries to spin herself in the chair. “He should get you a new one.” 

“Yeah, well the old one is just fine for now.”

Jack finally comes out of a trauma room after a few minutes, rolling one of his shoulders, his limp more noticeable than usual. But he beams when Hannah gasps and runs, yelling a chorus of “DADDY’s” as she barrels into him.

“Hey!” Jack says, groaning slightly as he picks her up. She was getting a little too big to be held, legs long and gangly now, her head bobbing over Jack’s salt and pepper curls. But he still did it anyway. Because the man was absolutely bewitched by your daughter.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“Mommy needs the truck to take me to school,” She giggles, gap tooth brightly on display. 

“Well how’d you get here then?”

“We walked,” She says, raising a hand like it should be obvious.

Jack smiles, moving towards where you were waiting at the nurses station, Hannah’s backpack in your hand, your scrubs already on, ready for the shift you were working later. Jack gives you a look, cheek already out for you to kiss it.

“You walked? I thought I said I could pick you up?”

“Well you were late,” you give him a knowing smile. Jack sighs, shifting Hannah in his arms to glance at his watch. He curses quietly.

“- ah, I’m sorry. You’re right. We had a code. And this new resident Shen has been a pain in my-”

“It’s okay Jack,” you place a hand on his chest. “I know. Besides, we don’t mind walking to see you. Do we Hannah?” She shakes her head, gap tooth smile breaking out. 

“Ohh, do I know why?” Jack looks at her knowingly. Hannah leans in close to his face, cupping her hand around his ear to whisper. 

“We got donuts.”

Jack gasps. “Without me?”

“We brought you one. Mommy-” Hannah reaches out for her bag. You open it, handing her the greasy bag from the doughnut shop to give to Jack.

“We brought some for Miss Dana and Mr. Robby too!” 

“Oh, did you? That was very thoughtful,” Jack smiles proudly at Hannah, glancing up at you. 

“All her idea,” you raise your hands up. “She’s got her dad’s heart.”

“Nah,” Jack says as he sets her down. “Not possible when she comes from you.” 

You laugh and he kisses your temple, setting the donut bag down as Dana comes up to the nurses hub.

“Hey, I’ll be back. I’ve got to escort my girls out.”

Jack waits in the open door of the truck as Hannah gets herself buckled, her hot pink booster seat settled beneath her. She’s already got her worn stuffed monkey in her hands, handing him back to Jack to sit on the dash.

“I’ll be back in a bit to trade again,” you tell him from the driver's seat. “And I’m only working a half today so-”

“I’ll pick you up at two. Then we leave to get this little monkey,” he says, tickling Hannah’s side. She shrinks away in a fit of giggles, trying to fight off Jack’s hands. “Why don’t we get another car again?”

“Cause we’ve got college funds and mortgage payments to think about Abbot.”

“I’d pay for it.”

“I thought you said your money is my money.”

“It is. I’d still pay for it,” he gives you a grin.

“Will you pay for my new monkey? He needs a friend,” Hannah asks pointing towards the limp animal by Jack’s shoulder. She looks up at her dad hopefully, her matching hazel eyes big and wide.

Jack strokes his stubbly chin, leaning lower to look at the girl better. 

“Maybe if you’re a good girl at school. No more daydreaming in class, okay?”

She nods. “Okay.” 

Jack smiles. Proudly. He glances up at you and you just roll your eyes. 

“Okay Dr. Abbot, we gotta go.”

“Alright, alright. I love you.” Jack kisses Hannah on the top of her head, closing her door carefully.

You start the truck as Jack rounds its front, rolling down the window so you can kiss him goodbye. He cups your cheek as he leans in the window, lips pressing against yours.

Hannah giggles from her seat, not old enough to be grossed out by her parents' affection yet. 

“Bye,” you whisper, kissing Jack once more. 

“Bye.” 

“Bye daddy!” Hannah waves again as you begin to pull out of the parking spot. You roll down her window, driving slowly so she can wave some more. “Bye! Love you daddy!” She shouts.

The last thing you see as you pull out of PTMC’s parking lot is Jack smiling through the rearview mirror. His hand raised up in a wave, Hannah’s little hand stuck out of the window in a flurry of goodbyes.

You smile to yourself, laughing as Hannah turns to you.

“Hey mommy, are we gonna get pizza for dinner.”

“Yeah maybe. But like daddy said, you have to be a good girl at school.”

“I will.” You glance at her, eye catching something in the window behind her. Hannah turns just as you see it.

“Hey mommy, that car is going-”

You sob, blindly stumbling out of the elevator. It was all too much. 

The hurt. The ache in your heart. 

The Hannah shaped hole in your heart that had never been able to fill.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You just wanted it all to go away.

“Why, why?” is all that runs through your head.

Why?

You had done everything you could. The doctors had done everything. Jack had done everything.

The elevator echoes with your sobs. 

Hannah had been given every fighting chance. Every fighting chance like that boy had.

When you’d pulled yourself out of the twisted hull of the truck, she was the first thing your eye caught. Limbs twisted. Blood soaking her forehead. Not breathing. 

A sight no parent should see. 

The paramedics had to practically pull you off her when they finally arrived on scene, the makeshift air bag from Jack's go bag you'd pulled from the wrecked truck already set up. Slash trake. No clear airway. The EMT who'd helped you had later told you she'd never forget the sight.

A mother fighting for her daughter. A battle she refused to lose.

But you had.

“Jack,” you ask from the hospital bed, his body carefully curled beside yours, avoiding the brace around your neck and the cast on your leg. The question is quiet. Barely audible above the humming monitors in the room. 

“Yeah honey,” he whispers back, nose pressed into your hair. You can feel the wet splotches of tears against his cheeks, hear the way he clears his throat to try and talk without crying. 

“Did they really do everything?” 

“Everything.”

“But I-”

 “I know,” he huffs, voice shaky. “They said even with the airway, she'd been deprived of oxygen for too long. It wouldn't have mattered.” 

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your face. 

You open the door to the hospital’s roof blindly, clutching your chest. It hurt. It hurt more than the weeks of physical therapy. More than the funeral.  

It hurt knowing you were still here and she was gone. 

And all you can do is wonder why it was her and not you. 

Why? ------------------------------------------------------

The elevator hums softly as Jack stands in the moving box, mouth pressed into a hard line as his prosthetic aches with the vibrations. His hands grip the ends of his stethoscope, a habit he'd picked from years of gripping a bullet proof vest when he needed to feel steady. 

Jack was always feeling a little out of balance. He had been for the past three years. After the accident.

After he’d had to say goodbye to his only daughter. His Hannah. 

After he almost had to say goodbye to you. His wife. 

The one who was always his rock, the one who kept your little family together, who kept him sane. 

Who was slowly falling apart with each day that passed since the accident. 

Jack takes a steady breath, eyes opening slowly as the elevator comes to a stop, the last floor button glowing a soft orange. The doors open, the empty floor silent and dim. Jack takes the well worn path to the familiar door, glancing half heartedly at the sign that reads rooftop access.

He presses the door open, carefully gripping the handle so it doesn't slam shut. Jack stands there for a moment, the skyline glittering with lights and the soft glow of a city getting ready to sleep. And there, at the far end of the roof, he can just make out your silhouette. 

Jack’s heart burns as he watches you, the unnatural stillness of your body, the way you stood far enough from the safety railing that Jack pushes himself to walk a little quicker towards you.

He clears his throat, trying to sound nonchalant. Like he was about to give a hospital debrief and not like he was a terrified husband about to try and talk his wife down from the ledge. Literally. 

Jack gets closer, your hair whipping in the quiet breeze, bloodshot eyes staring vacant into the city below. Your shoes toe the edge of the roof and Jack wonders how you haven't toppled over yet. 

“Hey.” He says it softly, trying not to startle you.

He sees the way your shoulders relax slightly. Like even in your darkest and unsteadiest of moments, you were still unconsciously grateful he was there. Jack watches as you glance back at him, eyes not quite meeting his gaze.

He leans lower, forcing you to meet his eye as he stands behind the railing, a hand planted firmly on the cold metal. You turn away, shaking your head.

“I’m not in the mood for one of your pep talks Jack.”

He swallows thickly. “No? That’s a shame. I had a really good one prepared.” 

You don’t say anything. Jack grips the railing, rocking on his feet. His prosthetic aches but he doesn’t really mind. It keeps his mind sharp. 

“I thought we agreed to give this place a rest for a while?” You shrug, eyes glued to the skyline. 

“I just… I needed a moment. After… all that.” 

“Yeah. But up here?” 

“Jack-”

Jack sighs, leaning forward against the rail, forcing himself into your peripheral view. 

“You’ve gotta talk to me. I can’t hear from Dana that you’ve decided to go get some air. Please, I’ve been here long enough to know what that means.” 

“Jack, I’m not stupid. I’m not going to do anything-”

“Well I’d believe you a lot more if you’d look at me.” He can just make out the way you swallow thickly in the dim sky light. You close your eyes for a moment and Jack waits, his breath held until you finally turn towards him. 

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?” 

“Nothing that you probably won’t guess.” Jack sighs, forearms digging into the railing as he looks down at your shoes.

“Try me.” He waits again.

For a man who hated stillness, who hated silence, he was always ready to wait for you. Even if he knew what was coming. Knew what you would say. Knew just how painful it was for you to be in a room like that, with a pediatrics case so similar. It was like holding a mirror up to the past, stepping through into a day that didn’t have a happy ending like the mom and her son would. 

You stare at him, quiet for a moment longer. His gaze doesn’t waver, his eyes locked on yours, glistening in the moonlight. 

You finally take a shuddering breath, hands still trembling. 

“He was lying there, Jack. Just like she was. So helpless and small,” your voice cracks. You continue, swallowing thickly. “I saw him on that gurney, not breathing. And I just… I felt myself moving before I even registered what I was doing. Just like that day-”

Jack shifts, reaching out. You shake your head, taking a step back. 

His heart pounds, and your lip curls. “He’s going to be okay Jack. That boy's going to be fine. But she won’t. Hannah won’t.” 

Your voice catches, a tear falling down your cheek. Jack swallows.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“It’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says again. You shake your head, chest shaking as you cry quietly. 

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t want to do this anymore. I wonder why it was me that… why I didn’t…” Your eyes dart around, not really looking at anything. Jack lets out a long sigh, head dipping low over his forearms as he feels the familiar lump in his throat. He looks back up at you, eyes glistening.

“You don’t think I don’t wonder the same thing. Wonder why I didn’t pass that code off to Robby and leave early? Wonder what would have happened if it had been me driving that day? You think I don’t ask myself why over and over.” 

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Of course you do Jack-”

“But you can only wonder for so long,” Jack says, tilting his head. You press your lips together, eyes glassy. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. Allowed to grieve and miss her.” 

Jack reaches out tentatively, his calloused palm brushing over your limp hand. You don’t pull away and he presses on.

“But you can’t let yourself be swallowed by it. I don’t know why it happened. Maybe I don’t want to. But I do know that you’re still here. You’re still here, and I-” his voice cracks, the gravely rasp giving way to a wet and strained plea. “And I can’t let you just throw that away. That miracle.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to be a miracle anymore Jack.” 

“You don’t get to throw that away just because you care-” Your hand tightens in his grip.

“Maybe I don’t care anymore Jack. Maybe I just want it to all go away.” 

“You do care. You do. In every trauma room. Every child case that’s been here since that day. Even when it hurts the most, you still care. And thanks to you, that mom and little boy get to go home together. They get a second chance.” 

Tears slip down your face.

“She gets to go home and be a mother, Jack. I don’t get that. Because Hannah doesn’t get a second chance.”

“Maybe not. But I like to think she’d be proud you haven’t given up. That you’re not giving up. She’d be proud her mom still cares, still feels her loss. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what makes you a good mother.”

“Don’t say that Jack,” you shake your head. “I’m not a mom anymore.” 

“Yes you are,” he nods firmly, cupping your cheek. “You are. Nothing can take that from you. Never.” 

You sob at that. Jack pulls you closer, your shoes shuffling against the rooftop, arms wrapping around him. He holds you tightly, his abdomen pressing into the railing as he holds you steady. You cry into his scrubs, Jack’s hand running over your hair, fingers feeling the faint scar running down your back.

Tears slip down his own face, the memory of those long months after the accident running through his mind. The countless surgeries you went through, the silence that permeated the house, the uncomfortable therapy sessions.

No one tells you that grieving a child is a wound that never fully heals. That with each passing year, it doesn’t get easier. 

But it doesn’t get worse. 

Not when you have each other to lean on. Jack rocks you gently, just holding you until your sobs eventually ebb out. You finally pull away slightly, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm. You looks down at the wet splotches on your hand, breath catching.

“God, I must look terrible.”

Jack just shakes his head, brushing the hair from your face. “No. still beautiful to me.” 

You stare at him, and he can already see the apology turning over in your mind. But he shakes his head, beating you to it.

“Don’t apologize. You don’t have to. Just… will you come join me on this side of the railing. I’m feeling a little lonely.”

You smile. A small one. But real.

You take a breath, glancing out into the city one last time before ducking between the railing and joining Jack.

Jack pulls you close, nose pressed into your hair as he holds you again, the railing no longer dividing the two of you. And just like that, the grief becomes something more manageable again. Less all consuming but the quiet, constant hum you both had come to be familiar with. 

“Better?” You nod.

“Good,” Jack murmurs into your hair line, pressing a kiss against the cold skin there. “We just have to keep doing what we have. Okay? Take it slow. Talk when it hurts. Talk when it doesn't. You don’t get to slip away. I can’t let you.” 

You look up at Jack, and for a single moment he thinks you can see between the lines of what he was saying. See through the steady husband he was being now and get a glimpse of that heart broken father who would be absolutely shattered to lose you too. But the glimpse is gone as he gives you a crooked smile, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. 

You nod, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” You nod again, looking Jack in the face this time.

“Okay.”

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

The ED was bustling with activity, everyone running around while yelling out different orders to whoever was available to listen. Dana was doing her best to keep things organized, even if that was proving to be rather useless in that moment. Joy had plopped herself down overtop of the desk for a moment, taking a deep breath before turning back towards the board.

"Jeez, I didn't think today could get any worse," Robby's violent reaction towards Samira's panic attack was running through her mind.

How could someone be so hateful towards one of their own? Especially with something as serious as a panic attack. Sure, it wasn't exactly a heart attack, but unless you could get yourself in control it could become more serious!

"What'd you mean, kid?" Dana focused on Joy, her brow furrowed as she shuffled through the clipboards.

Joy glanced at her, eyes narrowing as she tried to sus her out. "Samira had a panic attack, pretty severe from what I could tell. Robby ended up yelling at her over it, embarrassed her in front of everyone."

Dana's head whipped around, lips parted as if she was going to attempt a reply. Nothing came out as she stared at the young woman, her thoughts racing wildly.

Shit, if word got out of the ED how Robby was beginning to treat the women? There was no way you weren't going to find out what had happened. If there was truly anyone to fear, besides Dana herself, it would be you. The elevator doors opened, the loud ping echoing for a brief second as you stepped out. Your scrub top was stretched over the fabric of your belly, pregnancy giving you a glow that anyone would rival for.

"Hey, I heard there was a little Jane Doe down here?" You were the pediatric attending, only coming downstairs when it was absolutely necessary.

"Yes there is, we've been trying to get in touch with social services but with the whole shutdown," Dana shrugged, reaching over to steer you towards where they'd put the baby for the time being.

She was asleep when you both stepped inside, wrapped tight in one of the, rather shitty, hospital blankets. Your eyes softened as your finger traced over her cheek gently, watching the way she shuffled for a moment before relaxing. Babies, and older children alike had always gravitated towards you, it's why you'd chosen pediatrics. Jack had been all for it, wanting you to be happy with your choice and not end up regretting it down the line.

"Dana? It's Samira," it was Emma this time, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two women.

She cursed under her breath, rushing past Emma to go and see what the hell was going on this time, by the time she reached Robby and Samira it was obvious things had gotten worse. You followed close behind her, concerned with the wellbeing of your close friend.

"You leave that shit at home! This is a hospital!" Robby's words echoed out of the room, the chief attending standing over where Samira was laid on the hospital bed.

You saw nothing but red, hands clenching into fists as you pushed past Dana, praying for a second that she could forgive you as you shoved Robby away from you.

"Robinavitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?!" You were genuinely angry, lips pulled back into a sneer.

His lips parted, ready to tear into you as well before seeming to think better and closing his mouth.

"She is your resident! And here you are treating her like she's a disobedient child, jesus no wonder your patient satisfaction scores are non-existent, you're an asshole!"

You weren't going to keep your mouth closed anymore, too many horror stories had been coming out about him, and you were going to use your own position to your advantage.

"Don't thin for a fucking second that you're better than anyone in this building, especially someone that has more empathy in their pinky than you do in your entire body!" The commotion was gathering attention, two of the newbies standing in the doorway as you yelled at Robby.

"If I get word from Jack that you're talking like this to any of your female residents, I will make your life a living hell in and outside of this hospital. Do I make myself clear?" Your gaze never wavered, staring him down with the intensity of a thousand suns.

"Look, you've gotta understand-,"

"I said! Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear."

Your nails were cutting into your palms from how tight your fists were clenched, ready to pounce at a moments notice.

"Understood doctor."

Robby didn't give you a moment to utter another word, quickly making his way out of the room as everyone watched him leave. Samira sat flabbergasted on the bed, heart racing with an emotion she couldn't quite place. No one had ever really defended her except for Jack downstairs in the ED.

"He needs to get that stick out of his ass before I beat his fucking brakes off," you scoffed, rolling your eyes before turning to face everyone in the room.

"You're incredible," Emma was looking at you with adoration, and maybe a small tinge of fear.

You smiled softly, resting a hand on the top of your belly, letting your eyes scan over everyone else. Samira looked on the verge of tears, whether that was from Robby's disgusting actions, or you defending her in that moment you weren't sure. The door swung open before you could attempt to comfort her, Jack stepping inside with tense shoulders.

"What the hell happened? Why did I just see Robby storming around like a goddamn bull?" Jack's eyes locked on you first, checking to make sure you were all right first before turning towards where Samira was.

"I had a panic attack, felt like I was having a heart attack," her voice was soft, muted.

"Everything's okay, though? No serious damage?" Jack cared about his residents, some more than others but people could be grating.

She shook her head, knees pressing closer to her chest as a way to self soothe, lip curling in to try and hold back tears that desperately wanted to escape. You refused to let her suffer in silence, quickly stepping over and wrapping your arms around her in a comforting embrace. The dam broke within seconds, her sobs echoing through the room as you held her, hands rubbing along her back and sides gently.

"Don't you ever think that you don't deserve for people to worry about you, you did the right thing by checking on yourself first," you pressed her tighter against your chest, ignoring how her tears soaked into your scrubs.

Jack watched with a fascination, a small smile on his face at how you always knew how to comfort someone. He'd been on the receiving end more times than he could count, and knowing your child would never have to suffer? It brought an ease he'd never known before in his life.

You let Samira pull from the embrace first, knowing she probably needed the comfort. Her hands were still tangled in the base of your scrub top, breathing evened out.

"Feel better?" Every time someone asked that question it had a slight condescending tone. Yours was different, like a parent that wanted to make sure their child was okay.

"Yeah, thank you," she smiled, wiping away the remnants of her tears with a soft sigh.

You gave her one final squeeze, letting her know that you would always be in her corner, even if you weren't physically in the hospital. Jack stepped around you, hands gently squeezing your hips before taking over as an attending.

"Alright, everyone get back to work before I sick Dana on all of you," everyone, except for Jack and Samira, rushed out of the room, the door shutting as the last person exited.

You knew Robby was going on his sabbatical after the shift, but he didn't need to ruin any kind of relationships with his residents before. Not to mention you hadn't gotten a chance to meet with the attending taking over while he'd be gone.

"Samira, I'm sure Jack had given you my phone number already, but I want you to call me any time you need someone to talk to, okay?" You had given her your full attention, giving her the peace of mind that she would be heard no matter what.

"Thank you," she looked so small, like a child scolded by a parent for making a simple mistake.

It made you sick to think of the way Robby had been treating her, how happier she'd been during her night shifts over the last few months. Maybe Robby leaving for a few months would do the hospital good.

Maybe the world would keep turning, and he'd finally realize that treating his doctors like shit would only end up with them leaving. Maybe.

“Alright miss-” She stops mid sentence when she pulls back the curtain of the room looking up from her chart. You can tell she’s disappointed.

“I swear if that chart says GSW- It’s a graze that's not even that bad.” You say sitting on the bed.

“Yeah it says GSW. I was wondering why you wouldn't be in a trauma room,” She puts hand under the hand sanitizer dispenser, “thought it would be more interesting.” She puts on gloves to start looking at your arm. You already have your shirt off leaving you in just a tank top to give the doctor better access to, what you would consider, a very small graze that you would argue doesn’t even warrant a hospital visit.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” You quip back at her. You’re finally able to get a glance at her badge, Dr. Santos. 

“How did you get this?” The bleeding already stopped a while ago before you got to the hospital. She starts to take the dressing you put on it off. You wince a little at the contact. She says sorry under her breath.

“Occupational hazard.” She quirks her eyebrows up, unsatisfied at your response. “I’m a CSI and I was training a new technician, when the idiots thought it would be a good idea to come back to make sure the job was done. They didn’t realize that the cops had already been called and were there. Anyways guess they got nervous and decided the best course of action was a shoot out. Made sure to cover my new tech and got grazed in doing so.” She swabbed the wound to send for testing, being more careful than she was initially. “I didn’t want to even come here but since it’s work related I was forced too.”

“It doesn’t look bad, I’ll send a sample for cultures just to be sure, clean and dress it for you.” She replies.

“Where is she?!?” You can hear your husband’s voice through the thin curtain. You can only assume Dana points him in your direction cause you can hear him stomp towards your bed. You’re bracing for impact cause you already know he’s upset. He tears the curtain open to see you on the bed with Santos sitting at your side.

“What happened? Are you okay?” His body relaxes a little when he can process that you're fine, but you can tell he’s still on edge.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos stands up stiff as a board.

“What happened.” He repeats himself, still staring at you waiting for an answer.

“It’s nothing, a little graze that’s barely there.” You’re trying to comfort him…it’s not helping a lot. 

“Why did I get a call from the hospital that my wife had a bullet graze and not from you?” You can hear that he’s upset by his voice, his eyes never leaving you. 

“Wait, wife?” Santos asks, “but the last name…”

“It’s hyphenated, I use my maiden name for legal and work.” You explain.

Jack finally moves towards you once he decides that you look well enough. He glances at the wound and can tell that you were right, it’s not bad. He’s at your other side looking down at you, still checking over your face to see if he missed anything.

“She’s stubborn,” he adds, “why didn’t you call me? I freaked out when Dana told me what happened. Broke a few traffic laws getting here.” He’s quieter now and worry still lacing his voice. His hand goes up to touch your face, making sure you’re still here with him. Reassuring himself that you’re okay. You lean into his touch. He’s always so warm.

“I’m fine Jack,” you move your hand to cover his on your face, “I didn’t want to worry you, and they pushed me into a squad car before I even realized it, left my phone in my jacket at the scene.” You take his hand off your face and just hold it in your lap.

“I know how much you hate those cars.” His other hand goes to tuck a piece of your behind your ear. He’s moving like you're made of glass. “But really how did you get shot?”

“I wasn’t shot, I was grazed.” You correct him. “Apperently the cops don’t know how to close a scene correctly. Perp came back, saw cops and started firing.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at the stupidity of what should have never happened. 

He finally takes his eyes off of you and looks over at Santos. “Did you send for culture test?” He’s sterner when he talks to her. You feel bad that she was the one that got stuck with you. Having one of your patients being your attending’s wife can’t be easy. 

“Yes. I was just about to start cleaning and dressing it.” You can tell this situation makes her a little nervous.

“Jack, she’s done everything correct, don’t scare her.” His eyes softening when he looks back at you. His stubble is a little longer than usual, and his curls are unruly. He probably jumped out of bed and rushed to his truck as soon as he got the call. He’s wearing a shirt you know was on top of the laundry hamper. 

“Just double checking.” At his words Santos goes to clean and dress the wound, very diligently you note. 

Jack stays at your side the entire time, hand still in your lap. He squeezes your hand anytime you wince, checking in on you to make sure you’re okay. His eyes are tired from lack of sleep but the look on his face is pure adoration for you. You pull him a little closer so you can lean your head on his broad, sturdy chest. You want to suck all his warmth out of him due to the chill in the ED, and knowing him, he’d let you. 

“I was scared.” Jack whispers to you.

“How do you think I feel when you go out with the SWAT team? This is a once in a blue moon for me, it feels like you’re always getting shot at.” You crane your neck so you can look at him while you say that.

“So is date night just dodging bullets for you guys?” Santos says as she’s finishing up.

You and Jack both huff out a laugh. “No, he’s a little more romantic than that.” You reply.

“A little?” Jack pushes away a little to look at you and raises his eyebrows. “If I remember correctly, you bragged to your friends about ‘how romantic’ my proposal was.” He has a smirk on his face at the fact.

“I should have never told you that, it went to your head.” You roll your eyes and pull him back closer to you. 

“Yeah but you did.” He kisses your head as he says it. He is one of the most romantic people you know when he tries. You love that about him, how thoughtful he is and how he really sees you. He knows you inside and out. He makes the most mundane parts of life exciting just by being there with you. He’s made you the happiest woman in the world and he knows it. You never miss an opportunity to let him know.

“Okay I’m going to get discharge notes and instructions but I’m sure you don’t need them.” Santos says and she starts to walk out of the room. 

“I like her.” You say once she’s out of the room and you start to put your other shirt back on. 

Jack steps back a little to give you room to do so. “Santos? She’s one of Robby’s, haven’t been around her too much. He says she’s good though.” 

You start to stand up when Jack puts his hand out for you to use to help you up. Once you’re standing next to him, you give him a quick peck on the lips. You step back a little after, but not for long. Jack is quick to grab you by the waist and pull you in for a hug. You instinctively wrap your arms around him and melt into his warmth. His other hand goes up to cradle your head, as he puts his head right in the crevice of your neck. 

“I love you. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Jack mutters into your neck. 

“No promises.” He pinches your side when you say that. 

“HEY!” You yelp out barely moving due to his grip on you. “I promise to call next time.” You concede.

“I’ll take what I can get.” He replies right before giving you a little kiss on your neck.

…

Trinity walks up to Whitaker at the hub so she can start writing up the discharge notes. “Did you know Dr. Abbot is married?” She asks him.

“Umm, yeah I think so? He wears a wedding ring right?” 

**Porch Light**  

The moving truck had barely pulled away when the late August heat started pressing down on everything. Boxes were stacked in uneven towers across the living room floor, and you were already regretting every decorative pillow you’d packed. Alex, eight years old and full of restless energy after the long drive, had lasted exactly twenty minutes inside before he bolted out the front door with his worn football tucked under his arm.

You followed a minute later, wiping sweat from your forehead, just in time to see him standing at the edge of the driveway of the house directly next door. The yard was neat but lived-in, freshly mowed grass, a couple of folding chairs on the wide front porch, and a big oak tree that cast nice shade across both properties. A tall man in a faded gray t-shirt was casually tossing the football to himself, the ball spiraling cleanly each time it left his hand.

Alex didn’t wait for permission. He stepped right into Ryan’s driveway, football clutched tight. “Mister… my throws always go sideways. Can you show me how to do it like that?”

Ryan caught the ball one-handed and crouched slightly so he was closer to Alex’s eye level. His voice carried easily across the quiet street. “Sure thing, buddy. Here, put your fingers across the laces like this. Not too tight.” He demonstrated once, slow and patient, then handed the ball back. “Give it a try.”

You walked over, arms crossed loosely, trying to ignore the exhaustion settling into your bones. “Alex, honey, don’t bother the neighbors on day one.”

Ryan glanced up at you with an easy half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt genuine anyway. “No bother at all. Kid’s got good timing, I was just wasting time out here.” He nodded toward you. “(Name), right? Saw the truck earlier. I’m Ryan. House is right next door, obviously.”

“Yeah,” you said, offering a tired smile. “We’re still buried in boxes. Sorry if he’s already invading your yard.”

Alex threw the ball. It wobbled but actually spiraled this time, landing neatly in Ryan’s hands. The boy’s whole face lit up. “Did you see that? It didn’t go crazy!”

“Nice one,” Ryan said, tossing it back gently. “Keep your elbow in a little more next time and it’ll fly straighter. Want to try again?”

You watched them for a few minutes, Ryan giving quiet corrections, Alex hanging on every word like it was the most important lesson in the world. It was such a small thing, but after months of Alex’s dad promising to “throw the ball around next weekend” only for those weekends to disappear into work calls or last-minute plans, the sight hit harder than you expected.

Eventually you cleared your throat. “We should let you get back to your evening. Thanks for the help, Ryan.”

“No thanks needed,” he replied, straightening up. The ball rested easy in his large hands. “If you need anything while you’re settling in, tools, a ladder, someone to haul boxes, just knock. Fence between us is low enough I can hop it if something’s urgent.” His eyes flicked to Alex again, something soft and almost wistful passing over his face before he masked it. “And if the little man wants to practice more, yard’s open.”

Alex grinned up at him. “Really? Cool!”

You gently steered your son back toward your own porch. “Say thank you, Alex.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ryan!”

Ryan gave a small wave, that same half-smile lingering. “Anytime, buddy.”

Back inside, the house still smelled like cardboard and new paint. You made quick sandwiches for dinner while Alex chattered nonstop about the spiral throw and how Mr. Ryan didn’t make him feel stupid for messing up. By the time you got him bathed and into bed, Alex was half-asleep but still mumbling, “He showed me twice… and it worked both times.”

You sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I’m glad you had fun. But we have to give neighbors space, okay? We’re the new people here.”

Alex nodded sleepily. “He seems nice though. Like… actually nice.”

Later, after the dishes were done and the house had gone quiet, you stepped out onto your front porch with a cold glass of sweet tea. The night air was still warm, cicadas humming in the trees. Your porch light cast a soft glow over the steps.

Next door, Ryan’s porch light was on too. He was sitting in one of the folding chairs, long legs stretched out, a bottle of something in his hand. He didn’t wave or call over, but he lifted the bottle slightly in a quiet acknowledgment when he noticed you.

You lifted your glass in return.

For the first time since the moving truck arrived, the tight knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. The house felt less like a fresh start you had to survive alone and more like… a place where someone steady lived right next door. Someone who had taken five minutes out of his evening to help a little boy throw a football properly.

You didn’t know Ryan’s story yet. But as you sat there under the porch lights, listening to the quiet suburban night, you had the strange feeling that the low fence between your yards might end up mattering more than you thought.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered why a man who seemed so naturally good with kids was living alone in that neat house with the big oak tree.

The first two weeks in the new house blurred together in a haze of unpacking, school supply shopping, and figuring out the quickest route to Alex’s elementary school. The neighborhood was quiet in the way only Southern suburbs could be, kids riding bikes in the cul-de-sac, the occasional wave from someone walking their dog, the low hum of lawnmowers on Saturday mornings.  

Your house and Ryan’s shared a waist-high wooden fence that ran along the side yards, easy enough to lean over or step across if needed. It made the properties feel connected without being intrusive, and you’d already caught yourself glancing toward his driveway more than once when you were outside.

It was a Thursday evening, still sticky with late summer heat, when Alex’s bike became the latest crisis. The chain had been slipping for days, and after his dad had promised, again, to fix it “this weekend,” the weekend had come and gone with nothing but a short, distracted phone call. Alex had tried to fix it himself with a screwdriver from your toolbox and only managed to make it worse. Now the chain was jammed, and he was sitting on the front steps looking equal parts frustrated and defeated.

You crouched beside the bike, wiping grease from your hands. “We can take it to the shop tomorrow after school, bud.”

Alex kicked at a pebble. “But I wanted to ride with the other kids tomorrow. Mr. Ryan fixed stuff before. Maybe he knows how.”

Before you could gently talk him out of bothering the neighbor again, Alex was already wheeling the broken bike across the grass toward the fence line. You sighed and followed, wiping your hands on an old rag.

Ryan was in his side yard, hosing down his truck after what looked like a long day. He shut off the water when he saw Alex struggling with the bike. “Hey, little man. What happened here?”

“The chain keeps coming off,” Alex said, voice small. “Dad said he’d fix it but… he didn’t.”

Ryan didn’t miss a beat. He set the hose down and knelt beside the bike without being asked twice. “Let’s take a look. These old chains can be picky.” His voice stayed calm and patient, the same low drawl you remembered from the football lesson. “Grab that wrench from my toolbox over there, the red one.”

Alex’s eyes widened with importance as he hurried to fetch it. Ryan talked him through every step: how to loosen the tension, how to guide the chain back onto the gears, how to test it without pinching fingers. He let Alex do most of the work, only stepping in with quiet corrections when the boy got stuck. “There you go. Tighten it just enough, good job.”

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the easy way Ryan interacted with your son. No impatience, no rushing. Just steady hands and simple praise that made Alex sit up straighter every time.

When the chain finally rolled smoothly under Alex’s test pedal, the boy let out a triumphant laugh and threw his arms around Ryan in a quick, impulsive hug. “It works! Thank you!”

Ryan chuckled softly, ruffling Alex’s hair before the boy pulled back, suddenly shy. “Proud of you for sticking with it. Takes patience.”

You stepped closer, offering a grateful smile. “Seriously, thank you. I was about to give up and pay someone.”

Ryan stood, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes met yours for a moment,warm, steady, with something quieter underneath. “Glad I could help. No shop trip needed now.”

Alex rode off in triumphant circles on the now-fixed bike for a few minutes before you gently herded him inside for a bath and bedtime. He was still buzzing with excitement, chattering about “Mr. Ryan’s tools” and how fast the bike felt now, but the long day finally caught up with him. By the time you tucked him in with a quick story and a kiss on the forehead, Alex was sound asleep, breathing slow and even, one arm dangling off the side of the bed.

You’d just finished rinsing the last dish when your phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.

Unknown Hey, it’s Ryan next door. Alex left his water bottle in my side yard after the bike fix. I can bring it over if that’s easier.

You saved his contact and replied.

You:Thanks so much. He’s already out cold, but I’m still up if you want to drop it by.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at your front door. Ryan stood on the porch holding the bright blue water bottle, looking freshly rinsed off and wearing a clean navy t-shirt that fit just right across his shoulders. The porch light caught the faint dampness in his hair and the easy half-smile on his face.

“Here you go,” he said, voice low so he wouldn’t wake Alex. “Kid’s got good aim, left it right by the fence again.”

You took the bottle, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. The touch sent a small, unexpected spark up your arm. “I really appreciate everything today. Alex hasn’t stopped smiling since you fixed that chain.” You hesitated, then added with a small smile, “Would you like to come in for a minute? I’ve got cold lemonade and some slightly imperfect chocolate chip cookies we baked yesterday. It’s the least I can do after you saved us from a bike shop bill.”

Ryan paused, glancing past you into the quiet house. Something soft flickered in his eyes,surprise, maybe interest. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble… yeah, I’d like that.”

You stepped aside, letting him in. The screen door creaked softly behind him as you led the way to the kitchen. With Alex asleep down the hall, the house felt quieter, more intimate. You poured two glasses of lemonade and set the plate of cookies on the counter while Ryan leaned against it, arms loosely crossed.

“These are dangerous,” he said after taking a bite, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing way. “You trying to bribe the neighbor into fixing more things around here?”

You laughed softly, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. “Only if it works. Though I have to admit, watching you with Alex today… you’ve got a real way with kids. Most people don’t have that kind of patience.”

Ryan’s gaze held yours a beat longer, his voice dropping a little. “Comes natural, I guess. Always liked being around them.” He took another slow sip of lemonade, eyes tracing your face with quiet appreciation. “And you’ve got your hands full doing it mostly on your own. Moving, new school, all of it. You make it look easier than it probably is.”

Heat crept up your neck at the gentle compliment. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling. “Flattery and fixed bikes? Careful, Ryan, you’re raising the bar for next-door neighbors pretty high.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. “Just calling it like I see it, (Name).” His eyes softened as he added, more seriously but still with that light flirtatious edge, “Truth is, it was nice seeing him light up like that. Nice seeing you smile while he did, too.”

The air between you felt a little warmer, the space across the counter suddenly smaller. You held his gaze, letting the moment linger without rushing it. “Well… the porch light’s always on if you ever want to come over again. Cookies or no cookies.”

Ryan set his empty glass down, that half-smile deepening just a touch. “I might take you up on that.” He straightened, but didn’t move toward the door right away. “Goodnight, (Name). Tell Alex his bike looked fast when he was riding it.”

You walked him to the front door, the faint scent of his soap lingering as he stepped onto the porch. “Goodnight, Ryan.”

He gave you one last look over his shoulder, steady, warm, with the barest hint of something more, before crossing the short distance to his own house. 

The neighborhood block party arrived the following Saturday like a warm Southern tradition you hadn’t known you needed. String lights were already strung between trees and porches along the street, grills were firing up by mid-afternoon, and kids darted between yards with popsicles dripping down their arms. The air smelled like charcoal, fresh-cut grass, and whatever someone was baking for the dessert table.

You’d almost talked yourself out of going, Alex had been up late the night before from pure excitement, but he begged until you gave in. He wore his favorite sneakers and kept asking if Mr. Ryan would be there.

Ryan was there, of course.

He was manning one of the community grills near the end of the cul-de-sac, flipping burgers with the same easy competence he’d shown fixing the bike chain. A faded apron was tied around his waist, and his t-shirt clung just slightly from the heat. When he spotted you and Alex walking over, his face softened into that familiar half-smile.

“Hey, little man,” Ryan called, waving the spatula. “Bike still running smooth?”

Alex beamed and immediately launched into a detailed report of every lap he’d done around the block that week. Ryan listened like it was the most important conversation of the day, nodding seriously and asking follow-up questions about speed and turning corners. You stood a few feet away, holding a bowl of potato salad you’d thrown together last-minute, watching the easy rhythm between them.

Ryan’s eyes eventually found yours over Alex’s head. “(Name). Glad you both made it.” He nodded toward the bowl in your hands. “That looks dangerous. You trying to ruin everyone else’s contributions?”

You laughed, the sound lighter than you’d felt in weeks. “Only if the cookies from the other night didn’t already set the bar too high.”

His grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “Those cookies were unfair. I’ve been thinking about them since Thursday.” The words carried a subtle warmth, low enough that Alex didn’t catch the flirtatious undertone, but you definitely did. “Let me finish this round and I’ll make you both a plate. Extra pickles for the champ here.”

True to his word, Ryan delivered. He handed Alex a plate stacked exactly how the boy liked it, a burger with extra pickles, chips on the side, and then passed you a cold drink without asking what you wanted. His fingers brushed yours again as he did, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. “Figured you might be thirsty chasing this one around all afternoon.”

The three of you found a shady spot on a couple of folding chairs someone had set out. Alex inhaled his food and then ran off to join a chaotic game of tag with the other kids, leaving you and Ryan sitting side by side.

Conversation flowed easily at first, safe topics like how Alex was settling into school and which backyard games the neighborhood kids seemed to love most. But as the sun dipped lower and the string lights clicked on overhead, the talk turned quieter.

You mentioned Alex’s upcoming flag football sign-ups at the community park. “He’s already asking if you’d come watch a practice sometime. No pressure, of course.”

Ryan’s expression shifted, something wistful flickering across his face as he watched Alex darting between kids in the fading light. “I’d like that. Used to help with the younger leagues a while back. Always pictured myself doing more of that someday, coaching, backyard games, the whole thing.” He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his plastic cup. His voice dropped, more for you than anyone else. “My ex and I… we wanted different futures in the end. Kids were part of what didn’t line up. Didn’t expect it to still hit this hard sometimes.”

The admission hung between you, gentle and honest. You felt the weight of it, the quiet ache of a future he’d once imagined but lost. Without thinking, you reached over and gave his forearm a light, reassuring squeeze. “That sounds really hard. I’m sorry.”

Ryan looked down at your hand for a moment before meeting your eyes again. The flirtatious spark from earlier softened into something deeper, warmer. “Thanks. And hey… seeing Alex light up the way he does around here? It’s been good. Real good.” His gaze held yours a beat longer, voice lowering with that subtle Southern charm. “Makes the neighborhood feel a little brighter having you two right next door.”

Heat rose in your cheeks. You didn’t pull your hand away immediately. “Careful, Ryan. Keep saying things like that and I might start leaving more broken things in your yard just so you’ll come fix them.”

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through the small space between your chairs. “Might be worth it. Especially if it comes with more of those cookies… or more evenings like this.”

Alex chose that moment to run back over, flushed and laughing, breaking the moment but not the lingering warmth. “Mom! Mr. Ryan! Can we play football? Just a little?”

Ryan ruffled the boy’s hair, his smile easy again. “Tell you what, how about I come over this weekend and we practice some routes in your backyard? No pressure on the sign-ups, but I’ll show you a few things if your mom’s okay with it.”

You nodded, meeting Ryan’s eyes over Alex’s head. “We’d like that.”

As the party wound down and families started drifting back to their houses, Ryan walked with you and Alex the short distance home. The string lights from the block party still twinkled behind you, and the fence line between your porches glowed under your respective lights.

At your door, Ryan paused. “Thanks for the company tonight, (Name).” His voice was soft, meant just for you while Alex yawned beside you. “Porch light’s on if you ever want to sit out later. No cookies required.”

You smiled, the flirtation from earlier still humming quietly between you. “Same goes for you, neighbor.”

He gave you one last look, steady, warm, full of unspoken possibility, before heading to his own house, the low fence feeling more like a bridge than ever.

Inside, Alex crashed quickly, still talking about tag and football in his sleep. You stepped onto your porch for a moment, the night air cool against your skin. Ryan’s porch light stayed on, and you caught the silhouette of him settling into his chair.

The spark was no longer just slight. It was beginning to feel like something steady, something real and it was happening right next door.

Sunday afternoon arrived warm and golden, the kind of late-summer day that made the backyard feel like the center of the world. You’d spent the morning tidying up while Alex bounced around the house asking every ten minutes if it was time yet for Mr. Ryan to come over. The invitation from the block party had stuck, and Ryan had texted that morning to confirm he’d be over after lunch.

Right at the agreed time, there was a familiar knock at the front door, two quick raps. When you opened it, Ryan stood there in a simple gray t-shirt and worn jeans, a football tucked under one arm and a small toolbox in the other hand “just in case the bike needs a quick check later.” His half-smile was easy, but his eyes held that same quiet warmth you’d noticed more and more lately.

“Ready for some routes, little man?” he called past you as Alex came skidding into the hallway.

Alex practically dragged him through the house and out the back door. The shared fence line made it feel like one big yard anyway; Ryan stepped over the low wooden slats without hesitation, making the whole thing feel natural.

For the next hour, the backyard filled with laughter and Ryan’s patient voice. He set up simple cones using empty water bottles and walked Alex through basic football routes, short slants, button hooks, even a silly “zigzag like you’re dodging raccoons” that had your son collapsing in giggles. Ryan never raised his voice, never got frustrated when throws went wide. Instead, he’d crouch down, adjust Alex’s grip gently, and praise every small improvement.

“Look at that spiral,” Ryan said after one particularly good throw, offering a high-five. “You’re getting stronger every time, buddy.”

You watched from the porch steps, a glass of iced tea forgotten in your hands. The way Ryan moved, steady, encouraging, completely present, stirred something deep in your chest. Alex’s biological dad had never shown this kind of consistent patience, and seeing your son soak it up like sunlight made your throat tight with both gratitude and a quiet ache.

When practice wound down, Alex tugged on Ryan’s shirt. “Can you stay for dinner? Mom’s making burgers on the grill. Please?”

Ryan glanced at you, raising an eyebrow in silent question. You smiled and nodded. “We’d love it if you stayed. Nothing fancy, but there’s plenty.”

“Twist my arm,” Ryan replied, that teasing glint returning to his eyes as he looked at you. “Especially if it means I get to taste more of your cooking. Those cookies from the other night are still living rent-free in my head.”

The three of you moved seamlessly into dinner prep. Ryan took over the grill with natural ease while you chopped sides and Alex “helped” by stirring lemonade and telling exaggerated stories about his best throws. Conversation flowed light and warm, favorite backyard games from childhood, funny neighborhood stories, Alex’s excitement about flag football tryouts. Every so often Ryan’s gaze would drift to you across the patio table, lingering with a softness that felt heavier than words.

As the sun dipped lower and fireflies began to blink in the grass, dinner gave way to winding down. Alex, sticky with ketchup and tired from running, asked the question you’d half-expected: “Mr. Ryan, can you tell me the raccoon story tonight? The one about the tree fort?”

Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Only if it’s okay with your mom.”

You nodded, heart doing a slow flip. “Bedtime routine it is.”

Inside, the house felt cozier with Ryan there. You got Alex changed into pajamas while Ryan waited in the hallway. Then the three of you ended up in Alex’s room, Ryan sitting on the edge of the bed, you leaning against the doorframe. Ryan’s voice dropped into that low, storytelling drawl as he continued the ongoing tale of the clumsy raccoon trying to build the perfect tree fort. He added silly voices and sound effects, making Alex giggle until his eyes grew heavy.

By the end of the chapter, Alex was fighting sleep, one small hand resting on Ryan’s arm. “You’re really good at stories,” he mumbled. “Better than… anyone.”

Ryan’s expression softened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face as he gently tucked the blanket higher. “Glad you liked it, buddy. Sleep tight.”

You switched off the lamp, leaving only the soft nightlight glowing. Ryan followed you out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him. The house was still now, just the two of you in the dim light.

You leaned against the wall, voice soft. “You’re really good with him, Ryan. The practice, the stories… all of it. I don’t think you know how much that means.”

Ryan stopped a step away from you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of charcoal and summer on his shirt. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. “I meant what I said at the block party. I always pictured this kind of thing, backyard stuff, bedtime stories, being the guy who shows up.” His voice lowered, carrying that gentle flirtation mixed with honest ache. “Divorce made me think maybe that future wasn’t for me anymore. Sam and I… we wanted different things when it came to family. Seeing you two right next door, though? It’s stirring up all those old wishes again. In a good way.”

The air between you thickened. You took a small step closer, drawn by the steady pull of him. “It looks good on you, you know. The way you are with Alex. The way you are with me.” Your words came out softer than intended, a hint of flirtation threading through. “Careful, or I might start depending on having you over here more often.”

Ryan’s half-smile returned, but his eyes darkened with warmth. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, the touch lingering. “Might not mind that at all, (Name).” His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Porch lights are convenient when the houses are this close.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The almost-touch hung between you, charged, tender, full of all the small moments that had been building since the moving truck left. Ryan’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before he caught himself, stepping back with obvious reluctance.

“I should head out before I overstay,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t want to. “Thanks for dinner. And for letting me be part of his bedtime.”

You walked him to the front door, the short distance feeling longer than usual. On the porch, under the glow of your light spilling toward his, Ryan paused one last time.

“Weekend’s not over yet,” he added with a quiet smile. “If you need any more raccoon chapters… or just someone to sit on the porch with… you know where to find me.”

You watched him cross back to his house, stepping easily over the low fence. The night felt warmer, the space between your homes smaller and more inviting than ever.

Inside, Alex slept peacefully, dreaming of tree forts and perfect spirals. And you stood at your door a little longer, heart beating with the slow, steady promise of whatever was growing right next door.

The community park was alive with weekend energy. Orange jerseys flashed across the grass as Alex’s flag football team battled through a tight game. You sat on the sidelines with a blanket spread out, snacks ready, heart swelling every time Alex executed one of the routes Ryan had drilled with him in the backyard. Ryan had shown up early, folding chair planted right beside yours, cooler stocked with water and orange slices. His quiet cheers, “Atta boy, Alex! Eyes up!”, carried steady and warm, making the morning feel lighter.

Then, midway through the fourth quarter, Alex’s dad appeared on the far sideline.

He looked rushed, phone still in hand, dress shirt untucked like he’d squeezed the game in between meetings. You hadn’t expected him. His appearances had grown rarer and more unreliable. Today he waved half-heartedly when Alex glanced over during a break.

The final play exploded with excitement. Alex caught a short pass, dodged a defender with a sharp zigzag, and sprinted into the end zone as the clock hit zero. The orange team erupted. Parents cheered. Alex yanked off his helmet, face glowing with pure triumph, and took off running, not toward his dad on the opposite sideline, but straight to Ryan.

“Mr. Ryan! Did you see that? I used the zigzag just like you taught me!”

Ryan laughed, crouching to catch Alex in a firm hug. “I saw every second of it, little man. That was all you,perfect hands, perfect heart. I’m so proud of you.”

Alex clung to him, beaming like Ryan hung the sun.

Alex’s dad stalked over, jaw already tight. The celebratory noise around you started to fade as heads turned.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped, voice loud enough to draw more attention. “My kid scores the winning touchdown and runs to some random person instead of his own father?”

Ryan straightened slowly, keeping one protective hand on Alex’s shoulder. His posture stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. You stepped forward, heart pounding.

“He ran to someone who’s actually been here,” you said, voice steady but edged with months of built-up frustration. “Ryan shows up for practices, for games, for the little things you keep promising and then forgetting.”

Alex’s dad’s face reddened. “You’ve got some nerve. I’m his father. I pay child support. I show up when I can. And now you’re parading this guy around like he’s playing daddy?”

The words landed like a slap. Parents nearby shifted uncomfortably. Alex looked between the adults, confusion creeping into his excited expression.

You felt heat flare in your chest. “Playing daddy? Ryan doesn’t have to ‘play’ anything. He fixes Alex’s bike when you cancel. He stays for bedtime stories when you’re too busy. He teaches him football and actually shows up to cheer him on. You? You make promises and disappear. Alex waits by the window every single time, and you let him down over and over. Ryan has been more of a father to him in these past weeks than you have in the last year.”

Alex’s dad took a step closer, voice rising sharply. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face in front of everyone. You’re the one letting some stranger get this close to my son. What kind of mother does that?”

That was the breaking point.

Ryan moved then, smooth, deliberate, stepping slightly in front of you and Alex. His voice stayed low and controlled, but it carried steel. “Hey. That’s enough.” He didn’t raise his volume, but the quiet authority cut through the tension. “You don’t get to talk to her like that. She’s doing everything she can to give Alex a stable life while you keep letting him down. I’m not trying to replace you. I’m just the guy next door who actually shows up when it matters. And right now, that matters a hell of a lot more to Alex than your excuses.”

Alex’s dad glared at Ryan, fists clenched at his sides. “You think you’re better than me because you live next door and play backyard coach? Stay in your lane.”

Ryan didn’t back down, his hand still resting protectively near Alex’s shoulder. “My lane is being there when a kid needs someone reliable. If that bothers you, maybe look at why your own kid ran to me first.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Alex’s dad opened his mouth, then closed it, face flushed with anger and embarrassment. He shot you one last bitter look. “We’ll talk about this later. Alone.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the parking lot, shoulders stiff.

A few parents awkwardly resumed clapping for the win, trying to ease the awkwardness. You knelt quickly, pulling Alex into your arms. “You played so well today, sweetheart. We’re both so proud of you.”

Alex hugged you back, still glancing toward where his dad had gone. “Is Dad mad at Mr. Ryan?”

Ryan crouched beside you both, voice gentle now. “He’s just upset he missed most of the game. But none of that changes how awesome you were out there.” He offered Alex a fist bump. “How about victory pizza at your house tonight? Just us three. We’ll celebrate the right way.”

Alex’s face brightened a little. “With raccoon stories after?”

You nodded, managing a tired smile as you looked at Ryan. “Pizza and stories sound perfect.”

The rest of the afternoon shifted back toward warmth. At home, Ryan helped set up the small celebration while Alex recounted every play with growing excitement. Board games followed, Ryan dramatically losing at Sorry to make Alex laugh, then winning Uno with playful Southern trash talk that had you both grinning. “Uno reverse on the whole family,” he teased, winking at you across the table.

Alex eventually crashed hard on the couch during the movie, the emotional day finally catching up. Ryan carried him to bed without a word, tucking the blanket carefully and whispering the next chapter of the raccoon adventure until Alex’s breathing evened out.

You waited in the hallway, adrenaline still humming from the confrontation. When Ryan stepped out and closed the door softly, the house felt suddenly intimate, just the two of you in the low light.

He stopped close, searching your face. “You okay? I didn’t mean to jump in like that, but I couldn’t stand hearing him talk to you that way.”

You stepped into his space, hand resting on his chest. “I’m glad you did. What I said out there… I meant every word. You show up, Ryan. For him. For me. I’m tired of pretending this is just neighbor stuff.”

Ryan’s breath caught. His hands settled on your waist, warm and sure, pulling you closer. “(Name)…” His voice was rough with restraint and longing. The months of porch lights, bike fixes, root beer confessions, and quiet yearning finally crested.

He leaned in.

The kiss started slow, tentative, full of everything you’d both been holding back. Then it deepened, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as weeks of tension melted into heat. It was tender but hungry, his lips warm against yours, the faint taste of victory pizza and the steady strength that had become your safe place. No rush. No chaos. Just the two of you finally crossing the line that had been blurring since the day the moving truck left.

When you broke apart, foreheads resting together, Ryan let out a soft, shaky breath. “Been wanting to do that since the first time you invited me in for lemonade.”

“Me too,” you whispered, smiling against his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt. “Stay a little longer?”

He nodded, thumb brushing your cheek with gentle affection. “As long as you’ll have me.”

One year later

The backyard tree fort was finally finished.

It stood sturdy and proud in the big oak that straddled the old property line between your former house and Ryan’s, now simply *your* house. String lights Ryan and Alex had hung together twinkled softly in the late spring evening, and the fort itself had evolved from a simple platform into a proper little clubhouse complete with a handmade sign that read “Hart Family Fort” in Alex’s careful, slightly crooked handwriting.

You stood on the back porch, one hand resting on the gentle swell of your belly, watching the two most important people in your life put the finishing touches on the railing. Ryan was steadying the wood while Alex hammered the last few nails with fierce concentration.

“Almost done, Mom!” Alex called down, grinning ear to ear. At nine now, he had shot up several inches and carried himself with a quiet confidence he hadn’t had when you first moved in next door.

Ryan glanced over his shoulder at you, that familiar half-smile deepening when his eyes landed on your rounded stomach. “Careful on the ladder, buddy. Your mom’s already got enough to worry about with the little one on the way.”

The pregnancy had been a beautiful surprise, yours and Ryan’s first child together. A little girl, due in late summer. Ryan had been over the moon from the moment you told him, already reading bedtime stories to your belly and quietly fixing up the nursery in the room that used to be his guest space.

Alex climbed down carefully and ran over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist (or as much of it as he could reach now). “When the baby comes, can she sleep in the fort sometimes? With us?”

You laughed softly, running your fingers through his hair. “We’ll see, sweetheart. She’ll be pretty little at first.”

Alex pulled back just enough to look up at you, his expression turning thoughtful, the same one he got when he was working up to something important. “You know… it’s easier now that we all lived here together all the time. Like a real family. Don’t you think, Mom?”

Alex had been saying variations of this for weeks—ever since you’d officially moved in with Ryan three months ago. He wasn’t pushy, just honest in that pure, nine-year-old way.

Ryan wiped his hands on a rag and came over, crouching so he was eye-level with Alex. “It does feel pretty right having you both here.”

You smiled down at them, heart full. “It does feel right..”

Alex’s biological dad had tried harder in the past several months, more consistent visits, more texts, even showing up to a couple of games. But Alex had grown distant. The last time his dad had come to pick him up, Alex had stood quietly by Ryan’s side and said, “I want to stay home with my dad tonight.” The words had stung the other man, but Alex hadn’t wavered. To him, Ryan was his real dad, the one who showed up every single day, who built forts and told raccoon stories and never made him feel like an afterthought.

Ryan never pushed the issue or spoke badly about Alex’s dad. He simply continued being steady: helping with homework, coaching flag football, and now preparing for a new baby with the same quiet devotion.

That evening, after dinner, the three of you settled on the wide front porch. The low fence between the old houses had been taken down months ago, the yards fully joined. String lights stretched from your porch to the oak tree, casting a soft glow.

Alex curled up on the porch swing between you and Ryan, fighting sleep after the long day of fort-building. “Tell the raccoon story again?” he mumbled. “The one where the fort finally works.”

Ryan’s arm rested along the back of the swing, his fingers lightly brushing your shoulder. He started the familiar tale in that low, soothing drawl, adding new details about the baby raccoon who was about to join the family. Alex’s eyes grew heavy, his head eventually resting against Ryan’s side.

When Alex finally drifted off, Ryan carefully lifted him and carried him inside to bed. You followed, watching from the doorway as Ryan tucked the blanket around your son with the same gentle care he always showed.

Back on the porch, Ryan pulled you close on the swing, one large hand splaying protectively over your belly. The baby gave a soft kick, and Ryan’s face lit up with that quiet wonder he still couldn’t hide.

“Feel that?” you whispered.

“Every time,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Still can’t believe we’re doing this. A year ago I was just the guy next door fixing bike chains and wishing for something I thought I’d lost. Now I’ve got you, Alex calling me Dad, and a little girl on the way.”

You leaned into him, the porch light glowing steady above you both. “You deserve this, Ryan. All of it. You’ve been the steady one from the very beginning.”

He turned his head, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, the kind that still made your heart race even after a year of them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

The night air was cool and sweet with early summer. From inside, you could hear the faint creak of the house settling. Out here, the porch light continued to shine, warm, constant, no longer reaching across a fence but simply lighting the life you’d built together.

Alex’s biological dad still existed somewhere in the background, trying in his inconsistent way. But Alex had made his choice clear, and you and Ryan had chosen each other every single day since that first football toss in the driveway.

As Ryan’s hand gently rubbed circles on your belly and the baby kicked again, you felt the deep, quiet certainty that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The apparatus bay at Station 113 smelled like diesel, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of freshly cleaned turnout gear. You’d been here less than forty-eight hours, and already the place felt like a pressure cooker with your name on the gauge.

You stood near the engine, arms crossed, watching Lieutenant Ryan Hart run the morning briefing like he was born with a clipboard in one hand and a rodeo rope in the other. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy Southern confidence that came from growing up as Captain Don Hart’s son. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, and the navy Station 113 tee stretched across his chest in a way that made half the probies stare a little too long. He spoke with that low, measured drawl, calm, authoritative, every word wrapped in the invisible weight of legacy.

“Today’s drill focuses on high-rise stairwell ops,” Ryan said, tapping the whiteboard. “We stick to standard protocol. No deviations. We’ve got families counting on us to do this the right way.”

You couldn’t help it. The words were out before you could swallow them.

“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” you cut in, voice steady but edged with that analytical bite you’d never learned to soften, “standard protocol on those stairs adds almost ninety seconds of exposure time once the smoke hits the landing. If we reroute the second team using the exterior access ladder and pre-position the positive pressure fan here,” you stepped forward and pointed at the diagram he’d drawn, “we cut that down and keep the interior attack viable longer.”

The bay went dead quiet.

Ryan’s pen stopped mid-sentence. He turned his head slowly, hazel eyes locking onto yours. For a second, the only sound was the distant hum of the bay doors and someone’s radio crackling faintly in the background.

He didn’t raise his voice. He never did. That was part of what made him infuriating.

“New transfer, right?” His tone stayed polite, almost friendly, but there was steel underneath. “We don’t rewrite the book on day one, firefighter. The code’s there for a reason. It keeps people alive.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “The code also kept people in outdated tactics when better data showed otherwise. I’m not rewriting anything. I’m just pointing out what the numbers say.”

A few crew members shifted uncomfortably. You caught the side-eye from a couple of the older guys, loyal to the Hart name like it was gospel. Ryan’s jaw flexed once, that perfect Southern gentleman mask cracking just enough for you to see the competitive spark flare behind it.

“Appreciate the input,” he said flatly. “But we train the way we fight. And we fight the way my father built this house. Fall in line, or you’ll be on inventory until you remember how.”

He turned back to the board like the conversation was over.

You felt heat crawl up your neck, but you kept your mouth shut. For now.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of pointed silence. Ryan assigned you to the rear of the engine for the drill, the spot that meant you’d eat diesel fumes and eat everyone else’s dust. Every time you tried to adjust a hose lay or suggest a faster knot, he was there, calm, immovable, correcting you with that same measured drawl.

“Left over right on the clove hitch, not the other way. We don’t improvise the basics here.”

You bit back the retort burning on your tongue. *I’ve run more complex extrications than most of this crew has seen in a year.* But you held it. Barely.

By the time the afternoon rolled around, the crew had started placing quiet bets in the kitchen. You overheard snippets while grabbing coffee.

“Five bucks says the new one lasts a week before Hart writes ’em up.”

“Ten says they throw hands in the bay first.”

You ignored it. You’d transferred into Station 113 because it had one of the busiest runs in Nashville, not because you needed friends. Your reputation from your old house preceded you: sharp, effective, occasionally mouthy when protocols got in the way of saving lives. You’d see that rigid thinking cost people everything. You weren’t about to watch it happen again.

The real spark came during the actual call that afternoon, a nasty multi-vehicle pile-up on I-65 involving an overturned big rig and three passenger cars. Smoke, fuel, trapped victims screaming. Chaos wrapped in twisted metal.

You moved on instinct when the second Engine 113 rolled up. While Ryan was directing the primary extrication team with textbook precision, you spotted the secondary victim pinned in the rear sedan, airway compromised, fire spreading faster than standard approach allowed.

“Lieutenant!” you shouted over the roar of the Jaws. “If we vent the rear window now and go through the trunk, we can reach her before the fire breaches the fuel line!”

Ryan didn’t even glance your way at first. He was focused on the driver, voice steady as he called for cribbing and a second set of tools. “Stick to your assignment!”

You didn’t. You grabbed the Halligan and made the call yourself—quick, calculated, the kind of move your old captain had both cursed and praised you for. Thirty seconds later, you had the victim out, coughing but breathing, just as the sedan flashed over.

The crew cheered when the ambulance pulled away with her. Ryan didn’t.

Back at the station, turnout coats still reeking of smoke, he cornered you in the gear room while everyone else was showering or refueling.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, controlled, but his eyes burned. Up close, he smelled like sweat and adrenaline and that faint hint of leather from whatever cowboy shit he did on his off days. “I gave an order. You went off-script in the middle of a live scene.”

You straightened, refusing to back down even though your heart was still hammering from the call. “Your script was going to get her killed. The numbers on fire spread didn’t lie. I made the better call.”

“You made my call look bad in front of the crew,” he shot back, stepping closer. The space between you crackled. “This isn’t your old house. We do things a certain way here. The Hart way. You undermine me again like that, and I’ll have you on probie duty so fast your head’ll spin.”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Is that what this is about? Protecting the precious Hart legacy? God forbid someone points out that ‘the right way’ isn’t always the fastest way to save a life.”

Ryan’s expression hardened. For a moment, something raw flickered across his face, frustration, maybe even a flash of doubt, but it vanished behind the lieutenant mask.

“Watch yourself, firefighter,” he said quietly, the drawl thickening with warning. “You don’t know what it takes to run this station. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”

He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving you standing among the hanging coats, fists clenched, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the call.

That night, the crew hit their usual spot, a rowdy honky-tonk on the edge of town where the beer was cold and the music loud enough to drown out shift trauma. You went because declining would look weak, but you kept to the corner of the bar, nursing a whiskey and scrolling through incident reports on your phone.

Ryan was there too, of course. Center of attention without even trying. He had a beer in hand, laughing at something one of the guys said, that easy cowboy charm on full display. Captain Don had stopped by for a quick round, clapping his son on the shoulder with obvious pride. The Hart men together looked like a damn billboard for legacy.

You couldn’t resist muttering under your breath when Ryan passed near your stool on his way to the bar. “Must be nice, having the family name do half the heavy lifting.”

He stopped. Turned. The smile he’d been wearing for the crew faded into something cooler, sharper.

“Care to say that louder?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

You met his eyes. “Just observing, Lieutenant. Some of us actually have to earn respect the old-fashioned way, by being right when it counts.”

Ryan leaned in, close enough that you caught the scent of his aftershave mixed with beer. His voice dropped so only you could hear. “You think you’re the smartest one in every room, don’t you? Walking in here like you’re gonna fix everything we’ve been doing just fine for years. Newsflash: we save lives every shift without your little spreadsheets and attitude. Maybe try learning the code before you start tearing it down.”

Your pulse jumped. The air between you felt charged, like the moment before a backdraft. You hated how aware you were of his height, the way his shoulders filled out that worn flannel, the stubborn set of his jaw.

“And maybe you should try evolving the code before it gets someone killed,” you fired back, just as quiet, just as intense.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. His gaze flicked down to your mouth for half a second, probably accidental, before snapping back up. Then he straightened, that polite lieutenant mask sliding back into place.

“Enjoy your drink,” he said flatly. “Try not to choke on all that superiority.”

He walked away, rejoining his crew with a laugh like nothing had happened.

You stayed at the bar longer than you meant to, the whiskey burning hotter than it should have. The hostility sat heavy in your chest, mixed with something sharper you refused to name. Ryan Hart was everything you disliked on paper: rigid, legacy-protected, annoyingly competent, wrapped in that effortless Southern charm.

But the way he’d looked at you during the argument, like he was seeing you, really seeing you, even while wanting to throttle you, stuck in your mind long after you left the bar.

By the end of the week, the crew’s bets had shifted. No one expected fists in the bay anymore.

They were waiting to see which one of you would break first.

The weekend team-building event was mandatory, which meant there was no graceful way to bow out. Captain Don had signed the whole shift up for a community safety demonstration at the Nashville rodeo fairgrounds, teaching kids basic fire safety, running rope and knot demos, and showing off turnout gear to the public. It was the kind of wholesome PR that Station 113 did every few months, and Ryan Hart was in his element.

You showed up in jeans and a Station 113 polo, already dreading the forced proximity. The fairgrounds smelled like fried dough, hay, and horse sweat. Country music blared from speakers near the arena, and kids ran everywhere with cotton candy-sticky fingers. Ryan looked annoyingly at home in worn Wranglers, a faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, and scuffed boots that had clearly seen real ranch work. The modern-day cowboy lieutenant, complete with that easy Southern charm turned up to eleven for the civilians.

He was demonstrating rope handling to a group of wide-eyed kids when you walked past, dragging a bundle of practice line behind you. Without missing a beat, he called out, loud enough for half the booth to hear, “Careful with that coil, firefighter. Left over right on the clove hitch, unless you’re planning on improvising again and watching it slip.”

You stopped, turning with a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant. Wouldn’t want to bruise that delicate Hart ego by doing it better in front of the public.”

A few parents chuckled. Ryan’s grin sharpened, but his eyes held that competitive glint you’d grown used to. “Delicate? Darlin’, the only thing delicate around here is your grip on actual procedure. Come on over, show the kids how the ‘data-driven’ method looks when it falls apart.”

You dropped the rope and stepped into the demo circle, aware of the crew watching from nearby booths. “Fine. But when your traditional knot fails under tension, don’t cry to me about legacy methods.”

The kids loved it. You and Ryan ended up side-by-side, demonstrating opposing techniques, his classic cowboy style versus your more efficient, modern adjustments. The banter flowed fast and low between instructions, pitched just for each other.

“See how the lieutenant does it the old-fashioned way?” you told a little girl, loud enough for Ryan to hear. “Real pretty, but adds ten extra seconds when seconds count.”

Ryan leaned in while helping a boy with his loop, voice dropping. “And your fancy twist looks real smart until the smoke’s thick and your tablet’s dead. Then what, hotshot? Gonna calculate your way out with sarcasm?”

You bumped his shoulder “accidentally” while reaching for more line. “Better than roping my way through a flashover on pure stubbornness, cowboy.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound warmer than it had any right to be. “Stubborn? Says the one who’s been fighting me since day one like I personally rewrote the NFPA standards just to spite you.”

The demo wrapped with applause, but the tension between you didn’t dissipate. It followed you through the afternoon, shared lunch breaks where the crew ribbed you both about “the new rivalry,” and quiet moments hauling gear where Ryan would mutter corrections and you’d fire back with data points. By the time the sun dipped low and most families headed home, the crew was packing up trucks while Captain Don chatted with sponsors. Ryan caught your eye across the lot and jerked his head toward the quieter edge of the grounds. “Help me coil the extra line before it gets dark. That’s an order.”

You followed, mostly because refusing would look petty. The area behind the main arena was shadowed, away from the lights and noise. Hay bales and empty trailers created natural privacy. Ryan was already looping rope with practiced ease when you joined him.

“Still correcting me even when no one’s watching?” you asked, grabbing a bundle.

He didn’t look up immediately. “Habit. You make it easy when you keep doing things the hard way just to prove a point.”

You snorted. “The hard way? Says the guy whose entire leadership style is ‘because my dad did it this way.’ Must be exhausting, carrying that code around like a saddle that doesn’t fit anymore.”

Ryan straightened, rope forgotten in his hands. The easy banter from earlier had shifted into something heavier. His hazel eyes met yours in the fading light. “Exhausting? Try knowing every call is measured against Captain Don Hart’s shadow. One slip and it’s not just me who looks bad, it’s the whole house. You waltz in with your spreadsheets and attitude like you’re the first one to notice the world changed. Newsflash: I see the problems too. But tearing down the foundation without building something better just gets people killed.”

The admission landed heavier than expected. You set your coil down, crossing your arms. “I’m not tearing it down. I’m trying to reinforce it. I’ve watched rigid thinking cost lives, calls where ‘the code’ meant watching someone die because no one adapted. You’re good at your job, Hart. Really good. But sometimes good isn’t enough if it’s stuck in the past.”

He stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel. The air between you thickened, charged with all the weeks of clashing wills. “And sometimes adapting too fast without respect for what works gets someone hurt worse. You think I don’t lie awake running scenarios? Wondering if listening to the hot new transfer with the sharp tongue would’ve changed the outcome?”

Your pulse kicked up. The proximity made it impossible to ignore how tall he was, how the flannel stretched across his shoulders, the faint scent of hay and sweat and whatever soap he used that smelled unfairly good. “So you do think about it. About me. About whether I might be right.”

Ryan’s jaw flexed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I think about the job. And right now, I’m thinking about how damn frustrating you are, pushing every button like you were born to test me.”

You laughed, but it came out breathier than intended. “Test you? Lieutenant, you’ve been riding my ass since I walked in the bay. Reassigning me to inventory, correcting every knot, glaring across the apparatus floor like I insulted your horse. If anyone’s testing, it’s you, seeing how far you can push before I break.”

He moved even closer, voice dropping to that low drawl that sent unwelcome heat curling through you. “Maybe I want to see what happens when you push back. See if that smart mouth is good for anything besides arguing protocol and undermining my briefings.”

Your back hit the side of a trailer before you realized you’d been retreating. Ryan didn’t crowd you, but the space between you had vanished. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up, dark with something that had nothing to do with hostility anymore.

“Careful, cowboy,” you warned, though your voice lacked its usual bite. “Keep talking like that and someone might think the great Ryan Hart is losing control of the situation.”

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips. “Losing control? Darlin’, I’ve been losing it since the day you opened your mouth in my briefing and told me my plan was slow. You know what’s worse? I keep thinking about that mouth. Wondering if it’d feel as sharp up close as it does across the bay.”

The words hit like a line being pulled taut. Your breath caught. “You’re insufferable. Arrogant, legacy-protected, and annoyingly competent. I should hate how much you get under my skin.”

“Mutual,” he murmured, one hand coming up to brace against the trailer beside your head. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat of him radiated. “You’re reckless with that analytical brain of yours. Mouthy. Stubborn as hell. And yet… every time we clash, I can’t stop thinking about shutting you up the old-fashioned way.”

Before you could fire back, Ryan leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was sudden and rough, weeks of frustration and heat colliding as his mouth claimed yours. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted. You kissed him back just as fiercely, gripping the front of his flannel and pulling him closer, like you’d been dying to do this since the first time he corrected you in front of the crew. He tasted like iced tea and something warmer, deeper, salt, hay, and pure Ryan. The kiss was messy, hungry, his body pressing you back against the trailer as a low sound rumbled in his chest when you nipped his bottom lip. For a few heated seconds, the rivalry dissolved into pure want.

When he finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing hard.

“Well… shit,” Ryan muttered, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you managed, lips still tingling. “Shit.”

He let out a low, rough laugh, but didn’t move away. His thumb brushed your jaw, surprisingly gentle after the intensity. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Worst idea,” you agreed, though your hands were still fisted in his shirt. “Chain of command. Your dad’s the captain. Station gossip travels faster than a damn siren. We can’t..”

Before you could finish, your lips met his again in a quick, heated kiss.

“I know,” he murmured against your mouth, then pulled back just enough to speak. His eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded. “No one can know. Not the crew. Not my father. Not a soul at 113. We keep it off the clock, completely separate. If it blows up, it blows up quietly.”

His lips found yours again, slower this time, like he couldn’t help himself.

You nodded, heart still racing, even as you stole one more brief kiss. “Agreed. Strictly off-duty. And if it stops working, it stops. No drama at the house.”

“Deal.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips—the first real one you’d seen aimed fully at you. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop calling you out on bad knots during drills, though. Can’t make it too obvious we’re not still at each other’s throats.”

You laughed softly, the sound surprising you. “Good. Because if you suddenly go easy on me, the crew will know something’s up. And I reserve the right to keep pointing out when your precious code is outdated.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, hotshot.” He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a deeper, harder kiss that felt like both a promise and a warning all at once. When he finally pulled back, his drawl was thicker, warmer. “Now get back to the trucks before someone notices we’ve been gone too long. And try not to look like you’ve been thoroughly kissed by the lieutenant you supposedly can’t stand.”

You smoothed your shirt, attempting to look unaffected even as your lips tingled. “Only if you stop looking like the cowboy who just lost a round to the new transfer.”

He smirked, stepping back and grabbing the rope coils like nothing had happened. “Lost? Darlin’, I think we both won that one.”

The drive back to the station was separate, of course. You rode with a couple of the crew, listening to them joke about the day while your mind replayed the kiss on loop, the heat, the frustration, the unexpected rightness of it. Ryan’s truck stayed in your rearview for part of the way, a silent reminder.

Back at Station 113 the next shift, nothing outwardly changed. Ryan ran briefings with the same steady authority, correcting your hose lays with that familiar edge. “Left over right, firefighter. We doing this again?”

You fired back without missing a beat, the banter now laced with hidden meaning. “Only because some of us prefer efficiency over tradition, Lieutenant. But sure, I’ll humor the code, for now.”

The crew rolled their eyes, used to the rivalry. No one suspected a thing.

But off-duty, it was different. The secret unfolded in careful, stolen pieces.

The first real off-duty night came mid-week. Ryan texted, short, coded: “Back road west of town. Truck. 8pm. Don’t be late, hotshot.”

You met him at a quiet pull-off overlooking a stretch of dark fields. His truck was parked facing the stars, tailgate down, a couple of beers sweating in a cooler. He looked relaxed in a simple tee and jeans, boots kicked up on the gate. No lieutenant stripes. Just Ryan.

You climbed up beside him, the metal cool under your palms. “Nice spot, cowboy. Private enough for you to admit I was right about the stairwell drill last shift?”

He handed you a beer, that crooked smile appearing again. “Not a chance. But I will admit your mouth is good for more than just arguing now.” He leaned over, kissing you slow and deep, like he’d been thinking about it since the fairgrounds. When he pulled back, his voice was rougher. “Been driving me crazy all shift, watching you bite your tongue every time I corrected you. Knowing what that tongue can do.”

Heat pooled low in your belly. The old rivalry flavored everything, playful, sharp, addictive. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might have to prove you wrong about a few more of your precious protocols. Starting right here.”

Ryan’s laugh was low and warm. He set the beers aside, pulling you closer until you straddled his lap on the tailgate. “Prove it, then. Show me how the analytical mind works when it’s not fighting me.”

He grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap. Everything blurred into heated kisses, soft moans, and teasing licks along your throat. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while your hands roamed under his shirt. Your shirts were shoved halfway down your arms, pants undone and hanging low on your hips, but neither of you crossed that final line.

Not yet.

The tension finally snapped one night at Ryan’s house.

You’d shown up after a particularly sharp argument at the station, still fuming and ready to finish what you’d started. The moment the front door clicked shut behind you, the argument reignited, louder, hotter, more personal. One minute you were in the middle of calling him stubborn and outdated; the next, Ryan had you pinned against the wall in his living room, his body pressed hard between your legs.

Clothes were yanked off in a frantic rush. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The sudden stretch and fullness pulled a sharp moan from your throat. Ryan groaned low against your neck, his grip on your hips tightening as he held himself still for a heartbeat, letting you feel every inch of him buried inside you.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “You feel so goddamn good.”

You rocked against him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and move, Hart.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled back and drove back in, setting a hard, steady rhythm that had the framed photos on the wall rattling behind you. Each thrust pushed you higher against the wall, the slick slide of him filling you completely with every stroke. Your moans mixed with his low growls, the argument long forgotten in the heat of skin against skin and the relentless push and pull.

“Still think I’m stuck in the past?” he growled against your ear, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur.

You gasped, clenching around him. “Shut up and fuck me harder.”

Ryan let out a dark, breathless laugh and gave you exactly what you asked for.

Afterward, tangled together under a blanket on this bed, Ryan traced lazy circles on your arm. “This stays ours,” he murmured against your hair. “No station talk. No crew. Just… this. When we’re off the clock, I’m not Lieutenant Hart. I’m just Ryan. And you’re not the new transfer trying to rewrite my world. You’re the one who finally makes the code feel like it can bend without breaking.”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Agreed. But I am still gonna keep challenging you. It’s half the fun.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The weeks that followed settled into a careful rhythm. At the station, you were still oil and water, sharp comments during drills, pointed looks across the bay. The crew continued placing bets on when the rivalry would explode. Off-duty, it was stolen moments: late-night drives where Ryan played old country songs and taught you how to tie a proper rodeo knot, quiet mornings at your place where he’d cook simple breakfast and hum under his breath; charged encounters that always started with banter and ended with both of you breathless and closer than before.

One lazy Sunday, curled on your couch after a shift, Ryan admitted more than usual. His head rested in your lap while you ran fingers through his hair. “Never thought I’d say this to the person who drove me insane the first month… but you make the job feel less heavy. Like maybe the code can evolve and still be mine.”

You leaned down, kissing him softly. “And you make me remember why I love the work, even when you’re being an arrogant cowboy about it.”

He grinned up at you. “Arrogant? Says the one who still thinks her way is always better.”

“Most of the time it is,” you shot back, tugging his hair lightly. The playful argument dissolved into another kiss, deeper this time, the kind that promised more nights like this, secret, safe, and entirely yours.

The secrecy added its own heat. Every stolen glance at the station carried double meaning. Every “Left over right, firefighter” from Ryan now felt like foreplay. The enemies had become something far more dangerous.

Lovers

The shift started like any other, coffee brewing in the kitchen, gear checks echoing through the apparatus bay, and the familiar low hum of Station 113 coming to life. Ryan ran the morning briefing with his usual steady authority, that measured Southern drawl cutting through the chatter as he laid out priorities for the day. You played your part perfectly: tossing in a sarcastic jab during hose maintenance, rolling your eyes at one of his corrections, keeping the long-running “rivalry” alive for the crew.

No one suspected the truth. The barbs now carried hidden warmth, every “left over right, firefighter” from Ryan laced with memories of late-night tailgates, breathless kisses, and the secret rhythm you’d built off the clock.

Then Captain Don pulled Ryan aside after roll call.

You were restocking the ambulance bay when you caught it: Captain Don Hart stepping into his office with Ryan, the door closing with a quiet, final click. The conversation was brief. When Ryan emerged, his face was a careful blank, the lieutenant mask locked firmly in place, but you knew him too well now. The tension sat in his shoulders, the subtle clench along his jaw.

Internal Affairs had opened an investigation.

The call in question had come two weeks earlier: a hazardous materials incident at an industrial warehouse on the edge of Nashville. Leaking chemical tank, unstable structure, civilians trapped. As lieutenant, Ryan made the split-second decision to push an aggressive interior approach, deviating slightly from standard containment protocols based on real-time readings and crew positioning. It worked. The team contained the spill, rescued the workers, and prevented a larger explosion. Lives saved. A success by every measure that mattered.

But a bystander complaint and routine protocol review triggered IA. Questions swirled about risk assessment, potential influence from “non-traditional” crew input, and whether the Hart name made him believe he could bend the rules. Nepotism whispers spread like smoke through the station.

Captain Don stayed professionally neutral, protocol demanded it, but the weight pressed heavy. Ryan was his son, carrying the family code like armor.

The rest of the shift dragged in mechanical precision. Ryan moved through tasks with tight control: checking rigs, running drills, issuing orders in that calm drawl. The crew sensed something was off but chalked it up to “Hart being Hart” stoic, competitive, always proving himself. You kept the act flawless, firing off a light “Trying to set a new record for by-the-book today, Lieutenant?” during a gear check.

He shot back without hesitation, voice even. “Just making sure some people remember we don’t improvise when lives are on the line, hotshot.”

But his eyes lingered on yours a fraction longer, silent communication only you could read.

By evening, after most of the crew had scattered to bunks or the kitchen, the tension finally cracked.

You were wiping down tools when you heard Ryan’s boots heading toward the bunk room. He’d received the full details of the IA interview schedule earlier that afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him.

Your chest tightened. This was the first real test of the secret, the moment the job threatened to press too hard on the man you’d come to care for far beyond rivalry or stolen nights.

You waited a careful beat, ensuring no one was watching, then followed. The bunk room was dim, most lights off for the night shift crew trying to catch rest. Ryan sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands were clasped tightly, knuckles showing white. The usual easy cowboy posture had vanished, replaced by raw exhaustion and the quiet burden of legacy.

He didn’t look up when the door opened.

You closed it softly and crossed the room. No banter. No performance. For the first time at the station, you dropped every layer of the act.

“Ryan,” you said quietly, his first name, soft and real, reserved for off-duty moments.

His head snapped up, hazel eyes widening in surprise and then guarded caution. “What are you..”

You didn’t let him finish. You stepped between his knees and pulled him into a firm hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your fingers threaded gently into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. He stiffened for half a second, years of Hart discipline and lieutenant instincts screaming to maintain distance at the house, before the tension shattered.

Ryan exhaled shakily and leaned into you, arms circling your waist. His forehead pressed against your sternum, breath warm through your shirt. For a long moment, the bunk room was silent except for the distant station hum and the faint tick of the wall clock.

This was the first genuine interaction at Station 113 that wasn’t fake hostility. Just the two of you, secret, steady, real.

“You okay?” you murmured against the top of his head, voice barely above a whisper.

He let out a rough, humorless laugh that vibrated against you. “Been better. IA wants formal statements starting tomorrow. They’re digging into the hazmat call, asking if I ‘favored certain input’ or took unnecessary risks because of… family considerations.” His grip on your waist tightened briefly. “Dad’s staying neutral. Protocol. But I can feel it. Everyone watching to see if the Hart kid thinks the code doesn’t apply to him.”

You held him closer, one hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “The call was sound. You saved those workers. The data backed the approach, I saw the readings too. This is bullshit politics and paperwork. You followed your gut and your training. That’s the code, Ryan. Protecting people, even when it means adapting.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes searching yours in the low light. The vulnerability there hit hard—the same man who’d kissed you fiercely on back roads, who’d admitted the weight of his father’s shadow in quiet moments.

“Doesn’t feel like it right now,” he admitted. “Feels like one wrong word and I’m letting him down. Letting the house down.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips despite everything. “And the worst part? I keep thinking about how you’d call me out on it off-duty. ‘Cowboy stubbornness overriding common sense again, Hart?’”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Only because it usually works. But not this time. You did it right. And when we’re out of here, away from all this, I’ll remind you of that properly. With fewer clothes and more convincing arguments.”

Ryan’s laugh was quieter, warmer. He rested his forehead against sternum for a brief second, the contact grounding. The old rivalry still flavored everything, but now it was laced with trust.

The moment stretched. The pull between you, the weeks of hidden heat, the relief of this private touch, proved too strong. Ryan stood and his hand slid up to cup the back of your neck. You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, then deepened with quiet desperation, relief and need mixing in the dim bunk room. His lips moved against yours with familiar intensity, one hand anchoring at your waist while the other stayed gentle in your hair. You kissed him back just as fiercely but carefully, pouring reassurance into every brush of lips and shared breath. For a few stolen seconds, the station, the investigation, the code, all of it faded.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads still touching and breathing uneven, a voice broke the silence from the doorway.

“Well, damn.”

You both froze.

Taylor Thompson, Roxie Alba, and Blue Bennings stood just inside the bunk room door, having slipped in unnoticed during the shift change. Taylor leaned against the frame with a knowing grin, arms crossed. Roxie’s eyebrows were raised, a small amused smile playing on her lips as she adjusted her paramedic jacket. Blue stood between them, looking equal parts surprised and smug, hands shoved in his pockets.

Ryan straightened instantly, but he didn’t pull away completely, his hand still resting lightly at your waist. You stepped back just enough to create plausible distance, heart hammering.

Taylor broke the silence first, voice warm with gospel-tinged amusement. “Y’all really thought you were slick, huh?”

Roxie chuckled softly, shaking her head. “The tension in this house has been thicker than smoke for weeks. We had a pool going on when it would finally boil over.”

Blue grinned wide, that easy newbie energy on full display. “Told you two it wasn’t just rivalry. Pay up, ladies. I called the bunk room moment.”

Ryan ran a hand through his hair, a rare flush creeping up his neck, but his drawl stayed steady, more resigned than defensive. “How long have you known?”

Taylor’s grin widened. “That you two were sneaking around and definitely not just fighting? Oh, honey, most of us figured it out after the rodeo fair. The way you two disappeared behind those trailers? Not exactly subtle to anyone paying attention.”

Roxie nodded, her tone light but kind. “Plus, the looks you’ve been trading during briefings lately? Way too heated for pure hate. We just didn’t say anything because… well, it’s your business. And we’ve all got our own secrets in this house.”

Blue shrugged, still smiling. “Hey, as long as it doesn’t affect calls, I’m good. Though I gotta say, watching you two pretend to bicker while obviously wanting to do… that? Entertainment gold.”

You let out a surprised laugh, the tension easing despite the exposure. “So the whole crew doesn’t know?”

“Not yet,” Taylor said, pushing off the doorframe. “And we’re not planning on spreading it. You kept it quiet for a reason, chain of command, the captain, all that Hart legacy stuff. We respect that. Just… maybe lock the door next time if you’re gonna steal a moment.”

Ryan exhaled, a mix of relief and lingering caution in his expression. He glanced at you, then back at the trio. “Appreciate it. This stays between us, for now. The investigation’s already got enough eyes on me. Last thing we need is station gossip turning into something bigger.”

Roxie’s smile softened. “We’ve got your backs. Both of you. Just be careful. And maybe tone down the ‘rivalry’ a notch before someone else starts connecting dots.”

Blue gave a mock salute. “My lips are sealed. But if you need an alibi for off-duty ‘tactical discussions,’ I’m your guy.”

The three filed out with quiet chuckles and supportive nods, leaving the bunk room feeling somehow lighter.

Ryan turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… shit.”

You stepped closer again, voice low. “Could’ve been worse. At least they’re on our side.”

He pulled you into another quick, careful hug, this one briefer, more aware of the open door. “Yeah. Still… we keep it quiet as much as we can. The investigation first.”

You nodded against his shoulder. “Agreed. But off the clock? You still owe me that proper reminder I mentioned.”

His low chuckle vibrated through you. “Wouldn’t miss it, hotshot.”

The investigation dragged over the following days. Ryan handled interviews with quiet dignity, reviewing logs and statements while the crew offered subtle support, extra coffee from Taylor, a steady presence from Roxie during medical checks, even Blue covering a minor task without comment. Whispers of nepotism and aggressive leadership circulated, but they faded as quickly as they rose.

In secret, you remained his anchor. Late-night texts danced around the edges. Stolen off-shift moments in his truck or at your place let him vent, your analytical eye helping dissect the reports. “You adapted with the intel you had. That’s leadership.”

The old enemies dynamic flavored the support, you challenged him like before, but now to build him up. Intimate nights grew deeper under the strain, touches more grounding, banter turning tender.

One evening at your place, after a tough IA session, he admitted the deeper fear: “What if they decide the Hart name influenced it? What if I let Dad down, not just as a lieutenant, but as his son?”

You framed his face with your hands. “Then you show them the man I see, the one who risks everything to save lives, code or no code. The competitive cowboy who clashed with me for weeks and still ended up here. You’re not just Don Hart’s son. You’re Ryan. And that’s more than enough.”

He kissed you slow and deep, gratitude and need blending seamlessly.

The resolution came without spectacle. IA reviewed everything and dropped the matter mid-shift one afternoon: cleared. No formal action. The approach was justified; lives saved outweighed the nitpicks. Station gossip died down. Captain Don offered his son a subtle, proud nod in the bay later.

That night, after shift, you slipped away separately and met at the familiar back-road pull-off. Ryan’s truck tailgate was down, cold beers waiting, country radio low. Stars stretched wide over the fields.

You climbed up beside him, shoulders brushing. “Heard the good news. Code intact?”

Ryan handed you a beer, that crooked smile finally free and full. “Intact. And maybe… evolving a little.” He turned, hazel eyes warm. “Couldn’t have gotten through it without you. That hug in the bunk room, the first real one at the house, felt like the only steady thing. Even when we got caught.”

You leaned into his side, his arm wrapping around you naturally. “Had to. Couldn’t let the cowboy face it alone. And the crew knowing? Turns out it’s not the end of the world.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, drawl thick with affection. “No. Makes this feel even more ours, quiet, protected, but not completely hidden anymore.” His voice dropped playfully. “Still… try not to drag me into any more bunk room kisses during shift. Unless the door’s locked.”

You grinned, tugging him closer. “No promises, Lieutenant. But I might let you demonstrate that rope work of yours later… off the clock.”

Ryan laughed outright, pulling you under the blanket. “Deal. But only if you admit my way isn’t always outdated.”

“Never,” you shot back, lips brushing his. “But I’ll keep challenging you anyway. It’s half the fun.”

The night settled around you, two firefighters, secret but steadier than before. The old rivalry had transformed into something deeper, worth every risk. No dramatic station-wide confession. No grand gestures. Just this: quiet beers, low music, intertwined hands, and the understanding that whatever came next, calls, family pressure, or life at 113, you’d face it together.

On your own terms.

Which, in ER terms, wasn't catastrophic. The world was still standing. But Robby was mid sentence at the nurses' station, wrapping up his final thoughts on handoff, and the whole night crew was clustered around him already tired. You lingered at the edge of the group, catching the tail end of it.

“The chest pain in bay four is probably costochondritis but we ordered a troponin series, just keep an eye. Bay seven's been waiting on CT results for two hours, she's pleasant but she's asking every fifteen minutes, and whoever takes her, just..be ready for that. And that's it from me. Night shift, she's all yours. Try not to break her.”

You were already mentally rehearsing the speech. Hey, Robby, so I know this is a weird time to ask, but I was wondering if you'd consider writing..

Except Robby was already heading for the exit. You'd missed your window. Again.

You pressed your lips together and made your way to the nurses' station. John looked up from the enormous coffee in his hand. His gaze traveled over you. "Ah," he said. "There she is." His eyes made one more pass. "In her pajamas?"

You smiled. Sweet as anything. "Aww." You reached over and plucked the cup directly from his hand. "You wish." You took a long, generous sip. Made eye contact while you did it.

"Say something else," you told him pleasantly, "and I'm taking this as mine for the rest of the shift."

John snatched the cup back with the reflexes of someone who had learned, over time, that you meant what you said. He pointed at you and walked away without another word.

Smart man.

Jack Abbot had not been looking at you during the handoff, but he looked up when John left. And then his eyes dropped, briefly, to your shirt. You watched him read it. Saw the exact moment it registered. The little grid of illustrated frogs, cheerful and green, and above them in bold block letters: Man I Love Frogs.

His expression did the thing it sometimes did, where it tried very hard to stay neutral and mostly succeeded, except for the slight tension at the corner of his jaw that gave him away if you knew where to look.

And oh you knew where to look.

"Appropriate for the ER?" he said, glancing down at a chart.

"It was either this," you said, leaning against the counter, "or me being an hour late with my scrubs crop topped because I don't know how to do laundry, apparently."

You put on your best smile then. The one you kept specifically for him. Wide and warm and just a little shameless. Weaponized, if you were being honest.

He tried to frown and he almost made it, but one corner of his mouth tipped up. Just barely. "Come on," he said, already moving. "I'll fill you in on what you missed."

He was a few steps away when he paused, and looked back at you over his shoulder. "Maybe get some new scrubs first?"

You grinned. Tongue pressed to your cheek for just a moment. "I knew you always wanted to get me out of my clothes, Abbot." You turned and walked away before he could respond.

You didn't need to see it. You already knew what was coming. The slight shake of his head, slow and resigned. You'd catalogued all his responses by now. The head shake. The exhale that was almost a laugh but never quite. And the best one, the heat that would crawl up the side of his neck, just above the collar, when you caught him off guard.

You hadn't gotten him to blush yet, but you were patient. And you were, if nothing else, extremely good at your job.

…

The guy had come in via ambulance, which was honestly a little dramatic for a dislocated shoulder, but people handled pain differently and you weren't here to judge.

The trauma bay was busy. Two nurses, Jack on your left, a med student hovering near the doorway like he wasn't sure if he'd been invited. The patient was a man somewhere in his mid fifties, broad shouldered even with one of those shoulders sitting noticeably lower than the other. He was gritting his teeth, breathing through it.

"Alright," you said, snapping your gloves on. "You took a pretty good fall. Good news is nothing's broken, your X-ray looks clean. We're just going to get that shoulder back where it belongs. I'm going to have the nurse push some morphine first so you're more comfortable, okay?"

And that was when you felt it. The way the patient's eyes moved, not to you, but past you, landing on Jack. He hadn't even opened his mouth yet, but you knew anyway. You'd gotten good at knowing.

His eyes slid back to you, then over to Jack again, and you watched him work up to it. The words forming behind his teeth like he thought he was about to ask something perfectly reasonable. "Does this nurse know what she's doing?"

Jack knew better than to speak for you. He didn't even open his mouth. He didn't have to, because you were already talking, your voice smooth and even and completely unbothered, which was an achievement you were privately proud of. "I'm a doctor," you said. "But even if I were a nurse, I'd trust them to work on you, because they are just as competent, if not better."

The patient's mouth closed. The morphine, mercifully, started doing its job about ninety seconds later, and by the time you were actually repositioning the joint, his eyes had gone soft and heavy at the edges and he'd lost most of his opinions along with the worst of his pain.

You felt the shoulder slide back into place with the satisfying give that never entirely got old. "There we go," you said quietly.

You stripped your gloves off and turned to the trash can, and maybe you threw them a little harder than the situation strictly required, but it was the fourth time this week. And it was always men. You hadn't raised your voice once. Hadn't made a single error. Hadn't given any of them a single reason to look past you for someone they'd trust more, and still.

The break room was the closest place that was a little bit quieter than the ER and you pushed through the door, let it swing shut behind you, and went straight to the sink. Bracing your hands against the edge of it, letting the cold of the basin come up through your palms.

You heard the door open and didn't turn around. "I know you'll stop me if I start," Jack said, behind you. "But please. Just listen."

You turned around.

"You are one of the most competent and skilled doctors I've ever worked with." He said it the way he said most things, plainly. No softening around the edges, no cushion. Jack Abbot did not do unnecessary cushioning. "Honestly, I'm impressed. All the time. Just.." he paused, "remember that when assholes open their yap."

You felt the corner of your mouth pull up against your will. "It's just, I keep getting these comments a lot this week. And I was going to ask Robby to write me a recommendation letter, but every time one of these fuckers says something out of pocket, I start to think.." you laughed, “yeah. Maybe they're right."

Jack was quiet for a moment and then he put his hands in his pockets. "Well," he said, "they don't know anything."

He turned to go. Which was very Jack. Say the thing, mean it completely, and then act like it had been small and not something you'd be thinking about for the rest of the week.

He was almost to the door. "And." he paused, hand not quite on the frame and he didn't turn all the way back around. "I'll write you that letter. I'd be happy to."

It was such a small thing, but the thing was it had never even occurred to you to ask Jack. Not once. Not because you thought he'd say no, but because you'd always operated under the assumption that maybe you didn't take up enough space in his head to make a letter worth anything. That he'd sit down to write it and find he didn't have as much to say as you'd hoped.

"Thank you, Jack."

“Of course.” there was that flush again. And you watched him go. Trying very hard to not let your jaw drop to the floor.

…

By hour four of the shift, you were back.

Not that you'd ever fully left, but the version of you that had let something mean from a small minded man take up real estate in her mind? She'd clocked out.

The rest of you had gotten another sip of Shen’s coffee, fixed a kid's broken arm with enough distraction that he'd barely cried, and was now feeling, frankly, pretty great about the whole situation.

Which meant Jack was in trouble. Because you had already came to work pre loaded with all the dumb flirty things you were going to say to him, they had just been briefly put on pause because of that dose of misogyny from shoulder guy 

You needed gauze from the supply closet and Jack was already in there, reading a label on something, brows furrowed. They did that when he was extremely focused. Either that or he can’t see the letters anymore. Two things can be true.

"Oh good," you said, reaching past him for the gauze. "You're here. I need the tall person to reach things for me."

He looked up. "The tall person.." he glanced at the shelf in question, which was, to be fair, not that high. "You could reach that."

"I could," you agreed pleasantly. "But why would I when you're right here?"

He looked at you for a moment with the expression he reserved specifically for you and the one you adored oh so much. It was one of someone who hadn't fully decided if he was exasperated or amused and had quietly stopped trying to choose.

He reached up and got the gauze without another word. "See?" You tucked it under your arm. "This is why I keep you around, Abbot."

"Is that all I’m good for?" he said flatly.

"And the company." You smiled at him over your shoulder on the way out. "Mostly the reaching, though."

You heard the exhale behind you. That almost laugh that you had grown to love so much.

…

Charting was, genuinely, the least interesting part of the job, and your feelings about it were well documented, but it had to be done, and you were doing it. 

Jack came to stand at the counter beside you to review something on his own chart, and you both existed in a companionable silence for approximately ninety seconds before you ruined it.

"Can I ask you something?" you said, not looking up from your screen.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever think about what we could be?"

Jack’s finger paused, hovering over the tablet. "What?"

You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "In terms of, like, diagnostic efficiency. We have a really good system. I was just reflecting on it."

Jack looked at you and you kept your eyes on your screen. "Is that really what you were asking?" he said slowly.

"Obviously." You clicked to the next field on the screen. "What did you think I meant?"

Another pause. Longer this time and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He looked back down at his chart. You watched, in your peripheral vision, his jaw shift. "You're a menace," he said finally.

"You're very sweet," you replied. "Thank you."

…

The next time you flirted, it wasn’t planned.

You were walking back from radiology, a set of films tucked under your arm, vaguely composing your differential in your head, when you almost walked directly into Jack coming around the corner. You both stopped. A foot of space between you, maybe less.

"Hi" you said. And then, genuinely without forethought, you looked at him standing there in the light of the hallway and something just came out of your mouth. "You know," you said, "it's actually a little unfair."

He looked at you. "What is?"

"That you're.." you made a gesture that encompassed him "like that. While we're trying to work." You shook your head. "Very inconsiderate of you."

A slow rise of color climbed from his jaw to his cheekbones, and he looked away from you for just a second, and when he looked back he was blushing.

You hadn't expected that. This was new and it did something to your chest you weren't prepared for, some sudden softness that made you forget what your face was supposed to be doing.

You looked at each other for one second longer than was necessary.

"I.." he started.

"Sorry," you said. "I've got to.." you held up the films as evidence. "Radiology."

"Right," he said. "Yeah."

And you both walked away from each other. Your cheeks also ablaze. 

…

You found John at the nurses' station and walked up beside him and did grabby hands at his drink without saying a word. He looked at you and sighed while handing it over.

You took a long sip and stared at nothing in particular across the ER and the giggle that came out of you was embarrassing. You couldn't help it.

"You've been extra flirty with Abbot today," John said casually, taking his coffee back.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He gave you a look and you opened your mouth, but then you promptly closed it. Because okay. Yeah. You had been. You knew you had been and you could not construct a defense.

You took another sip of John's coffee instead. "Why?" you said finally. "You jealous?"

John snorted. He reached over and snagged the cup back from your hand. "You wish," he said, already walking away, " that you could handle all of this."

…

The last hour of a shift was its own specific kind of purgatory.

You were too tired to be fully functional but too close to the end to justify giving up.

Everything felt slightly underwater. Your feet had filed a formal complaint somewhere around hour ten and had not withdrawn it. And your brain, unhelpfully, had decided that the last hour was a great time to run a highlight reel of you standing in a hallway telling Jack Abbot that he was hot to his face and then watching color bloom across his cheekbones.

You had been steering clear since. Not obviously. You were a professional after all. You'd answered a consult when he'd needed you, passed him in the hall twice, existed in the same room as him without incident. But you had not lingered. 

You'd drifted toward radiology mostly by accident and somehow that had turned into a conversation with the radiologist, doing the thing he always did when he got you alone for more than four minutes.

"Okay, okay last one," he said, leaning against the doorframe. He was, objectively, not bad looking. Confident in a way that was almost too polished. "Are you a 90 degree angle?"

You tilted your head.

"Because you're looking right," he finished, and pointed at you.

You laughed. You couldn't help it.  "That's awful." 

"But you're smiling!"

"Because it's awful," you said. He grinned at you and you shook your head again, and it was..fine. Nice, even, in the uncomplicated way that things were nice when there was nothing underneath them.

…

The consult had run long, which was the nature of consults, and Jack had made his peace with that years ago. He walked out of the room already composing the follow up notes in his head, already halfway down the mental checklist.

He turned the corner toward the nurses' station and slowed.

You were outside radiology, leaning against the wall with your arms loosely crossed, and the radiologist was saying something, and then you were laughing.

Not your polite laugh. Not the one you deployed for patients or for pharmaceutical reps or for the hospital administrator who told the same story about his boat every time he came through.

The real one. 

Jack kept moving and he rounded the nurses' station and looked up at the board.

"Y/N and him are looking cozy." John said, sipping that same stupid coffee.

Jack did not look at him and John took a long drag from his cup. "Strange how she hasn't dated anyone this whole time we've worked together."

Jack moved his eyes to the next name on the board. Another long sip.  "It's like she's waiting on someone."

Jack turned and faced him fully. "Is there something you would like to say?"

John held both hands up. The picture of innocence and walked away.

Jack turned back around and immediately saw the radiologist reach out and squeeze your arm. And you leaned into it.

A small thing. Maybe. The kind of thing that could be nothing.

You were a grown woman. You could laugh at bad jokes with whoever you wanted, you could lean into whoever you wanted, that was..that was good, actually. That was how things should be. No reasonable person would have any feelings about that whatsoever and Jack was, above most things, reasonable.

He did, however, make a mental note. Purely informational, the kind of thing that any colleague might pass along out of general goodwill that the radiologist had almost certainly been in a fraternity, and that radiologists as a species had a particular reputation for never fully evolving past that particular chapter of their lives, and that this was simply something worth knowing.

Useful context. That was all. He'd mention it when the moment was right.

…

You saw Dana coming through the automatic doors just as you were heading out.

"Hi, baby!" She opened her arms and you walked directly into them because you were tired and she smelled like her same perfume she'd always worn and sometimes that was exactly what a person needed at the end of a long night.

"I haven't seen you in some time," she said, squeezing you.

"I know, I know." You pulled back and held both her hands. "Drinks soon. I mean it this time."

She waved you off with a smile and pushed through into the ER and you turned and walked out.

You moved to turn around when you heard the doors open again and saw that it was Jack. You smiled at him. Big and easy. "See you later, cowboy."

And Jack just nodded. Once, a quick, terse thing. Then turned, and walked in the other direction.

You just stood there dumbfounded.

"Ouch." John had appeared at your left, which you were starting to think was just something that happened now, John materializing beside you at pivotal moments. "That even hurt me to watch." 

You fell into step beside him toward the parking garage. "Shut up. I swear."

"I'm just saying.."

"John."

You walked the rest of the way to the garage in silence, and you told yourself it didn't matter, and you were so tired that your feet felt like they belonged to someone else, and by the time you got to your car you had mostly convinced yourself that if you just slept long enough you wouldn't have to think about what just happened at all. 

…

Once a month, the rotating schedule aligned and you, John and Jack got a Friday through Sunday that belonged entirely to you.

It was, genuinely, the only reason you all remained functional.

And every Friday night of those weekends, without exception, since you and John had both been exhausted little residents held together by caffeine and stubbornness, was movie night.

Was it silly? Probably. Did it keep both of you sane? Absolutely. 

"Can you at least listen to my argument on why we should watch Wake Up Dead Man?" John said from the couch. 

You were in the kitchen, pulling the popcorn bag out of the microwave with two fingers while it finished its last aggressive pops. "Ugh," you said. "Why."

"Because I want to."

You ripped the bag open and dumped it into the bowl and then reached for the bag of peanut M&Ms on the counter and tipped a generous pour in on top. The way you'd both been eating it since forever. The only correct way.

"That isn't a valid enough reason." You picked up the bowl and walked back into the living room, dropping onto your end of the couch. "The jury vetoes your motion. We're watching Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion."

"Again?" He made a sound, a groan of disapproval and you pointed the remote at him in warning and pressed play.

Forty five minutes in you were both quoting it back at the screen in real time, finishing each other's sentences on the good parts, and John was laughing so hard at the Post-it note scene like he always did.

You knew he loved that movie.

After, the both of you being two aperol spritzes in, the thing that had been gnawing at you all night shifted forward.

"So," you said, tone maybe trying to be a little too casual. "Did Abbot say anything to you the other day?" You looked at your glass. "Like, did I do something wrong?"

John had many, many qualities that you loved about him. His loyalty. His humor. His willingness to show up. His complete inability to keep his face neutral when he knew something you didn't.

You loved him despite that last one. Usually.

His expression right now was doing approximately a million things and none of them were subtle, and the two spritzes had turned the volume up on all of it considerably.

"You guys are so stupid."

You set your glass down on the coffee table and sat up straighter. Crossed your legs and leaned on your elbow. "Go on," you said. "Do tell."

John rolled his eyes at the ceiling like he was asking it for patience. "That man," he said, "is so in love with you." He paused for a second only to shift to grab a the last handful of popcorn. "Much like you are with him."

Your heart did a funny little thing. 

It was apparently connected to your arms, because they went with it. Some full body short circuit that sent your elbow off the armrest and your hand straight into your spritz glass, which tumbled in what felt like slow motion off the edge of the table.

It hit the floor and glass went everywhere.

You were already on your feet moving toward the kitchen for something to clean it up, when your sock hit the puddle of spilled liquid on the hardwood and your foot went one direction and the rest of you went another and you came down hard, knee first, directly into the broken glass.

"Oh fuck!" John said, hopping up from the couch.

You were already looking at it. Already doing the clinical assessment that your brain defaulted to. Decent sized shard. Lodged in the lateral side of your knee. Bleeding, but not alarmingly. You'd seen worse.

"It's fine," you said. "It's totally fine, we can fix this."

"We are slightly tipsy doctors," John said flatly, and you could already hear him typing on his phone. "I'm calling a car. Let's go."

…

The intake nurse at PTMC waved you through quickly. Mateo appeared from around the corner, took one look at you, and immediately gestured to a wheelchair. "Please," he said. "For me."

"I'm fine," you told him. "Get me a suture kit."

You were making your way toward the nurses' station, John's arm under yours, when you rounded the corner and looked up and.

Oh.

Of course.

Jack was standing at the nurses' station with a tablet in his hand, and he was in his SWAT uniform, which meant he was technically taking his long weekend off but physically incapable of going home and staying there like a normal person and he looked up at the exact moment you made eye contact with him and you thought, sincerely, about turning around and hobbling back out the way you came.

He let the tablet go, already moving, crossing the floor toward you and John with his jaw set and his eyes on your knee. "What the hell happened."

"Movie night happened," John said.

Jack shouldered him gently to the side and you were suddenly leaning against Jack instead of John, his arm solid and warm under your hand.

"I can walk just fine.." you started. He didn't let you finish. He bent down, got one arm under your knees and one behind your back, and picked you up like it was nothing, like he did this every day.

Your heart, which had already had a very eventful evening, did something so loud you were genuinely concerned he could hear it. It was roaring in your ears. You kept your eyes forward, trying not to think about the way Jack's grip felt on you.

John followed you down the hall, completely unbothered.

Jack set you down on the exam table with a care that was infuriatingly gentle and immediately looked at your knee, then at John.

"Would have fixed it myself," you offered, before he could say anything, "but did indulge in some libations tonight."

Jack's eyes cut to John. "And you drove?"

John stared at him. "Relax," he said. "We got an Uber, Grandpa."

Jack exhaled through his nose. It was then that he seemed to actually take in the full picture of you and John Shen on a Friday night off. Both of you in shirts that defied reasonable explanation.

Yours: an enormous grey thing, a simple heart printed on the front. Inside it in clean block letters somebody in pittsburgh thinks i'm a cunt. xoxo.

John's: all black, white block lettering: i'm with stupid and an arrow pointing downward toward what was, as far as Jack could determine, John's general groin region.

Jack looked at John. "Now you're wearing the crazy shirts?"

You sat up, affronted, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth despite the throb in your knee. "What? You don't like them?" The spritz was warm in your blood and you felt it in the way you giggled just slightly after you said it.

"It's tradition," John said, with great dignity, crossing his arms. You reached out toward him and he came forward and took your hand without being asked, and you squeezed it and looked up at him. "Ohh, I love you," you said.

John smiled. The real one he didn't hand out to everyone. "And I love you." he said, right at the same time hid phone dinged. "But." He was pulling his phone from his pocket with his free hand. "I am going to leave you. I just got a Hinge match and I am not passing this up."

"I knew it." You pointed at him. "I knew you'd eventually leave me for another woman."

He blew you a kiss from the doorway, pocketed his phone, and was gone.

Jack pulled on gloves and began setting up around the glass, and you watched him work for a moment. "I can't seem to get a read on the dynamic you two have." he said, not looking up.

You almost laughed. "And I" the beginning of it came out easy and then his gloved hand made contact with your knee and the pain spiked sharp and sudden. “ow, fuck."

"Sorry" he said gently. 

"And I," you continued, steadier, "can't get a read on you."

It came out before you'd fully decided to say it. But it was true, wasn't it. It had been true always. It wasn't fun.

Jack was quiet for a moment. "The glass didn't go too deep," he said. "I think I can bandage this. No stitches."

"Amazing," you said. "Now I just need to call a ride and then I'll be home in my bed with my popcorn and my throbbing knee."

He pulled the gloves off. Reached for the computer to type in your chart. "I'm driving you home," he said. Like it was obvious. Like it was already decided.