ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴜʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

“Last time you did that, you yelled at a random guy who approached me.” You roll your eyes, “Yeah, a guy who approached you. How is he supposed to know you have meee??” He said back, finally pulling away with a pout. Crossing his arms, hoping that you’ll have some sort of pity on him.

“Adrian,” you point at your gold necklace ‘Adrian’ written in cursive. A rather possessive gift he gave you under influence of Chris. “Oh. Right.” He murmured, sheepishly. “But still! I have every right to watch my babe.” He pouted, blinking at you, knowing in no time he could get you under his spell.

“Nope, and thats final. I want one night, alone. You literally have my location.” You roll your eyes, giving his cheek a soft caress. He softened for a moment, thinking you’ll give in, leaning into your hand. That was when you pulled away, walking out of the bathroom with him trailing behind like a puppy. Murmuring a little ‘i thought i had her’

You walked into the bedroom, and Adrian as if on cue sat on the bed next to the asleep cat. You opened the closet, deciding on some heels before choosing to pick some strapped gold heels to match your dress. You sat down on the chaise by the window, taking the heels out of the box.

“Wait.. at least let me..” he murmured, trying his best to not chat that much so he could be maybe like one of those orange cats that are so quiet and cutesy until they guarantee their place in the family and turn into a menace. So maybe now if he acted all sweet and quiet, and physically hold himself back he could have you back.

He kneeled infront of you, that sad puppy look in his eyes as he took the shoe box. He gently slid on the first heel, kissing your calf and gently going up. He mentally was ready to celebrate his victory when your hands slid into his hair. “No, nuh uh.” You said, holding his face away from his hair.

“I know that look, it wont work on me.” You reminded him, giving him your other foot to slid the heel on. “Fine!” He huffed, putting on the other heel. “I guess i’ll die of heartbreak like swans do when their partner dies!” He got high, getting up and crossing his arms.

“Thats not- im not abandoning you.” You said, raising from the chaise, taking couple steps closer to rest on his cheek. He turns his head away, and to admit your heart broke a little. “I promised my friends, i wont be late. Yeah?” You murmured, tilting his face to face yours.

“Fine.. can i atleast text or something?” He grumbled, not making eye contact. “Yes, baby.. as many memes as you want. Just not a video of you jerking off like last time.” He imediately got defective, his chest puffing. “You said you liked it!” He said, giving that one specific look he gives with wide eyes.

You’re in trauma with Frank, Robby, Samira, and Dennis when EMS rolls in with a young guy after a high-speed MVC. Hypotensive. Barely responsive. Blood everywhere. Controlled chaos in the way only the ER can be. You move automatically. Gloves. Monitor. IV setup. You’ve done this dance enough that your hands don’t shake anymore.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Samira says. “I can see that,” Frank snaps, already at the bedside. “Can I get someone moving a little faster on blood?” You glance up from your line setup. “You can, but glaring at me won’t make the tubing prime faster.”

The room goes just slightly still. Dennis, across the bed, actually looks up. Frank turns his head toward you, clearly not used to being spoken to like that in the middle of a trauma. “Then maybe don’t waste time talking.” Your eyebrows lift. “Then maybe don’t waste time being rude when I’m literally doing my job.”

Samira’s mouth twitches like she is trying very hard not to smile in the middle of a possible disaster. Robby doesn’t even look up from the ultrasound. “Children,” he says flatly. “Focus.” You do. So does Frank. Because despite the little spark of heat, nobody in this room is here to lose. The blood gets up. The pressure crawls. Surgery gets called. The patient stabilizes just enough to move upstairs, and by the time the room empties, your pulse is still racing with leftover adrenaline.

You’re peeling off your gloves when Frank steps back in. You expect another clipped comment. Another polished little dig. Instead, he leans against the doorway, folds his arms, and says, “You always talk back like that?” You don’t even look at him. “Only when deserved.”

There’s a beat. Then, to your surprise, he laughs. Quiet. Real. “Good to know.” You glance up then, and there’s something different in his face. Not annoyance. Not ego. Something sharper. More interested. You toss the wrapper from the pressure bag into the trash. “Anything else, doctor?”

His eyes follow the movement. “Yeah.” You wait. His mouth tilts. “Nice work in there.” It throws you off enough that you blink. Because Frank Langdon is charming when he wants to be, sure. Everyone knows that. But this feels different somehow. Less casual. Less performed.

You recover quickly. “I know.” That gets another laugh out of him, and when he leaves the room he looks almost amused with himself.

Unfortunately, that is not the end of it.

After that, Frank starts seeing you everywhere.

At least that’s what Samira says when you come home one night and she watches you kick your shoes off by the door with narrowed eyes. “He likes you.” You look up from unpinning your hair. “No, he doesn’t.” She snorts from the couch. “Frank Langdon barely notices gravity most days. He absolutely notices you.” “He notices that I told him to quit being rude in trauma.”

“Exactly,” Samira says, pointing at you with a spoon from her takeout container. “And for some deranged man reason, that apparently did it for him.” You laugh and steal one of her potstickers. “You’re dramatic.” “I’m right.” You’re still laughing when your phone lights up on the counter.

Unknown Number. You open it.

Unknow Number: It's Frank. Samira gave me your number for a very noble reason.

You squint.

You: That doesn’t sound like Samira

Three dots appear immediately.

Frank Langdon: I needed to know where you get that coffee you bring in.

You smile despite yourself.

You: So you can insult more nurses more efficiently? Frank Langdon: I apologized to exactly one nurse this week. You: Was it painful for you? Frank Langdon: Excruciating.

You stare at the screen, grinning before you can help it. Samira sees your face and points harder. “That. That is the face of a woman who is texting a problem.” You throw a napkin at her.

The thing about Frank is that once he starts, he doesn’t really stop.

It’s little at first. He saves you the good trauma shears when the old ones mysteriously vanish. He grabs your favorite coffee on the days he knows you’re floating down to the ER from another floor. He leans over the nurses’ station and says things in that low, lazy voice that make Jesse roll his eyes and Dana smirk behind her computer.

“You’re smiling at me again,” you tell him one afternoon. “That must be awful for you.” “It is. I like you better snappy.” His hand presses to his chest. “Cruel.” “You’ll survive.” “Barely.” He says it like a joke, but his eyes stay on you a little too long. And you notice. You definitely notice.

The whole department does.

Because Frank is still Frank with everyone else. Still brilliant. Still fast. Still a little too sharp when the stakes are high and somebody fumbles in a room that can’t afford mistakes. But with you, there’s this strange softness now. Like some edge in him files itself down the second you’re near.

Dana catches him handing you a coffee one morning and mutters, “This is nauseating.” Jesse glances over. “He brought her oat milk. He doesn’t even know my last name.” Samira just looks smug. “I told you.” You try not to think too much about it. Frank’s flirty. Frank’s charming. Frank probably makes half the city feel special when he turns that attention on them.

So you don’t let yourself make anything out of it.

Which is why later, when you’re laughing with Dennis Whitaker at the nurses’ station, it doesn’t occur to you for even one second that Frank might care. Dennis is mid-story, doing an aggressively bad imitation of Santos during a chaotic central line placement, and you’re laughing so hard you have to brace a hand against the counter.

“No, because that is exactly how she sounded,” you say through a laugh.Dennis points at you. “Thank you. Finally, someone appreciates my gifts.” “Your gift,” you say, “is surviving Samira and Santos at the same time.” “Barely.” You grin. “Tragic.”

Dennis is smiling too, warm and easy, and you miss the exact moment Frank walks up. You only notice when Dennis’ expression shifts into something more careful, more entertained. “Well,” Frank says. You turn. He’s standing on the other side of the station with a chart in his hand and that perfectly neutral expression that means he is, in fact, not neutral at all.

“Hi,” you say, still smiling. His gaze flicks from you to Dennis, then back. “Didn’t realize comedy hour started without me.” Dennis’ eyebrows go up. “You want in, Langdon?” Frank’s smile is thin. “Pass.” You blink.

Dennis, because he has a functioning survival instinct but enjoys danger in manageable doses, glances between you two and slowly pushes off the counter. “I actually just remembered Dana asked me to do literally anything else.” “Coward,” you call after him. “Alive,” he shoots back.

And then Frank is there, leaning one forearm on the desk, looking at you in a way that makes your stomach do something weird. “What was that?” you ask. “What was what?” You narrow your eyes. “That whole weird territorial thing you just did.” He looks almost offended. “Territorial?”

“Yes, Frank. Territorial. Like Dennis was going to steal your favorite toy.” His jaw shifts, just barely. “You’re not a toy.” “No kidding.” He exhales through his nose, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “You were laughing.” You stare at him. “I do that sometimes, yeah.” “With Whitaker.” “Okay?”

His mouth tightens like he’s annoyed with himself for even standing here. “He was leaning in.” You actually laugh again, softer this time, because suddenly this is making a ridiculous sort of sense. “Are you jealous?” “No.” The answer is too fast. You fold your arms. “Frank.”

He looks at you for a long second, then drags a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know.” It’s the first time you’ve seen him lose that smooth, polished grip he keeps on himself. The first time he looks less like golden-boy senior resident and more like a man who hates not having the upper hand. And for some reason, it gets to you. “You don’t know?”

His eyes stay on yours. “I don’t have any right to be.” There it is. The thing underneath. Even though he has no reason. Even though you aren’t his. Even though whatever this is hasn’t been named and maybe can’t be.

The noise of the ER fills the space around you. Phones ringing. Someone calling for transport. A monitor alarming down the hall. The whole world keeps moving while the two of you stand there in this tiny pocket of stillness. You tilt your head. “That’s not what I asked.” “I know.” “Then answer me.” He gives you a look that is all sharp edges and honesty and something almost helpless under it. “Yes.”

Your heart stutters. “Yes,” he repeats more quietly. “I was jealous.” You should probably say something witty. Something light. Something that doesn’t make this feel like the floor just shifted under your feet. Instead you hear yourself ask, “Why?” Frank lets out a small laugh with no humor in it. “You really need me to spell that out?”

Maybe you do. Maybe you just want to hear him say it. He steps closer to the station, voice lower now, meant only for you. “Because every time you walk in here, I know where you are before I even see you. Because you smile at everyone, but when you smile at me it ruins my whole day in the best way.” He glances down, then back up. “Because you’re nice to everybody and still somehow make me want to be better than everybody.”

Your chest feels tight. “Frank—” “And because,” he says, quieter still, “I know you’re not mine.” The words hit harder than they should. Not mine. Not his. But he wants. You swallow. “That sounds dangerously close to feelings, doctor.” That finally gets the ghost of a grin out of him. “Yeah. Terrifying, isn’t it?”

You stare at him for a second, at the man everybody thinks they understand. The confident one. The polished one. The one with the quick mouth and the quicker hands and the sharp edges that cut when things get bad.

But this version of him, the one standing in front of you now, looks stripped down to the truth. And maybe that’s why you smile. Soft this time. Not teasing. Just for him. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His whole face changes.

You lean your elbows on the desk. “For the record, Dennis was telling me a story about Santos nearly committing homicide over a mislabeled specimen.” Frank huffs a laugh. “That tracks.” “And for the record,” you add, “if I wanted you to make a move, I’m pretty sure I could figure out how to let you know.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second. “Could you?” You feel warm all of a sudden. “Frank.” “What?” he murmurs. “I’m just asking.” “You’re impossible.” “And yet.” “And yet,” you echo, unable to stop smiling. Overhead, the speaker crackles with another incoming ambulance. Of course it does. The ER never gives anyone long enough to sit in anything important.

Frank straightens with a sigh, all that softness tucking itself back under his skin as the doctor comes forward again. But before he steps away, his fingers brush yours on the counter. Quick. Barely there. Enough to make your breath catch. Then he says, low enough that only you can hear, “Try not to flirt with Whitaker for the next twenty minutes. I’m fragile.”

You laugh, bright and helpless and completely gone for him now, and Frank’s mouth curves like he can’t help it.

“Go save your patient, Langdon.” His eyes stay on you one second longer than necessary. “Yes, ma’am.” He walks away, and you watch him go with your heart knocking hard against your ribs. Dana appears at your shoulder like she materialized from thin air. “You two done being insane at my nurses’ station?” she asks.

You jump. “Jesus, Dana.” She squints in Frank’s direction. “He looked jealous.” You try for innocent and fail immediately. “Maybe a little.” Dana snorts. “Good. Builds character.” Then she wanders off before you can answer, leaving you smiling to yourself like an idiot.

Across the department, Frank glances back. Just once. But it’s enough.

Baran could not stop thinking about you.

Ever since you’d showed up in the ED a couple weeks up, stitching up your own face, Baran found her thoughts constantly drifting to you. Your casual, flirtatious nature paired with competence and the obvious respect you garnered intrigued her. The more Baran thought about you, the more you became like a puzzle she was determined to solve.

When she had brought you up to Dana, the charge nurse simply waived her off. Thinking Baran had had a problem with your flirting, Dana told her, “Don’t worry about her. She’s a lover girl stuck on a surgeon’s schedule.”

Baran had asked a couple other people what they knew about you—subtly, of course—and the message was generally the same: you were a flirt, but a damn good doctor. She only wished you stopped by the ED more often so she could decide for herself.

As if you had heard her thoughts, your voice rang out, coming from the ambulance bay. “What’s open? I need a room prepped for a trach!”

“Trauma 2!” Someone yelled back, but Baran was focused on you, your crazed eyes and the way your entire front was splattered with blood.

Rushing over to walk alongside the moving gurney, already snapping on a pair of gloves, Baran called over McKay to assist.

“What do we have?” she asked as you entered the trauma room.

“Oxy overdose. Emesis and aspiration blocked the airway, so I went emergency circ,” you explained, barely giving her a second glance before turning to the paramedics. “On my count.”

As you transferred the man onto the trauma table, you started giving out orders, so naturally, Baran would have thought you were the trauma attending on call, not her.

“Somebody get Garcia in here,” you barked out to anybody who was listening as you readied yourself for a tracheostomy, putting on a gown, glasses, and gloves.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi.” Your urgent voice brought her out of her momentary shock from your commanding presence. “Lend a hand?”

As if like a switch, your tone changed from stern to flirtatious, and she wondered if this was how you always were. She ignored the slight coil in her stomach at the sight of the smirk pulling on your lips and stepped up to the table.

“So, you come here often?” Baran asked, trying to match your teasing tone, as she watched you carefully remove the emergency tube.

You laughed, looking up at briefly and wiggling your eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would actually,” Baran responded very matter-of-factly as she raised a challenging brow, her mouth forming a smirk of her own.

McKay snickered, causing you to glare at her.

“You ever do an emergency cric, Cass?” You put your friend on the spot, causing her to shake her head. “I’ll teach you,” you said slyly before looking back at Baran and winking. “You gotta be able to handle anything when you’re on street team.”

Baran’s eyes narrowed at this new piece of information about you. She’d thought learning more about you would help clear things up for her, but if anything, this only further confused her. Why would a plastic surgeon spend her off-time doing street team?

“Wow, you look like shit,” Garcia snarked, as she pushed open the door, hands already gloved and ready.

“All for you, Yoyo,” you replied smoothly with a flash of your signature smirk, earning an eye roll from the other surgeon.

Baran did her best to ignore the twisting feeling in her stomach as she watched the exchange between you two. You really were like this with everyone. Maybe your reputation did precede you.

“What’d I miss?” Yolanda walked over to stand by the patient’s head.

“Emergency cric conversion to trach,” you explained before asking Princess for a ten blade.

“First a slach trach and now this?” Garcia shook her head, clearly annoyed.

You looked up, your curiosity piqued. “Slash trach? Someone did a slash trach?”

Instead of responding, Yolanda transferred her stare from you to Al-Hashimi, causing you to do the same.

“You did a slash trach?”

Baran’s expression instinctively became defensive, which told you all you needed to know, and you let out a low whistle.

“Impressive.”

The warm hum of your voice caused Baran’s cheeks to warm, and she mentally chided herself. She was a middle-aged divorcée with a son, and here she was acting like a middle schooler with a crush.

“Dr. Mckay?” Your switched back into surgeon-in-charge mode as you addressed the resident. “Would you like to do the honors? I’ll talk you through it.”

“You never stop, do you,” Cassie quipped under her breath, picking up on your teasing suggestiveness that seemed never quite absent from anything you said.

You handed her the tube and moved to stand next to Yolanda.

“I’ve already created the window at the third and fourth tracheal rings,” you told McKay. “Now what?”

Cassie looked up at Baran, her attending, who nodded, giving the go-ahead.

“Insert the tube from a lateral position and twist in,” Cassie answered. You raised your eyebrow, prompting her to continue. “Once in position, inflate the cuff and insert the inner tube.”

“Good.”

As you observed the resident insert the tube, Yolanda leaned towards you, muttering in your ear, “I thought you hated the ED.”

“Street team,” you answered her unspoken question. Yolanda gave you a once over, and finally noticed you weren’t dressed in your usual scrubs.

“Missing your MSF days?”

This caught Baran’s attention, and she looked up from the patient and over to you. “You were with Médecins Sans Frontières?”

Everything she learned about you just continued to confuse her even more. Why would a plastic surgeon do a stint with MSF?

Tilting your head slightly, you met her gaze with a soft smile. “I spent some time with them in Yemen,” you replied curtly.

Baran could tell this wasn’t a topic you enjoyed discussing, and based on what she knew about the hospital airstrikes in Yemen, she could understand why.

“Tube’s in place, cuff’s inflated, and airway is sealed,” Cassie declared, bringing you back to the moment.

“Good work, Dr. McKay.” You nodded shortly, your words tired.

Yolanda noticed your shift in demeanor, and she could tell you were crashing. There was a reason you chose plastics over trauma.

“I got it from here.” She squeezed your elbow lightly as she motioned for transfer. “Go clean yourself off, Carrie.”

You took a deep breath and ripped off the gown. Following Yolanda as she escorted the patient out of the trauma room, you peeled off the latex gloves and threw them in the trash. Your hands were still caked in blood from your emergency procedure earlier, and you realized they were starting to shake.

Catching your faint reflection in the glass of the trauma bay, you saw your face was splattered with the man’s blood and your shirt was completely stained. As your mind caught up with what just transpired, you felt your anxiety start to crawl in your gut.

You rushed over to the nurses’ station and found the nearest trashcan before emptying your insides. The sight of your bloodied hands gripping the rim of the bin made you even more nauseous. Shakily, you pushed yourself off the ground and tried to ignore the stares, some of worry and some of disgust.

“I’m fine,” you announced to no one in particular, but you could see Dana’s motherly concern watching you, and you could feel a certain pair of brown eyes following you.

“I’m fine,” you repeated to yourself. Weaving through the ED, you were in a daze, your only focus being on getting this blood off of you, and didn’t hear Cassie calling your name.

Before the resident could chase after you, someone calling her name pulled her in a different direction. “Dr. McKay–” Perlah approached the station with a tablet in her hand– “x-rays are back on your CP patient in thirteen, and the mom is asking for you.”

Cassie sighed and took the tablet, sparing a glance back in the direction of where you had retreated, an imperceptible action that Baran had noticed.

“I’ll go check on her.” The attending gave the other woman a small, reassuring smile.

“Thanks.” Cassie nodded as she walked away.

When Baran pushed open the bathroom door, the last thing she expected to see was you without your shirt on using the article of clothing as a cleaning rag, but alas there you were. For a moment, she could only stare, letting her eyes linger on the way your back muscles flexed with each movement and on the few patches of scar tissue that contrasted against your smooth skin. Baran couldn’t help but wonder what your skin would feel like under her fingertips.

“You know, if you wanted to see me naked you could’ve just asked,” you joked weakly as you met her stare in the mirror.

“You’re not naked,” Baran deadpanned, causing you to smirk lazily.

“Maybe next time then.”

Taking a couple steps forward, Baran leaned against the sink next to you, the cool tile digging into the small of her back. She didn’t say anything, though, simply observing you.

“What?” you chuckled nervously, suddenly feeling very exposed under her watchful eyes.

Noticing the goosebumps that started to decorate your skin, Baran tilted her head. She had only met you once before today, but she couldn’t imagine you were one to shrink easily. Yet, she had to admit she liked seeing you squirm.

Deciding to put you out of your misery, she finally asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you answered reflexively. Both of you knew that was a lie, but neither of you said anything. “I just need to get cleaned off. I’m actually need upstairs in—” glancing down at your watch, you sighed and ran your hands over your face– “ten minutes ago.”

“You sure you want to work after that?” Baran frowned, and you smiled softly at her concern.

“I just have a cleft palate and a free flap reconstruction on my plate today. Then on-call for the evening,” you said flippantly, causing the other woman to scoff.

“You say that as if both those operations aren’t multiple hours long.”

“I’ve had worse.” You shrugged, and after all that Baran had learned about you in the last hour, she believed you.

“Uh—” you held up your blood-soaked t-shirt awkwardly— “thanks for, um, checking up on me.”

Baran didn’t need to know you well to see how uncharacteristic your stuttering was, and she bit back a grin. As you moved towards the door, she realized you were still clad in only your sports bra.

“Wait.” Her voice echoed lightly against the empty stalls as she slipped off her jacket.

“Woah,” you laughed, turning on your heels. “At least buy me a drink first.”

Baran merely rolled her eyes. You were relentless.

“As much as I’m sure many people would appreciate the view, I’m not sure HR would want you walking around the hospital without a shirt.” She held out the jacket, which you accepted with a raised brow.

“Are you included in these ‘many people’?” You lowered your voice as you put on the jacket, zipping it up in one motion.

Ducking to hide the tint on her cheeks, Baran shook her head. “You wish,” she muttered.

You let out a noncommittal sound before tugging at the sleeves of the jacket.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice returning to a gentler tone.

“You’re welcome.” Baran saw her opportunity and pushed herself off the sink. “Though, I think you looked better without it.”

Your eyes widened, visibly taken-aback by her forwardness. With a satisfied smile, Baran slid past you and exited the bathroom, leaving you to swallow a taste of your own medicine.

The sound of the door closing behind her shook you out of your momentary stupor. Taking a deep breath, you were immediately enveloped by the smell of the faint perfume that clung to Baran’s jacket.

There was something about the scent that exuded a quiet boldness, a scent so undeniably her, and you couldn’t get enough.

You hated the emergency department—or “the pitt” as it was so fondly called by said department and trauma surgeons alike. It always amazed you how Walsh and Garcia so frequently made the trip down to the basement. You did your best to avoid emergency consults, often sending your residents down when you could, but being one of the best plastic surgeons, you couldn’t avoid the pitt forever—as much as you would’ve liked to.

It wasn’t that you were against emergency medicine or that you had some vendetta against the people who worked downstairs, but the chaos and frenzy of it all simply unnerved you. During your rotation at MassGen’s trauma center, you’d seen your fair share of MCIs and drunken accidents, too many for your liking actually. You also knew about the rising trends of violence in the ED, something you wanted to do your best to avoid.

Though, it would be just your luck that your first ED consult in months resulted in a laceration across the cheek, thanks to an unhappy—and misogynistic—patient, whose blood alcohol was definitely above the legal limit.

“Shit,” you hissed as one of the residents rolled a sodium-chloride-soaked cotton swab over your wound. “See, this is why I avoid it down here.”

“You got the right idea,” McKay huffed, and you could tell she’d already had a rough day. It was only ten, but that’s what emergency medicine did do to you.

As she draped a cloth over your shoulder, coming back with a needle holder in one hand and pair of forceps in the other, you frowned. “What are you doing?”

“You need stitches,” Cassie stated.

“I know,” you replied. You were the best plastic surgeon east of the Mississippi. Hell would have to have frozen over for you to let some resident do your stitches. “Hold the mirror.”

You lifted the hand-held mirror up for her to take. She gave you an incredulous look but nonetheless swapped her suture supplies for the mirror and held it up for you so you could stitch up your own face.

Across the floor, Baran walked out of a trauma room and approached the nurses’ station. Taking a quick scan of the department, her eyes landed on an attractive woman in Central 2 doing sutures on her own face. She watched as the doctor’s, the dark blue scrubs being a dead give away, hands moved expertly and swiftly, and she couldn’t stop the warmth from flooding her abdomen.

“Why is there a woman doing her own sutures in our emergency department?” Baran asked Dana, her gaze remaining on you.

The charge nurse bit back a smile at the single word choice, implying a shared responsibility, something Dana had come to admire—even like—about the new attending. Baran understood her rank and responsibility but never shouldered the burden alone.

“I doubt she’d let anyone else do ‘em,” Dana snorted as she quickly glanced up to see where Baran looking before returning to her tablet.

“Who is she?”

Dana told her your name. “Plastics surgeon,” she said with a certain tone as if to explain your actions.

Baran seemed to pick up what Dana was suggesting because she raised her eyebrows and nodded.

“Hey, hotshot,” Dana yelled over to you.

“Yeah?” You called back, still focused on your task at hand.

“When you’re done showing off, I got someone here I want you to meet.”

You chuckled lightly, careful not to disrupt your work. Baran watched as you smoothly tied up your sutures, exchanged a few words with McKay, a smug yet easy-going smirk on playing on your lips, and exited the trauma bay.

As you approached the central station, your eyes widened slightly at the unfamiliar woman who was leaning against the counter, her curly hair pulled back halfway so as to not get in her face. While you didn’t make frequent trips down to the pitt, you knew most, if not all, of the doctors and nurses—mainly through Emery and Garcia’s rants but that was a moot point—and you were sure you would remember a woman as striking as her.

“Barbie, this is Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi,” Dana said, motioning her hand between you and the other attending. “She’s here while Robby’s on sabbatical.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname the charge nurse had coined for you after you’d so generously fixed her broken nose, the first time.

Holding out your hand, you introduced your real name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Baran shook your hand with a faint smirk, and you tried to ignore the way your insides fluttered at the feeling of her skin against yours.

“Impressive work,” she hummed, eyeing your sutures. She could see they were neat and precise. You’d be left with only a ghost of a scar.

“You should see what else I can do,” you replied with the arrogance of a surgeon, lowering your voice suggestively.

Baran raised her brow, struck by your forwardness.

“No flirting in front of me,” Dana snarked, shooting you a knowing look over the bridge of her glasses. You felt your cheeks warm, but your smirk widened.

“There’s plenty of me to go around, Evans,” you teased as you leaned forward against the station. She gave you a deadpan stare, used to your flirtatious remarks, and you snickered.

“Ignore her.” Dana turned to Baran, not giving you the satisfaction of a retort. “She’s not down here often anyways.”

As if on cue, your pager beeped against your hip. Briefly, you skimmed the message before looking back up at the new attending.

“Well, maybe now I have a reason to visit more often.”

You let your eyes linger in hers, momentarily getting lost in the warmth of her chocolate orbs, before pushing yourself off the station.

“Duty calls.” You held up your pager, which was buzzing again. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies.”

You glanced back at Dana, bowing your head slightly, and she simply dismissed you with a wave of her hand, but you could see a glint of affection in her eye.

“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Al-Hashimi.”

“Baran,” she corrected quickly, surprising even herself.

“Baran,” you echoed, a small and sincere smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

If she wasn’t enamored by you before, the way her name naturally rolled off your tongue surely did it in for her.

“Well, Baran, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said your name, and you decided you’d never hear it the same way again.

Turning on your heels, you headed back towards the elevator, the stinging in your cheek replaced by the tingling feeling of Baran’s gaze on your retreating figure. As you pressed the button for your floor, you caught one last glimpse of her and nodded with a faint smirk before the elevator doors shut.

Jack had still been half asleep when you left the house, one arm hooked lazily around your waist while you sat at the edge of the bed and tried to tug your shoes on.

“Tell Jake if he gets arrested I’m not bailing him out,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“You like Jake.”

“He’s still an asshole sometimes.”

You laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss him anyway. Jack barely opened his eyes for it, just pulled you closer with a rough hand against your hip and kissed you slow enough to make you consider calling out sick from life entirely to be in this moment forever.

“You staying in bed all day?” you asked against his mouth.

“Mm, absolutely.”

“Jealous.”

“Should be, but I wish you were here with me.” His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw. “Text me when you get there, sweetheart.”

You texted Jack, and then you forgot your phone existed for the next two hours.

PittFest is chaos in the way all music festivals are chaos. Sticky floors. Warm beer. Suncream and sweat and bass vibrating through your ribs hard enough to feel sick with it. Jake and Leah disappear into crowds every five minutes only to reappear holding different food.

You mostly just watch them. Young and stupid and happy. Leah keeps taking blurry pictures of Jake while he complains about it dramatically, which only makes her laugh harder. She slips easily into your space too, arm linked through yours while she talks over the music about gossip you barely follow.

It feels normal. God, it feels painfully normal.

Jake’s midway through telling you both some ridiculous story when the first gunshot goes off.

Nobody reacts properly at first. A sound too sharp to belong there. Then another follows. Then screaming. The crowd shifts all at once.

Panic spreads faster than fire. One second people are dancing and laughing and filming videos on their phones, the next they are shoving each other hard enough to fall trying to get away. Your stomach drops instantly.

“No,” Leah whispers.

Training is ugly sometimes. Instinct before thought. Your brain already cataloguing exits and cover and casualties before the fear even catches up.

“Down,” you snap.

Jake grabs Leah instinctively. Another gunshot cracks through the air, too close for comfort. People are crying. Running. Somebody slams hard into your shoulder trying to push past and you nearly lose your footing.

Then Leah jerks violently beside you. For one hopeful second you think that she just tripped. Then you see the blood, and Jake screams her name, and everything narrows.

You hit the ground beside her so fast your knees crack painfully against concrete. Leah’s staring at you in confusion more than pain, hands shaking as they press instinctively against her abdomen. You don’t need a medical degree to know that there’s too much blood already.

“Oh my God,” Jake chokes. “Oh my God.”

“Pressure,” you order immediately. “Jake, pressure now.”

He freezes. Completely freezes.

You grab his wrists and physically force his hands over the wound. Blood spills between his fingers instantly.

“Look at me.” Your voice sharpens hard enough to cut through panic. “You do not move your hands.”

Leah makes a soft, terrified sound. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Your chest feels tight suddenly as you smooth a hand over her hair, trying to offer comfort in an impossible situation. “I know.”

Gunshots still sound somewhere nearby. Your pulse pounds so hard it makes you feel sick. Jake is breathing too fast. Full panic and shock setting in right in front of you.

“She’s gonna die she’s gonna die—”

“No.” You catch his face hard between both hands. “Not happening. Stay with me.”

People keep running past. Nobody stopping to check if you need anything, if the girl on the floor who is far too young to be in this position is okay. You understand why. Fear makes people cruel without meaning to.

Your phone vibrates against your hip in your pocket. You answer immediately.

“What’s wrong? Is something happening over there? I heard something but didn’t get the details. Are you okay?”

“There’s a shooting.”

Silence. Not real silence. You can hear the hospital behind him faintly. Voices. Movement. A monitor somewhere. Still, something inside him goes absolutely still.

“Where are you hurt?”

You blink hard. “I’m not—”

Another gunshot. Closer. You duck instinctively over Leah. Something tears through your upper arm. The pain arrives hot and brutal a second later. You suck in a sharp breath.

“Sweetheart?”

Your hand flies to your arm automatically and comes away slick red.

“Oh,” you say faintly.

Jake stares at you in horror. Jack’s voice changes instantly. Lower. Controlled in that terrifying way he gets when something is catastrophically wrong.

“You’ve been hit.”

“Just my arm.”

“How bad.”

You press hard above the wound, vision swimming unpleasantly for a second.

“Through and through, I think.”

“Listen to me carefully.” Every word clipped precise now. Doctor mode. “Can you move your fingers?”

You flex them. “Yeah.”

“Good. Keep pressure on it.”

Leah cries out suddenly and your attention snaps back to her. Blood soaking through Jake’s hands faster now. You shrug your jacket off one-handed and bunch it hard against Leah’s abdomen to reinforce pressure. Jake’s shaking so violently he can barely keep hold.

“Jake.” Your voice softens despite everything. “Need you to stay with me, honey.”

“I can’t lose her.”

The fear in his voice cuts straight through you.

“You won’t.”

“I’m sending units your way now,” Jack says through the phonee. “Stay on the line with me.”

You know he’s already moving while he talks. Already taking over. Organising. Commanding. The image of him striding through the Pitt with that expression on his face flashes painfully through your mind. You want him here so badly your chest aches with it.

Another scream sounds somewhere nearby. Leah’s skin is turning grey. Jake looks close to vomiting.

Your own arm throbs violently. Blood slipping steadily between your fingers no matter how hard you press. You promise yourself that you won’t pass out, not here, not while they still need you.

“Sweetheart.” Jack again, quieter now somehow. “Talk to me.”

You swallow hard. “She’s losing too much blood.”

“How’s her breathing?”

You check automatically. Wet. Uneven. Bad. Your stomach twists.

Jake sees your face change and immediately starts panicking harder. “No, no, no, tell me what to do!”

“You keep pressure there,” you say firmly. “You keep talking to her.”

Leah’s eyes find yours. Terrified. You smile anyway because people always look less frightened when medics smile at them.

“You’re alright, angel, I’m here.”

It feels monstrous saying it while blood pools beneath her body. Sirens finally echo somewhere in the distance. Too far away, too slow.

Your vision flickers strangely at the edges. Adrenaline only carries you so long before the body starts demanding payment. Jack must hear something in your breathing again.

“How much blood are you losing?”

“I’m okay.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

You almost laugh despite everything. “I’m fine,” you insist weakly.

“Sweetheart.” Warning this time.

You press harder against your arm. Your hand is slippery with blood. Leah’s or yours, you genuinely cannot tell anymore.

Jake suddenly grabs your sleeve hard. “There’s blood on your face.”

You touch your forehead automatically and come away red again. Your hearing feels distant for a second. You know that feeling. Jack knows it too apparently because his voice sharpens immediately.

“Stay awake.”

“I am awake.”

“You’re fading.”

“No I’m not.”

It’s a lie so obvious that even you hear it. The world tilts unpleasantly. You force yourself to focus on Leah instead. On Jake. On pressure and breathing and survival. Easier than thinking about the fact your husband is listening to all of this happen over the phone while trapped miles away.

“Baby,” Jack says suddenly, very soft now. Dangerous soft. “Listen to me, please.”

Your throat tightens painfully at the desperation in his voice. You can practically see him in your head. Jaw locked. Hand pressed against the back of his neck. Fury and fear buried underneath clinical calmness.

“I need you to stay conscious until the paramedics reach you, okay? You know the drill.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. “I’m trying,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying, Jack.”

Then Leah stops responding properly, and everything gets worse.

“Leah?”

No response.

Jake says her name again, louder this time, voice cracking apart so badly it barely sounds human anymore. Your stomach drops.

“Jake.” You force steel back into your voice despite the dizziness crawling steadily through you. “Talk to her.”

His hands are drenched red now. Blood pushed deep beneath his fingernails. He keeps looking at you like you might be able to undo this through sheer willpower alone.

“Leah, baby, c’mon.” His breathing stutters violently. “Please.”

You press trembling fingers against her throat again. Weak. Too weak. Your own pulse pounds hard enough to make your injured arm throb in time with it. Every heartbeat feels wet. Hot blood still slipping through your grip no matter how hard you hold pressure.

Jack’s voice crackles through the phone near your knee where you dropped it onto speaker. “What’s happening?”

You swallow hard. “She’s crashing.”

Silence. Not real silence. You hear movement behind him. Orders being barked across the ER. Metal trays clattering. The Pitt already preparing for the casualties heading their way.

Jack knows exactly what kind of scene you’re sitting in. Exactly how bad it probably looks.

“She conscious?”

“Barely.”

You can feel Jake staring at you, waiting for something. You hate this part, you have always hated this part. The space between trying and failing where everybody still looks at you hopefully.

Leah’s eyes flutter weakly. “Cold,” she whispers.

Jake breaks completely at that. His whole face crumples. Tears running unchecked while he bends over her like he can physically shield her from dying through proximity alone.

“You’re okay,” he keeps saying frantically. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

You grip the back of his neck hard. “Jake.” He looks at you immediately. “Need you to breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He absolutely is not. His chest is heaving so fast you feel panic rising in yourself just watching him. The shock is setting in ugly now. His shoulder is still bleeding too, forgotten entirely beneath Leah’s worsening condition.

You grab the discarded sleeve of your jacket and shove it hard against his wound.

“Pressure there.” He obeys automatically, and you thank every cosmic force that might be out there.

Your vision blurs suddenly. You squeeze your eyes shut hard once and feel the world tilt sickeningly underneath you.

“Sweetheart?” Jack again. Immediate. Alert.

You hadn’t even made a noise. “I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep pestering me.”

A horrible little laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Sharp with stress. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You know that laugh. The one dragged out of him when he’s overwhelmed enough that humour becomes the only thing stopping him putting his fist through a wall.

Sirens are closer now. Leah makes another weak choking sound and your focus snaps back instantly. Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of her mouth. It’s bad enough that you already know where this is going. Jake sees your expression change again.

“No.”

You hate how small his voice sounds.

“She’s okay,” you lie.

“She’s not.” His face twists violently. “Don’t fucking lie to me like that. It’s fucked up.”

Your throat tightens. People think medics get used to this. They don’t. You just learn how to keep moving while it happens.

The first paramedics finally break through the crowd. Relief hits so hard your hands start shaking worse. One of them crouches beside Leah immediately while another reaches for you.

“I’m fine,” you snap instinctively.

The paramedic looks unimpressed. “You’ve been shot, ma’am.”

“Not dying though.” Your words slur slightly at the edges.

Jack hears it too. “Hey.” Sharper now. “Stay with me. Let them help you.”

The paramedic starts peeling your blood-soaked hand away from your arm and pain explodes through you white-hot and vicious enough to make your stomach lurch.

“Oh, fuck.”

“There she is,” Jack mutters darkly through the speaker. “Knew you were concussed or dying when you stopped cursing.”

Despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.

The paramedic assessing Leah suddenly barks for more gauze. Jake flinches hard enough to nearly fall over.

“She needs transport now,” another voice says urgently.

Jake grabs Leah’s hand desperately while they start loading her onto the stretcher. He keeps trying to climb beside her despite the blood loss making him unsteady too.

“Sir, we need you checked out as well.”

“No.”

“Jake,” you say firmly.

He looks at you with tears streaking his face.

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You aren’t.”

His breathing catches painfully.

Your own head feels strangely heavy suddenly. Hard to hold upright. The paramedic wrapping your arm is talking to you but the words drift oddly in and out.

Jack’s voice cuts through the fog immediately. “What’s her BP?”

The paramedic glances towards the phone. “Who is this?”

“Her husband. Dr Jack Abbot.”

Something in Jack’s tone must land correctly because the paramedic answers instantly after that.

“Pressure is dropping.”

You hear the silence on the other end. Not empty silence, calculating silence. Dangerous silence.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought of him hearing numbers instead of seeing you himself. Jack trusts his own hands more than anything else in the world. You know he hates this. Hates being trapped at the hospital while you bleed somewhere he cannot reach.

“They’re taking us to the Pitt?” you ask weakly.

“Yeah.”

Good. You need Jack. The thought arrives suddenly and honestly enough to hurt. Not Dr Abbot. Not your attending physician. Just your husband. Your Jack. The one who sleeps with one heavy hand spread across your stomach every time like he needs proof you’re still there.

Jake climbs into the ambulance beside Leah while they try to convince him to let somebody examine his shoulder properly. You force yourself upright too fast trying to follow and immediately regret it. The world blacks at the edges. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground.

“Easy,” the paramedic says.

You feel weirdly detached from your own body now. Floating somewhere slightly behind yourself.

Jack’s voice sharpens again instantly through the phone. “She pass out?”

“Nearly.”

“Sweetheart.” Fear leaking through now despite all his control. “Talk to me.”

You try. Nothing comes out properly. Your tongue feels thick. The paramedic starts asking questions rapidly. Name. Age. Allergies. Orientation. You answer automatically between breaths while they push you towards a second ambulance.

Blood loss. Shock. Probably more injured than you first thought. Your arm burns savagely.

“You still with me?” Jack asks.

“Yeah.” Barely.

You hear Jack exhale quietly. “Good girl.”

The words hit you straight in the chest. So familiar. So him. Usually murmured against your skin in the middle of the night instead of through a phone while you bleed through dressings.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. The ambulance doors slam shut. Everything becomes sirens and fluorescent lights and movement. A paramedic cuts your sleeve fully away and swears under his breath at the amount of blood.

“Looks worse than it is,” you mumble.

“That what you tell all your patients?”

Jack actually snorts faintly through the speaker.

“Yeah,” he says. “She does.”

You can practically picture him now. Leaning over a desk somewhere in the chaos of the ER. One hand braced against the surface hard enough to ache later. Eyes distant and furious all at once.

Somebody in the background says his name. You hear him switch instantly. “What’ve we got?”

Pure attending voice now. Steady. Cold. Commanding. You have seen entire trauma bays settle the second Jack walks into them, like everybody unconsciously trusts him to carry the worst parts. He comes back to you a second later, softer again somehow.

“Nearly there, baby.”

You close your eyes briefly. So tired suddenly.

“Don’t you dare,” he says immediately.

Your eyes open again. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Especially with you.”

The medic checking your vitals suddenly goes very still looking at the monitor. Your stomach sinks.

“What?”

He looks up sharply. “Do you know how much blood you have lost?”

Nobody tells you the answer to that question. Which is answer enough on its own, really.

The ambulance feels too bright. Too loud. Every bump in the road sends pain shooting through your arm and shoulder hard enough to make your vision flicker. You focus on the ceiling instead. On breathing. On staying conscious long enough to get to the Pitt.

Jack keeps talking. You realise after a while he is doing it deliberately. Filling silence before it can turn dangerous.

“You remember Santos trying to tell me how to run a trauma bay last week? Pulling that shit again today.”

A weak laugh catches painfully in your throat. “She’s brave.”

“She’s annoying.”

“We like her. She’s fun.”

“Unfortunately.”

The medic beside you presses fresh gauze against your arm and you hiss through your teeth.

“Easy,” he says.

“Not my favourite word.”

Jack hums quietly through the speaker. “That’s true.”

Your chest aches with missing him. It feels stupid. He is only across the city. You have survived deployments and distance and night shifts and grief and all the ugly things life threw at both of you. Still, all you want suddenly is his hand around yours and his mouth against your forehead and the certainty that comes with him being close enough to touch.

You feel sixteen different kinds of exhausted.

“Leah?” you ask faintly.

The medic hesitates. Bad sign. Your stomach twists violently.

“She’s alive.”

Alive. Not stable. Not okay. Just alive. You nod once anyway.

The ambulance doors finally burst open into noise and fluorescent light. Controlled chaos already swallowing the ambulance bay whole. Stretchers moving. Nurses shouting vitals. Blood on the floor somewhere.

The Pitt. Home, in the worst possible way.

You barely make it two feet before spotting Jack. He is halfway across the bay giving orders to somebody when he sees you.

Everything stops.

Not literally. The ER still roars around him. Staff moving constantly. Sirens outside. Chaos everywhere. Still, something in Jack goes completely still the second his eyes land on you.

You have seen that look exactly twice before. Once overseas. Once after his wife died. It hits you hard enough to hurt.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

Then he is there. Hands on your face first. Immediate. Grounding. Like he needs physical proof you are standing in front of him. His eyes move over you rapidly after that, taking in blood loss, sweat and tears, and the dressing wrapped round your arm already soaked through.

You watch anger flood him in real time. Not at you. At the situation. At the blood. At the fact you got hurt where he could not protect you from it.

“Hey,” you whisper.

Jack grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard enough to shut you up entirely. Desperate. Furious. His hand shakes once against your jaw before he gets control of it again.

“You scared the fucking life out of me.”

The words come rough and low. You almost cry at the sound of it.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you are not.”

Pure Jack. Sharp enough to cut.

A nurse approaches carefully. “Abbot, we need—”

“Give me a minute.”

Nobody argues. You sway slightly where you stand and Jack’s entire grip tightens immediately.

“Woah, okay.” Softer now. “Easy, sweetheart.”

The adrenaline is disappearing. Fast. Your body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.

“Jake,” you manage. “Leah?”

“They’re in trauma.”

Alive then, at least for now.

Jack guides you backwards towards an empty stretcher with one hand firm against your waist. You can feel him slipping fully into doctor mode again despite the fear still sitting raw underneath it.

“Sit.”

“I can still help.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“No.” Harder this time. “You’re done.”

You hate how emotional that makes you unexpectedly. You do not want to be done. You want to keep moving and helping and fixing because the second you stop everything catches up.

Jack sees it happen on your face instantly. Always does. His expression softens just slightly.

“Baby.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye before you even realise tears escaped. “Sit down before you drop down. Please.”

You obey mostly because your legs are beginning to shake badly enough that you genuinely might collapse. Jack kneels in front of you immediately to assess your arm himself despite multiple staff hovering nearby ready to do it for him.

His hands are steady. Only his jaw gives him away.

“You got lucky,” he mutters after peeling the dressing back carefully.

“Always do.”

He shoots you a look. Not amused. Blood covers his fingers now. Yours too. Familiar in the ugliest way. You watch him mentally catalogue damage with frightening speed.

“You should see the other guy,” you mumble weakly.

Jack stares at you for one long second before a broken little sound leaves him halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.

“Shut up, sweetheart.”

His forehead drops briefly against your knee. That scares you more than anything else has tonight. Jack does not fold. He bends maybe. Cracks quietly where nobody can see. Never folds, especially not in the Pitt of all places.

Your hand moves automatically into his hair. “Hey.”

He breathes once. Twice. Then straightens again before anybody else notices. Professional mask back in place.

“You’re getting fluids and scans,” he says flatly. “And if you try arguing with me I’ll sedate you myself.”

“There he is.”

His mouth twitches despite himself.

The curtain nearby suddenly gets shoved aside and Trinity stumbles through looking wrecked. Blood dried across her scrubs, hair a complete mess.

“Fuck,” she says immediately. “What do you need?”

The words slam straight into your chest. Jack stands instantly. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

Trinity looks at you then and visibly pales. “You’re bleeding through that.”

You glance down. The fresh dressing is already red again. Jack notices at exactly the same moment and something inside him finally snaps.

“Get me another pressure dressing now,” he barks sharply at a nurse nearby. “And where the hell is her trauma consult?”

You stare at him slightly dazed. Trinity does too. Jack never raises his voice unless things are bad. Seconds later, Trinity is called away to treat another casualty, and you watch Jack pale as if he needed that extra lifeline in the room just this once.

“I’m stable,” you try weakly.

Jack rounds on you so fast it almost startles you.

“You do not get to tell us you’re stable while bleeding through gauze every five fucking minutes.”

The nurse returns quickly with supplies while Jack drags a hand hard over his face like he regrets snapping immediately.

“Sorry,” he mutters roughly without looking at you.

Your chest aches. “Jack.”

He crouches back in front of you again, pressing fresh gauze carefully to your arm this time. His touch gentler now. Almost unbearably gentle. He presses one quick kiss against your forehead.

“Don’t move.”

“Bossy.”

“Yeah.” His hand squeezes the back of your neck once. “You married me anyway.”

Jack exhales slowly. The attending disappears first, but your husband stays.

“You scared me,” he says quietly.

No sharpness left in it now. No irritation. Just honesty stripped raw. Your chest aches immediately.

“I know.”

Jack pulls the stool closer and sits in front of you with a pained wince before carefully peeling back the soaked dressing around your arm. His touch stays precise but impossibly gentle at the same time. You know all the versions of him by now. The trauma doctor. The exhausted veteran. The husband who wakes instantly from nightmares with his hand already reaching for you.

This version is frightened. You feel it in every careful movement.

“You should’ve let somebody help you sooner,” he mutters while inspecting the wound.

“There were people worse off.”

Jack’s eyes flick to you with a frown. You look away, standing by that ugly instinct to keep going until your body physically gives out because somebody else always needs more.

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens dangerously. “You were bleeding through your clothes.”

“I know.”

“You nearly collapsed in the ambulance bay.”

You swallow hard. He starts flushing the wound carefully with saline and pain burns viciously through your arm. Your face tightens automatically.

“Sorry, baby.”

“You didn’t shoot me.”

“No, but I’d still like to kill whoever did.”

That nearly earns a laugh from you. Exhaustion hangs too heavily for humour now. Adrenaline burned off enough to leave everything underneath exposed and shaking.

Jack notices immediately. “You dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“Little bit.”

“Head?”

“Hurts.”

“Good. Means you’ve still got one.”

You snort softly at that despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches faintly in quiet satisfaction before settling again. His hands are steady.

“You sounded scared on the phone,” you say quietly after a moment.

Jack keeps his eyes on your arm while wrapping fresh gauze into place. “I was terrified.”

The honesty knocks straight through you. “You never sound scared.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is with everybody else.”

His hands pause briefly. “You aren’t everybody else.”

Emotion climbs sharp into your throat so fast it hurts. Before you can say anything, the curtain suddenly jerks open.

Jake stumbles inside looking destroyed.

Your stomach drops instantly.

Blood has dried down the front of his shirt. His eyes swollen raw from crying already. He looks barely upright.

Jack stands immediately. “What happened, buddy?”

Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Then suddenly he folds in on himself completely.

“She died. Leah died.” The words break apart halfway through. “She died and I wasn’t there and she was asking for me and I wasn’t fucking there—”

“Oh, Jake.”

You are moving before you even think about it despite the pain ripping through your arm instantly. Jake drops heavily into the chair beside your stretcher and puts both hands over his face like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.

“I left her,” he chokes out. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

“No.” Your voice comes sharp automatically. “No, honey.”

Jack glances at you once before stepping back slightly, giving you space. Jake’s shoulders shake violently beneath your hand when you touch his arm.

“They said she coded again and they couldn’t get her back and I wasn’t there—”

“You listened to medical staff,” you say firmly, throat burning already. “You were injured too.”

“I should’ve stayed with her.”

Guilt. Pure, ugly survivor’s guilt already setting in. You know the shape of it intimately.

Jake starts crying harder. Full body shaking with it now. Young and heartbroken and completely lost. Something inside your chest caves painfully inward at the sound.

“She was scared,” he whispers.

You think suddenly about Leah lying on the concrete with blood soaking through your jacket. Her tiny voice saying how cold she felt. Jake holding pressure with shaking hands because you told him to.

Jack rests one hand briefly against the back of your neck. Grounding. Steady. You lean into it automatically while keeping your other hand wrapped around Jake’s wrist.

“You stayed with her,” you tell him softly. “You hear me? You stayed.”

His face twists apart completely. “I loved her.”

The room goes painfully quiet. Jack looks away briefly. You know why. Leah’s death hits him too. Every loss does, no matter how hard he tries to bury it beneath protocol and movement and work.

The hooks of the curtain scrape against the pole as Robby pulls it to step inside. Exhaustion hangs off him in visible waves. Blood on his scrub top. Eyes hollowed out by the night.

He takes one look at Jake. “Come on, kid.”

Jake looks up at him with a completely shattered expression. Robby crosses the space quickly and grips the back of his neck firmly. “C’mon.”

Jake doesn’t move. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” Robby says it quietly. Certainly. Like fact.

Jake wipes violently at his face. “I left her.”

Robby’s expression tightens for one brief second.

“No,” he says firmly. “You got shot trying to save her.”

Jake starts crying again anyway. Robby pulls him gently upright after a second, keeping one steady hand between his shoulder blades.

“Come sit with me for a minute.”

Jake looks back at you once before leaving. Lost. Apologetic somehow. You squeeze his hand weakly.

“This isn’t your fault.”

His face crumples again at that before Robby finally guides him back out into the chaos beyond the curtain. The second they disappear the room feels heavier somehow. Jack turns back towards you slowly. You realise suddenly your cheeks are wet too.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He moves immediately, stepping between your knees and pulling you carefully against his chest despite the IV line and bandaging. You go willingly, forehead pressed hard against him while everything finally catches up at once.

The gunshots. Leah. Jake crying. Jack hearing you bleed over the phone unable to reach you.

Your body starts shaking properly. “I couldn’t save her,” you whisper brokenly.

Jack’s arms tighten instantly. “That wasn’t on you.”

“I knew she was dying.”

His hand cradles the back of your head carefully.

“I knew.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I still kept lying to him.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You gave him hope while she was alive.”

Your throat burns. You start crying harder at that. Quiet, ugly crying pressed into the front of Jack’s scrub top while he holds you through it without hesitation. Nobody ever talks about this part properly. The aftermath. The helplessness. The guilt medics carry around in their pockets like spare change.

Jack knows though. Of course he does.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair.

The words nearly finish you off entirely. Eventually, your breathing evens out again enough that he can guide you gently back onto the stretcher. His hand never fully leaves you.

“You need scans before I take you home,” he says quietly.

Home. The word lands soft. You look up at him tiredly. Really look. Exhaustion carved deep into his face now that the crisis is slowing. Tiny flecks of blood still near his jaw. Eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep and fear.

“You need rest too.”

Jack huffs quietly. “Yeah, well. You first.”

Your mouth twitches weakly. You love him so much it feels unbearable sometimes.

Later, after scans and stitches and far too much arguing over whether you can walk unassisted, Jack finally gets you home sometime near dawn.

The house is dark and still, as safe as you need it to be. Jack helps you out of your ruined clothes with unbearable gentleness before settling you carefully into bed. Clean shirt pulled over your head. Pain medication pressed into your palm. Water forced into you until he looks vaguely satisfied.

Then finally, after stripping off his bloodstained scrub top and unfastening his prosthetic with the exhausted familiarity of routine, Jack gets carefully into bed beside you.

The second the mattress dips, you move towards him automatically. Your face tucked against his throat. One arm curled carefully around his waist while he wraps himself around you just as instinctively.

For a long time neither of you speak. Jack’s fingers move slowly against your spine.

“You awake?” you murmur eventually.

“Yeah.”

Your eyes sting again suddenly. “Jake’s gonna blame himself forever.”

Jack goes quiet for a moment. “Probably.”

Honest. Always honest with you.

“He shouldn’t.”

“No.” His arm tightens slightly. “Neither should you.”

The emotion lodged in your chest aches horribly.

Outside, somewhere beyond your windows, the city keeps moving.

Inside, wrapped tightly around each other in the dark, the two of you finally stop trying to.

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The thing about growing up best friends with Dennis Whitaker is that, from a young age, everyone in town was convinced you two were going to fall in love. It was never an “if”. It was always a “when”. You suppose they were right because, by the time you reached high school, there was a clear shift in your dynamic.

It wasn’t by choice, of course, but it happened anyway. You both changed- started noticing things you hadn’t before. You grew up. Suddenly, study sessions turned into stealing kisses and praying one of his family members- especially his brothers- didn’t walk by the open door and see. Sneaking away from youth group every chance you had. Movie dates, stargazing in the bed of his brother’s truck, prom nights- all the expected moments childhood sweethearts are meant to share right down to planning a future together.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when he suddenly broke things off the day before he was meant to leave for college. An entire future had died with just a handful of words.

You didn’t say anything in response. At least, you don’t think you did. All you can remember is the look on his face, the way it felt for your heart to shatter like priceless china on asphalt, and how difficult it was to drive home after with tears that just wouldn’t stop.

It’s safe to say you didn’t tell him goodbye, and he didn’t ask why.

Dennis didn’t come back to Broken Bow very much after that, but when he did, you went out of your way to avoid seeing him. His mother reached out after she’d heard the news, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say much more to her than was considered polite. It wasn’t her fault; you just weren’t equipped to handle the complex emotions brought forth with losing the love of your life.

You left town a few years after he did with the hope that a new city would let you escape the memories that haunted your day to day life. A new job, a new home, a new you. And hey- you’d always heard Pittsburgh is supposed to be pretty cool.

It’s years before you make the trip out to Broken Bow again. You feel some level of guilt for not seeing your family for so long, but the fear of being thrown back into something that had been such a huge part of your life outweighed any rational thought until very recently. And Dennis was meant to be a doctor by now, so it wasn’t too hard to convince yourself that there was a slim to none chance of seeing him. It had to be almost impossible to get time off, even without it being a holiday. Still, your hands shake the entire car ride from your childhood home to the church you used to attend. You weren’t even really religious back then, but it made your mom happy and had always given you an excuse to hang out with Dennis. Now, though, you feel like praying might not be such a bad idea if it means absolving you of any chance of seeing him. As you step into the church donning your Sunday’s best- or the closest thing you have to it nowadays- you can’t help but notice that things aren’t that different than you remember. They’re just older. You guess that’s how small towns are, though- like an old photograph, never changing but dulling with time.

It’s already pretty full by the time you walk in, but that was your goal when you decided to take your sweet time getting ready. The Whitaker family was always notoriously early to ensure a pew in the front row. Showing up this late almost guarantees you a spot in the last. You can only hope you’re that lucky.

And miraculously, you are that lucky as your mother grumbles and heads toward the very last row of pews. You have to fight back a smile. 

But then, as some sort of divine retribution for your happiness at your mother’s expense, your eyes meet a pair of unforgettable blue ones, and you instantly feel like throwing up. If there’s a god, you know he’s laughing at you.

You’re walking out of the church before you know your feet are moving, and you flinch as you hear your mother call your name. You flinch harder when you hear him do the same, but you don’t stop walking.

You don’t have a car, given the fact that your mother drove, and the keys are still tucked away in her purse, so your only escape is going to be trekking it the few miles it takes to get back to your house. You don’t make it very far, though, before you hear the rumble of an old truck behind you. You know it’s him before he even calls out, but it still doesn’t prepare you for it. The sound of your name from his lips is as familiar as it is chilling.

“Leave me alone,” you yell before looking back- a decision you immediately regret when tears start to sting your eyes. You turn away again and keep walking.

“Please,” he says, hanging halfway out the truck window as he speeds up enough to keep pace with you. “Let me take you back to the church..or home. You don’t need to walk that far.”

“Why do I care what you think?” You ask as you come to a stop, arms crossed over your chest as your nails dig into your skin. He has to slam on the brakes to avoid passing you.

A sigh escapes his lips, guilt that he can’t quite hide settling on his features. “Your mom is gonna worry if you actually try to walk home.”

“I don’t care,” you say. It’s only half a lie.

“We both know you do. Please.”

And somewhere between telling him to go fuck himself and his incessant begging, you’re convinced to get in the truck, and you hate yourself for it.

You settle into the passenger seat and press your body as close to the door as you can get. His eyes constantly drift to you as he starts to drive off. You can feel it, and it makes you turn towards the door even more to hide the tears that won’t stop pooling in your eyes. He notices them anyway and reaches across you to the glove compartment. He passes you a wad of napkins from various fast food restaurants. Neither of you says anything, but you take them and dab your eyes.

By the time he’s pulling into your driveway, the silence feels suffocating, and you’ve got a million questions and accusations swimming through your head. Because the moment he gets the car parked- or maybe it was even the moment you got into the truck at all- you become seventeen again: devastated, sick to your stomach, and at a loss for words.

You reach for the handle before you hear the click of the lock echo in the otherwise silent truck. You turn to look at him.

“We need to talk.”

You sigh. And then you nod. And then you try to make your escape just as he’s locking the door again. This happens several times until you begin to contemplate going out the window. A hand on your wrist stops you before the thought is even complete.

“Please. Seriously.”

This time, you settle into the seat and look at him. “There’s nothing to say. It’s been years.”

He purses his lips as he gives you a look that can only be described as empathetically pathetic. “It’s been years, but you’re still crying about it. I know you. I know-”

“You don’t fucking know me! It’s been eight fucking years, Dennis! We haven’t spoken in eight years. You dumped me, you fucking left, and now, eight years later, you want to talk about it?”

You hate that you can’t stop pointing out how long it's been, and you really hate that you can’t come up with a better adjective than “fucking” in your anger.

“I wanted to reach out, but college got busy, and then med school. I didn’t have a chance,” he says, and you know to a degree he’s got a point. When you eventually went to college, things were hell. And you weren’t even pre med.

“If you really wanted to, you would’ve found time.”

He doesn’t argue this time because he knows you’re right. He doesn’t want you to be, but you are.

“I loved you in every way it’s possible to love someone. Even after you hurt me, I loved you. I left town and didn’t come back for years because everything here reminds me of you, and it hurts. It’s not even about you breaking my heart anymore. You were my best friend. I lost everything in one day, and you didn’t even think twice about it.”

You take a deep breath as your voice starts to shake. It’s not easy saying this, but you’ve started, and now you can’t stop.

“I still think about you all the time. That’s crazy, isn’t it? I wonder how you’re doing, if you’ve become a doctor yet, if you’re happy. But I know it’s not my business to know now. You made sure of that. What’s done is done, Dennis.” His name feels almost painful to say. “I’m always going to love you, but I’ve accepted that things happened the way they did. No amount of talking will change that.”

You can see the way he’s having to actually force his eyes to stay on you as they begin to go watery. He was never a fan of others seeing him so vulnerable. You used to be an exception. Not anymore.

He swallows, closes his eyes, and nods. You think for a moment that’s all you’ll get, but then he’s looking at you again.

“It was never because I stopped loving you,” he says, voice so quiet you can only just hear it over the rumble of the truck. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. But I also couldn’t take you with me, and I couldn’t ask you to wait in case I came back. I’m sorry.”

You clench your jaw, tension building again just as it was finally fading. The last time he apologized to you, he broke your heart. Somehow, now, he was doing it all over again.

And just like before, you don’t say anything. At least, you don’t think you do. All you can see is the guilt on his face as you click open the lock and climb out of the truck. All you can feel is a weight settling so heavy over your chest that it’s hard to breathe. All you know is, once again, you’re heartbroken.

Dennis leaves Broken Bow a day later. You leave after three.

“And who is this beauty?” Princess exclaimed as you got closer.

You smiled, shaking your head. Feeling everyone’s eyes on you all at once made heat creep up your neck. Especially because one particular person seemed to be staring at you without blinking.

“Oh, come on, pretty girl," Princess said, pointing at the coat, "reveal your secrets.”

“Princess…” But she interrupted you.

“Come on! I know you've been in the bathroom for at least half an hour. I want to see the result.”

“Alright, alright.”

You hesitated only for a second. Then your fingers found the buttons. For a moment, it felt like everyone was holding their breath as they watched you. And when you finally opened the coat, it slipped slightly from your shoulders.

The mustard-colored fabric glowed warmly under the evening lights, elegant without trying too hard. Gray high boots reached the middle of your calves.

It shouldn’t have looked that good after a shift like yours. And yet it did.

For a moment Jack thought he had forgotten how to breathe.

“And you were hiding all this from us?” Princess said, staring at you in delight while someone nearby let out a whistle.

You laughed softly, a little embarrassed, before putting one foot forward and resting your hands on your hips like a model.

“Only the elite get access.”

Dr. Abbott couldn’t stop himself:

“And how exactly do I get into this elite club?”

You just shrugged, smiling meaningfully.

As you put your coat back on, your face suddenly became serious again. That’s how you always got when it came to important things.

"I'm working the night shift tomorrow. I hope you don't mind, Dr. Abbot?"

“You know I’ve been wanting you to join the Night Crawlers for a long time.” Jack smiled warmly. "Of course, I don't mind."

You gave him the same sincere smile. Then, as if waking from a pleasant dream, you hurried to say goodbye to everyone. Just a little more and you would have started running late.

Time, as it often did in this hospital, refused to behave properly. The night shift came without warning, as if it had been waiting in the hallway.

“Good evening. And what’s this lovely outfit we’re being graced with after your shift?”

Oh, you recognized that voice immediately. You turned around, a small smile already tugging at your lips.

“Good evening, Dr. Abbott. Today it’s just jeans and a hoodie. Nothing interesting.”

He gave you a theatrically disappointed look.

“What a shame,” he sighed softly. “I was hoping to admire you in a beautiful dress again.”

You laughed quietly.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s alright.” His gaze lingered on you for just a second longer before a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose twelve hours with you will make up for it, sweetheart.”

Then he winked.

God, what a flirt.

But before you could answer, a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

“Trauma incoming. Pediatric patient. ETA three minutes.”

The moment felt like it cracked in half. You rushed into the operating room side by side, the earlier warmth of your conversation dissolving instantly beneath fluorescent lights and sterile air. Nurses moved around you with practiced urgency. Someone tied the back of your surgical gown while you pulled gloves over trembling fingers.

Pediatric trauma. Eight years old. Internal bleeding after a car accident.

You tried not to think about the tiny sneakers abandoned near the operating table, about the terrified mother crying somewhere outside the OR.

“Focus,” Jack said quietly beside you. Not harsh. Grounding.

Your eyes darted toward the monitor – heart rate unstable, blood pressure dropping.

“Suction.”

Someone placed the instrument into your waiting hand. Then Jack held the scalpel out toward you. And your breath caught. There was no time to think, but you still allowed yourself a moment of doubt.

“You can handle it,” Jack said firmly.

For a second, your eyes widened behind your mask. Every instinct screamed at you not to hesitate. So, you took the scalpel. A deep breath. Your hands trembled only once before steadying under his guidance. Not because the surgery was simple – but because his voice made it feel survivable.

“Good,” Jack murmured quietly beside you. “That’s it.”

The monitor kept beeping. Nurses moved around you in a blur. Sweat gathered at the back of your neck beneath the surgical cap, but you kept going.

Minute after minute.

Stitch after stitch.

Until finally–

“He’s stable.”

Two words. That was all you needed to hear.

The breath left your lungs shakily, much louder than you intended, as the crushing weight on your shoulders finally loosened.

“My God,” Jack murmured beside you, voice rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to awe. “Sweetheart… you were incredible.”

Before you could answer, he reached for your hands almost absent mindedly – still gloved, still trembling slightly from adrenaline – and pressed a kiss against each knuckle.

The gesture barely registered at first. Not after everything that had just happened. Not after saving a child’s life.

And yet warmth still rushed into your face beneath your surgical mask.

“Thank you,” you whispered softly, eyes still fixed on the child lying stable beneath bright surgical lights. “But we all did.”

The hospital eventually returned to its normal rhythm – but neither of you did.

You didn’t remember going up to the roof. Only the need for air, for something quieter than fluorescent light. He found you there, leaning against the railing and staring out at the city lights below. You were trying to breathe normally again, but your hands still trembled slightly from the adrenaline.

Jack leaned beside you, close enough that your arms almost brushing against the exhaustion you were both still carrying. He reached out without asking and pressed two fingers gently to the spot between your brows – right where tension always seemed to settle.

“You look wrecked,” he said quietly. As if stating a fact that didn’t require fixing.

A tired chuckle slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut at the gesture.

“Not surprising,” you murmured. “I don’t even want to think about tonight yet.”

Silence settled between you for a moment, heavy but not uncomfortable. Somewhere below, ambulances still wailed through the city.

“You did well in there,” Jack said eventually. "Incredible actually."

You shook your head faintly.

“I was terrified.”

“Good,” he replied softly. “The ones who stop being scared are the ones I worry about.”

You stood there in silence for a while, looking out over the city lights. Somewhere below, sirens still echoed through the streets.

Deep down, both of you hoped this would be the worst case of the night. But there were still eleven hours left in the shift. And experience had taught you both not to trust quiet moments too much.

Jack stayed beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. Then, after a pause:

“How was last night?”

The sudden question caught you off guard. A small smile appeared on your face despite everything.

“Good,” you admitted softly. “Really good.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the cold railing.

“We listened to jazz all evening. I even danced with one of the musicians.”

Jack glanced at you.

“Took his number?”

You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head.

“No. It was just a dance.”

“Hm.”

The sound was low and thoughtful enough that you almost smiled wider. Almost.

It probably wasn’t quite right or professional. And yet you still found yourself thinking about it – about music, about warmth, about evenings that didn’t end in fluorescent lights.

“Do you want to go sometime?” you asked before you could overthink it. “I mean… listen to jazz.”

For a moment Jack looked genuinely surprised.

Then something softer settled in his expression. Not an answer yet – something quieter, like the idea of it had to arrive before the words did.

“Yeah,” he said finally, almost carefully. “I’d like that.”

The wind moved between you across the rooftop, brushing against the edges of exhaustion you were both still carrying.

Jack didn’t move at first. Then, as if it wasn’t a decision but something his body already knew how to do, he rested a hand on your shoulder.

Not firm. Not possessive. Just steady. A quiet weight, grounding you back into the moment.

He drew you a little closer without even noticing it himself – as if the space between you had simply become unnecessary. And you let it happen.

For a moment, with the city glowing below and the long night finally loosening its grip, even time seemed to forget its urgency.