A Side Blog For My Fave Posts I Never Want To Lose

I have built a house where I wait for your return

The dress had been hanging on the back of the bedroom door for almost two weeks before Jack finally noticed it.

You had left it there on purpose, though you told yourself you hadn’t. You told yourself it was there because the closet was too full, because the garment bag was too long, because the silk would crease if you shoved it between winter coats and blazers. You told yourself a lot of things because admitting the truth felt too humiliating, and the truth was that part of you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to remember without being reminded. You wanted him to walk past it after a long shift, pause with his hand still on the doorknob, and say, “That’s for the gala, right?” like the date lived somewhere in his head that wasn’t overcrowded by trauma charts, shift changes, hospital pages, and everyone else’s emergencies.

It was a black silk gown, simple in the way expensive things were simple. Off the shoulder, fitted through the waist, smooth over the hips, with a slit that opened only when you walked. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The fabric caught the bedroom light softly, almost like water, and every time you passed it, you imagined wearing it beside him.

That was the part that embarrassed you now. You had imagined it.

Jack in a dark suit. You in the black dress. His hand at the small of your back while people congratulated you. Maybe he would be tired, because he was always tired, but he would be there. You pictured him standing slightly behind you when people asked questions about the hospital contracts, his expression quiet but proud, his thumb brushing your hip like he needed to remind himself you were real. You pictured him leaning down and saying something low near your ear, something dry and teasing, something only meant for you. You pictured walking into a room and not feeling like you had to be impressive alone.

Three weeks earlier, he had stood in the kitchen with the invitation in his hand, wearing sweatpants and an old Pitt hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower. His eyes had looked bruised underneath from exhaustion, but when he read your name embossed in gold, he smiled.

“Dr. Y/N Abbot,” he said, running his thumb over the raised lettering. “Founder and Chief Systems Architect. This is fancy.”

You had been sitting at the island with your laptop open, pretending not to watch him too closely. There was a half-empty mug of tea beside your hand that had gone cold while you answered emails, and Jack had been barefoot on the kitchen tile, still carrying the warmth of the shower and the fatigue of the hospital with him.

“It’s a major industry gala, Jack. It’s supposed to be fancy.”

He looked up, amused. “I know. I’m just saying. This is real fancy.”

“You’re acting like I invited you to prom.”

“Kind of feels like it,” he said, setting the invitation down. “Except I don’t think anyone at my prom was casually entering billion-dollar valuation territory.”

You laughed despite yourself, and he came around the island, slipping his arms around your waist from behind. For a moment, you let yourself lean back into him. He smelled like soap, coffee, and hospital laundry detergent, that clean, sterile scent that had somehow become part of your marriage. His mouth brushed the side of your neck, and for a second, the kitchen felt like a place where both of your lives still fit.

“Don’t say it like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like it’s ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” Jack said, his voice low against your skin. “In a good way. My wife builds technology hospitals are fighting to buy, and I’m over here trying to remember where I left my badge.”

You turned in his arms and looked up at him. His hands stayed at your waist, warm and familiar. You could feel the small tremor of exhaustion in him, the way he was never fully still after a hard shift, like some part of his body was always bracing for the next alarm.

“So you’re coming?”

His smile softened. “Of course I’m coming.”

“You asked Harper to switch?”

“Already done.”

“You’re not on call?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Jack’s expression changed then, the teasing fading into something more careful. He touched your cheek with his thumb, and you hated how quickly your heart wanted to believe him. It was always like that with Jack. One gentle touch, one serious look, one promise said in that tired, sincere voice, and all the loneliness you had been trying to gather into evidence loosened in your hands.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m coming.”

You searched his face. “This one matters to me.”

“I know.”

“It’s not just dinner. We’re announcing the hospital network implementation contracts. The rollout plan. Market entry. The valuation estimate. This is the kind of night people remember.”

Jack nodded and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

That was the version of him you kept loving. The version that meant it. The problem was, Jack almost always meant it. If he had been careless, maybe you could have hated him properly. If he had forgotten because you did not matter, maybe the grief would have sharpened into something cleaner, something you could hold without blaming yourself. But Jack remembered in fragments. He loved in fragments. He showed up in small, exhausted pieces and looked at you like he wanted to give you everything, right before the world asked him for more than he had left.

And you kept living on those pieces.

A hand on your waist in the kitchen. His mouth against your temple before a shift. The rare mornings where he woke before his alarm and pulled you back against him like sleep had made him honest. The way he still looked at your face sometimes, quietly, almost helplessly, like he was surprised life had ever given him something soft. You had survived on that for longer than you wanted to admit, and that was the humiliating part. Not that he hurt you. Not even that he missed things. It was that one good look from him could still make you forgive a loneliness he had not yet apologized for.

On the night of the gala, he called you at 5:18 p.m.

You were standing in the bathroom in a silk robe while your makeup artist packed up her kit. Your hair was pinned into a low twist at the back of your neck, with a few pieces left soft around your face. Your earrings were already on, small diamond drops that caught the light whenever you moved. Your face looked finished in the mirror — warm skin, dark lashes, softly lined lips — polished enough that no one would know how nervous you were.

The bathroom smelled like hairspray, powder, perfume, and the faint steam from the shower you had taken an hour earlier. On the counter, your lipstick lay uncapped beside a little dish holding your wedding rings, which you had cleaned that afternoon because you thought there would be photographs of the two of you. The whole apartment felt too quiet, too prepared, like a stage waiting for someone who had not arrived yet.

Your phone lit up on the counter.

Jack.

Your stomach dropped before you even answered.

“Please don’t,” you said immediately.

There was a pause on the other end. Then Jack sighed, and the sound told you everything before he did.

“Y/N.”

You closed your eyes. “You said you weren’t on call.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You said you switched.”

“I did.”

“Then why are you calling me like this?”

He sounded tired already. Not physically tired exactly, but braced, like he knew he was about to hurt you and hated that knowing. “Harper’s kid got sick, and they’re short. It’s bad. I wouldn’t go in if they had coverage.”

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Your eyeliner was perfect. Your lips were perfect. Your whole face looked calm in a way that made you feel almost detached from it.

“Did they ask you, or did you offer?”

Jack didn’t answer quickly enough.

You let out a small, humourless laugh. “Oh.”

“They were drowning,” he said.

“So you offered.”

“I said I could come in for a few hours. I’m going to try to get out as soon as I can.”

You pressed your fingertips into the cool marble counter. The makeup artist moved quietly in your peripheral vision, pretending very hard not to listen.

“Jack, the reception starts at seven. Dinner is at eight. Speeches are at nine-thirty.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“That’s not fair.”

You looked down at your wedding band in the dish. The diamond caught the bathroom light, clean and bright and cruel.

“I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

The silence stretched. You could hear hospital noise in the background already: a distant page, someone calling for transport, the low hum of a place that never cared what anyone had planned.

“I’ll make it,” Jack said, but his voice had changed.

You heard the lie before it fully left his mouth.

“Don’t,” you said softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t give me a second promise to cover the first one.”

He exhaled. “Y/N.”

“I have to finish getting dressed.”

“I love you.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

He waited, but you did not say it back. After a few seconds, he said he would text you when he knew more, and you ended the call before he could apologize again.

The makeup artist stood very still, her brush bag in one hand, pretending she had not heard enough to understand. You looked at her through the mirror and smiled with the exact expression you used in investor meetings.

“Sorry about that.”

Her face softened. “No, don’t apologize.”

You picked up your lipstick and opened it even though your lips were already done. “I’m fine.”

She did not believe you, which was kind of her. At least she did you the courtesy of not saying so.

You waited until she left before you put your rings back on. For a moment, you stood in the quiet bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. The woman looking back at you was composed, elegant, expensive. She looked like someone who knew exactly where she was going. She did not look like someone trying to decide whether it was more pathetic to cry before the biggest night of her career or to still hope her husband might walk through the door in time.

You got dressed carefully. You stepped into the gown and pulled it up over your body, smoothing the silk over your hips with both hands. The dress fit perfectly. That almost made you cry. You had wanted Jack to see it. You had wanted the private little intake of breath he sometimes gave when he forgot to pretend he wasn’t stunned by you. You had wanted him to look at you like he remembered you were not just the person waiting at home with leftovers and patience.

Instead, you zipped yourself up alone.

The first news segment aired from the lobby of The Pitt just after 7:00 p.m.

It wasn’t unusual for the televisions in the emergency department to run local news with the volume low. Most of the time, no one paid attention unless there was a weather alert, a mass casualty incident, or something affecting hospital funding. It was background noise beneath sharper sounds: monitors beeping, wheels rattling, phones ringing, curtain rings scraping open and shut.

Jack was at the desk reviewing imaging when one of the nurses looked up at the television.

“Wait,” she said. “Is that your wife?”

Jack’s head lifted.

The screen showed the front of the Meridian Grand, a luxury hotel downtown with a glass canopy and warm lights spilling onto the rain-dark sidewalk. A reporter stood outside in a wool coat, holding a microphone while guests moved behind her in formalwear.

The lower-third banner read:

L/N POWER SYSTEMS CELEBRATES MAJOR HOSPITAL GRID CONTRACTS Company valuation expected to climb as implementation phase begins

Jack’s hand tightened around the tablet.

The reporter smiled into the camera. “Tonight, L/N Power Systems is hosting a private gala following a major round of hospital infrastructure contracts that could place the company among the most valuable emerging players in emergency energy systems. Founded by electrical engineer Dr. Y/N Abbot, L/N Power Systems has developed adaptive microgrid technology designed to keep critical hospital units powered during grid failures, natural disasters, and rolling outages.”

A resident standing nearby glanced between the television and Jack. “Dr. Abbot, that’s your wife, right?”

Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Damn,” the resident said, clearly trying to sound impressed rather than awkward. “That’s huge.”

Jack did not respond. The broadcast cut to a graphic showing projected contract values, implementation timelines, and valuation estimates. The numbers were careful, couched in analyst language, but the implication was obvious. If your company hit its implementation targets and the contracts expanded the way people expected, you were on track to enter billion-dollar territory.

A nurse whistled quietly. “Billion with a B?”

Another nurse said, “And she designed the actual system?”

Jack looked at the screen. “Yeah.”

The nurse shook her head. “That’s wild.”

The camera returned to the hotel entrance just as your car pulled up. Jack knew it was you before the door opened. He recognized the way Mara, your assistant, stepped out first and turned back toward the car, one hand hovering near the open door.

Then you appeared.

For a second, the desk around him faded out. The dress looked different on you than it had on the hanger. It followed your body with quiet confidence, the black silk catching silver from the camera flashes and gold from the hotel lights. Your shoulders were bare. Your hair was pinned low, elegant but not severe, and the diamonds at your ears glittered whenever you turned your head. You stepped under the canopy and smiled for the cameras.

It was a beautiful smile. It was also the smile you wore when you were trying not to feel something.

The reporter turned as photographers called your name. “And there she is now, Dr. Y/N Abbot, founder and chief systems architect of L/N Power Systems. Dr. Abbot has been described by analysts as one of the most closely watched engineers in the hospital infrastructure space, especially now that her company’s adaptive grid platform is moving from pilot installations into large-scale implementation.”

Someone at the desk said, “Jack, aren’t you supposed to be there?”

Nobody meant it cruelly. That almost made it worse.

Jack swallowed, still watching as you paused beside the step-and-repeat, your clutch held neatly in both hands.

“I was.”

The answer made the area around him go quiet.

On-screen, a reporter asked you, “Dr. Abbot, tonight is being described as a turning point for your company. What does it mean to have hospital systems moving forward with implementation?”

You smiled, and Jack noticed your fingers tighten slightly around your clutch.

“It means the work is becoming real,” you said. “Designing the system was one part of it. Proving it under stress testing was another. Implementation is where it starts to matter for patients, doctors, nurses, and everyone relying on those seconds when the grid becomes unstable.”

The reporter asked, “There’s already discussion of a possible billion-dollar valuation. Are you thinking about that tonight?”

You gave a small laugh, polite and controlled. “I think my CFO is probably thinking about it more than I am. The valuation matters because it affects growth and deployment, but for me, the focus is still the technology. If a trauma bay stays powered during an outage because of something my team built, that means more to me than a headline.”

The reporter thanked you. You nodded, smiled again, and moved inside.

Jack stood very still until the charge nurse beside him looked over. “You okay?”

He dragged his eyes from the screen. “Yeah.”

She held his gaze long enough to make it clear she did not believe him. Then a trauma page came through, and the whole department lurched back into motion. Jack handed off the tablet, shoved his phone into his pocket, and went where he was needed.

Again.

At the gala, people kept asking where your husband was.

You answered the first few times with patience. “He got called into the hospital.”

Most people responded kindly. Some even looked impressed, as if Jack’s absence made the two of you nobler somehow.

“Oh, of course. Emergency medicine.”

“That must be so difficult.”

“You both do such meaningful work.”

“Power couple, even when you’re in different places.”

You smiled through all of it. “Yes. He’s very dedicated.”

The ballroom was beautiful, but after a while its beauty started to feel almost cruel. The ceiling was high and painted cream and gold, with chandeliers throwing soft light over round tables covered in white linen. Each place setting had a black menu card with gold foil, a small arrangement of white orchids, and a tiny glass votive candle. Along one wall, a projection displayed animated renderings of your adaptive grid system: hospital wings lighting in sequence, power rerouting through alternate pathways, emergency loads stabilizing under simulated failures.

Your company’s leadership team sat near the stage. Your engineers were at the tables closest to you, dressed in suits and gowns that looked slightly unfamiliar on them. You loved seeing the people who had built the system with you getting treated like they belonged in rooms where money moved. Some of them kept taking discreet pictures of the menus and the floral arrangements. One of your junior engineers had shown up in a suit that still had a faint fold line in the sleeve from being fresh out of the garment bag. Another kept touching the stem of his wineglass like he was afraid of breaking it.

You should have been happy. Part of you was happy. That was what made the grief feel so unfair. The night was not ruined. The contracts were real. The applause was real. Your team’s pride was real. Your name on that screen was real. All of it was real.

So was the empty chair beside you.

By the tenth time someone asked where your husband was, you stopped hearing the question as a question. It became part of the room.

Where is he?

In the clink of champagne glasses.

Where is he?

In the scrape of chairs being pulled out for other wives, other husbands, other people with someone’s hand resting warmly against the backs of their seats.

Where is he?

In the empty space beside your plate, where his name sat in elegant black ink on heavy cream cardstock.

Dr. Jack Abbot

You stared at it for too long once, long enough that Mara touched your elbow beneath the table.

“You okay?”

You smiled before you answered, because that had become its own kind of muscle memory. “Yes.”

But your chest ached with something so childish and raw that it embarrassed you. You wanted him to think of you. Not the company. Not the press segment. Not the award. You. The woman in the dress he had promised to stand beside. The woman who had cleaned her wedding rings because she thought there would be photographs. The woman who kept glancing at the doors like wanting him hard enough might make him appear.

You hated yourself a little for that.

You hated that even surrounded by applause, even with your name glowing behind you, some stupid, tender part of you was still waiting to be someone’s favorite thing in the room.

Mara stayed close, fielding conversations when she sensed you needed a breath. She wore a deep green dress and carried a tablet even though you had told her not to work tonight.

“You’re doing great,” she murmured when a hospital executive walked away after asking too many questions about rollout costs.

You looked at the champagne flute in your hand. You had not taken a single sip.

“I’m doing rich-woman cosplay.”

“You are a rich woman.”

“Not emotionally.”

Mara almost laughed, then looked at your face and didn’t.

Your hand went to your clutch, where the white envelope from the doctor’s office was tucked beneath your phone. You had not told anyone. Not Mara. Not your mother. Not Jack.

Especially not Jack.

The result had come through that morning after bloodwork confirmed what the home tests had already said. Five weeks. Early enough that it still felt secret and unreal, but real enough that the nurse had told you to start prenatal vitamins and book a follow-up appointment. You had sat in your car outside the clinic with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the printed result until the words stopped looking like English.

Pregnant.

At first, you cried because you were happy. Then you cried because you were scared. Then, worst of all, you cried because the first person you wanted was Jack, and you had already known there was a chance he would not be there when you told him.

During dinner, your phone buzzed once. You checked it under the table.

Jack: I’m still here. I’m so sorry. I watched your interview. You looked beautiful. I’m proud of you.

You stared at it for a long moment. For a second, you felt nothing. Then the hurt arrived slowly, settling into the parts of you that had already made room for it.

Mara leaned closer. “Is it him?”

You put the phone face down on the table. “Yeah.”

“Is he coming?”

You smoothed the edge of your napkin in your lap. “No.”

Mara went quiet. Across the room, your CFO was laughing with two investors. Someone from the hospital network raised a glass toward you, and you smiled back automatically.

“I don’t want to cry in this dress,” you said.

Mara’s voice softened. “Then don’t. Be mad instead.”

You looked at her, and something in your chest tightened. “I’m so tired of being mad.”

That was the truth you never said out loud. Anger took energy. Anger required the belief that something could still change if you made enough noise. You were so far past that now. You were tired in a way sleep could not fix, tired of dressing up disappointment until it looked like understanding, tired of giving Jack the best parts of your compassion while keeping none of it for yourself.

The first time the lights flickered at The Pitt that night, nobody really reacted.

Hospitals had a way of making disaster feel routine at first. A monitor blinked. A ceiling light hummed. Somewhere behind the desk, a printer stopped halfway through a page and then coughed itself back to life. The nurses looked up, annoyed but not afraid, because annoyance was easier to wear than fear.

Jack was in trauma two with both hands pressed around a patient’s bleeding thigh when the second flicker came.

This time, the room noticed.

“Power?” someone asked.

“Backup should catch,” a nurse said, but her voice had gone thin.

Then the overheads steadied. The monitors held. The ventilator kept its rhythm. The trauma bay stayed bright.

A few seconds later, someone from facilities came over the radio, breathless and stunned.

“Adaptive reroute engaged. Critical load stabilized. We’re holding.”

Jack froze.

Only for a second, but long enough for the words to land somewhere beneath his ribs.

Adaptive reroute.

Your system.

Your work.

Your sleepless nights, your marked-up schematics, your laptop glowing blue at two in the morning while he came home too tired to ask what you were building. Your hands, your mind, your stubbornness, your company, your impossible little gap between failure and recovery.

The trauma bay lights stayed on because of you.

And he was not beside you when the world clapped for it.

“Dr. Abbot?”

Jack blinked and looked down. His gloves were slick. The patient was still bleeding. The room still needed him.

“Clamp,” he said, voice rough. “Now.”

He kept working because that was what he did. He kept people alive. He kept rooms from falling apart. He kept going until the crisis passed and everyone around him could breathe again.

But after, when the patient was taken upstairs and Jack stepped into the hall, the television over the nurses’ station was still showing the gala.

Your gala.

The reporter’s voice filled the space between ringing phones and rolling carts.

“Moments ago, L/N Power Systems’ adaptive grid platform stabilized a critical load interruption at an emergency department participating in one of its pilot programs. Company officials have not yet confirmed which hospital experienced the event, but analysts are already calling tonight a live demonstration of the technology’s value.”

A resident looked from the screen to Jack.

No one had to say it.

Jack already knew.

The hospital had needed you tonight too. The difference was, the hospital had gotten you.

He had not shown up for you at all.

Jack saw your acceptance speech from the staff lounge.

He had missed the start because a patient had crashed, and by the time he made it to the lounge, his scrub top was damp at the collar and his hands still smelled faintly of antiseptic even after washing them twice. Someone had turned the television volume up because your gala was now the top local business story of the evening.

You were on stage behind a podium, your award resting beside the microphone. The lights made your skin glow and turned the black silk of your gown almost blue at the edges. Behind you, the screen showed a slow animation of your company’s system keeping a surgical wing powered during a simulated outage.

Jack stayed in the doorway.

On the screen, you took a breath and looked out at the room.

“When I started this company, a lot of people told me the idea was too difficult to scale,” you said. “Some were polite about it. Some were not. I was told hospitals already had backup systems, that emergency power was a solved problem, and that the failure gap we were focused on was too small to justify the investment.”

You smiled slightly, and the audience laughed when you added, “The thing about engineers is that if you tell us the gap is small, we tend to ask what happens inside it.”

Jack’s throat tightened. He had heard you practice versions of this speech in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car. He had teased you once for rewriting one paragraph eleven times. You had thrown a pillow at him and told him the paragraph was weak.

Now you were saying it without him in the room.

“We built this system because seconds matter,” you continued. “A few seconds without stable power can change what happens in an operating room, in a trauma bay, in a NICU, in an elevator carrying a patient between floors. The goal was never to make hospitals perfect. The goal was to give them a better chance when everything else is failing.”

The staff lounge was quiet. Jack noticed one of the nurses standing near the coffee machine, arms folded, watching with damp eyes.

You glanced down briefly, then back up.

“I’m grateful for my team. I’m grateful to the hospital partners who believed in the technology early. I’m grateful to the people who asked hard questions, because they made the system better.”

You paused.

Jack knew that pause. He knew it because he had lived with you long enough to hear the breath you took before saying something that cost you.

“Tonight is a professional milestone, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel personal too. Building something this demanding changes your life. It changes your relationships. It tests who shows up, who wants to, and who actually does.”

Jack’s face went still.

On-screen, your expression remained calm, but your voice softened.

“I’ve learned that success does not make loneliness disappear. It can fill a ballroom. It can put your name on a screen. It can bring applause, contracts, and congratulations. But at the end of the night, you still know which chair beside you stayed empty.”

Nobody in the lounge moved.

Jack looked at the floor. He did not have to see the screen to know the camera would have found his empty chair. A place card with his name. A dinner plate cleared untouched. A visible absence.

But the camera did find it.

Not for long.

Just long enough.

There it was on the television: the chair beside you, empty beneath warm ballroom light. A white place card sat above the untouched dinner setting.

Dr. Jack Abbot

Someone in the lounge inhaled quietly.

Jack stared at his name on the screen.

It was different seeing it like that. Not as a missed text. Not as a fight waiting to happen. Not as something he could explain with patients and short staffing and impossible nights.

It was a space with his name on it.

A promise that had a shape.

An absence everyone could see.

You continued, steadier now. “I am proud of this company. I am proud of the team who built it. And tonight, I am proud of myself for believing that the things I needed were worth building, even when I had to build them alone.”

The applause started slowly, then grew.

Jack stood there, unable to move.

One of the residents near the table said quietly, “I’m sorry, man.”

Jack nodded, because there was nothing else to do. A minute later, his pager went off again.

You left the gala after midnight with your award in one hand and your clutch in the other.

People tried to stop you on the way out. A board member wanted to introduce you to someone from a national health system. Your CFO wanted five minutes about a follow-up call. A journalist asked for one more quote. You gave polite answers, promised emails, and let Mara run interference until you made it to the lobby.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a mist. The hotel’s front drive shone under the lights, slick and dark like spilled ink. Your heels clicked against the polished stone as you waited for the car. The night air was cold against your bare shoulders, and Mara draped your coat over you before you could pretend you were fine without it.

“You don’t have to go home,” she said.

You looked at the road. “I know.”

“I can book you a suite upstairs.”

“I already did.”

Mara turned to you.

You kept your eyes forward. “I booked it this afternoon. Just in case.”

Her expression changed, but she did not make it worse by reacting too much. “Okay.”

The car pulled up. The driver took your award and placed it carefully in the back seat. When you slid into the car, the dress gathered around your legs in a pool of black silk. Mara got in beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The city moved past in blurred lights and wet windows. Billboards, traffic signals, restaurants closing for the night, people standing under awnings with cigarettes and phones. The world looked ordinary, which felt insulting. Something inside you had cracked open, and outside, people were still ordering late-night fries.

Mara broke the silence gently. “Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?”

You looked down at your clutch. “I’m pregnant.”

The words came out flat, almost too calm.

Mara’s head turned slowly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Your eyes burned immediately. “I found out this morning.”

“Does Jack know?”

You shook your head. “I was going to tell him tonight.”

Mara covered her mouth for a second, then lowered her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

That was what undid you. Not the empty chair. Not the text. Not the speech. Just someone being sorry for you without making you explain why you had the right to be hurt.

You bent forward slightly, one hand pressed over your stomach, the other over your mouth, trying not to sob too loudly in the back of the car. Mara moved close and put an arm around your shoulders, careful of your hair, careful of the dress, careful of all the pieces of you that were barely holding.

“I wanted him there,” you said, voice muffled through your fingers. “I wanted one night where I didn’t have to understand.”

Mara rubbed your back. “I know.”

“I hate that I still wanted him.”

“That’s love,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t always leave when it should.”

You cried harder at that, because she was right. You thought you had moved past needing him like that. You thought if you got busy enough, successful enough, full enough, maybe you would not notice the missing parts so much. But then something happened, something beautiful or terrifying or important, and he was still the first person you wanted to tell.

You looked out the window, watching the city smear itself into streaks of white and red through the rain. Pittsburgh looked softer from inside the car, almost forgiving. Like it did not know what had happened to you tonight. Like somewhere behind all those lit windows, people were still coming home to each other.

“I’m sitting here with an award, a company people are saying might be worth a billion dollars, a baby I don’t even know how to feel brave enough for yet, and all I can think is that I wanted my husband to call me his girl one more time and mean it like nothing else in the world mattered.”

Mara reached for your hand.

You let her take it.

“I don’t know where to put all of this love,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part. I can leave the apartment. I can sign papers. I can sleep somewhere else. But what am I supposed to do with all the years I spent loving him?”

Mara squeezed your hand.

You looked down at your wedding ring.

“What if I spend the rest of my life missing him?”

The question was so quiet it barely felt spoken, but once it was out, there was no taking it back.

Jack came home at 2:38 a.m.

He opened the apartment door quietly, like quietness could make his absence smaller. The living room lamp was on. Your award sat on the coffee table, still gleaming, still heavy, still proof that the night had happened whether he had attended or not. Beside it were two envelopes. One cream, one white.

You were sitting on the couch in your gown. You had taken your earrings off. Your hair had loosened, soft pieces falling near your cheeks. Your lipstick had faded, and there were faint marks under your eyes where you had cried and carefully wiped the evidence away. Your heels were lined up beside the couch. Your bare feet were tucked beneath you.

Jack stopped near the door. “Hey.”

You looked up. “Hey.”

He closed the door and set his keys in the bowl by the entryway. The sound was small and domestic, so painfully normal that you almost laughed. How many times had you heard that exact sound? Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. His tired sigh. Your voice asking if he had eaten. Marriage had so many tiny rituals that survived even when the people inside them were falling apart.

“You’re still dressed,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought you might be asleep.”

“I thought a lot of things tonight.”

Jack looked down. He was still in his scrubs under a dark jacket. His hair was messy from running his hands through it, and there was a line across his cheek from where a mask had pressed into his skin. He looked exhausted. He looked guilty. He looked like the man you loved.

That was inconvenient.

That was devastating.

He stepped farther into the room. “I watched your speech.”

You nodded.

“You were incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it. The way you talked about the system, the contracts, all of it. You were…” He stopped, searching for the right word. “You were exactly who you are.”

Your eyes filled, but you blinked the tears back. “That would have been nice to hear in person.”

Jack flinched. “I know.”

You looked down at your hands. Your rings caught the lamplight.

He came closer, stopping at the end of the coffee table. “I’m sorry.”

You smiled a little, but there was no warmth in it. “You say that so much.”

“I know.”

“I think that’s part of the problem.”

Jack sat in the armchair across from you instead of beside you. You appreciated that. At least he could still read a room.

“I didn’t want to miss it,” he said.

You looked at him. “I believe you.”

He seemed thrown by that. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you sound like that?”

“Because wanting to be there and being there are different things.”

Jack rubbed both hands over his face. When he lowered them, his eyes were red. “Harper called. They were short. I thought if I went in early, I could help stabilize things and leave before dinner.”

“You thought.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t call me before deciding.”

“I didn’t want to stress you out while you were getting ready.”

You stared at him, and he heard it as soon as he said it.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.

“You didn’t want to stress me out, so you made the decision alone and told me after.”

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I made the wrong call.”

“You made the familiar call.”

He swallowed.

The room settled around those words. Rain tapped softly at the windows. Somewhere outside, tires hissed against wet pavement. The apartment smelled faintly like his hospital jacket and your perfume, like two lives still pretending they knew how to touch without hurting each other.

“You don’t understand what it’s like there,” Jack said quietly.

The words came out tired. Not cruel. Not even angry at first. Just exhausted enough to be careless.

You went still.

Jack looked at you and immediately seemed to regret it. “Y/N, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” you said softly. “Say it.”

He closed his eyes. “I just mean, when someone is dying in front of you, when there aren’t enough hands, when people are looking at you like you’re the last thing standing between them and the worst day of their life, it’s not easy to walk away.”

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

That one hurt.

You stared at him for a second, and something in your face changed. Not anger. Not even shock.

Exhaustion.

The kind that comes when someone you love finally says the thing you always knew they believed underneath all the apologies.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack opened his eyes. “What?”

“You’re right. I don’t know exactly what it’s like to be you.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I—”

“But I know what it’s like to keep the lights on when a hospital can’t afford for them to go out. I know what it’s like to have people depend on something I built, something I signed my name to, something that could fail in ways that would haunt me. I know what pressure is, Jack. I know what responsibility is.”

His face softened, shame creeping in.

You looked at the award on the table. “And I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people congratulating me while my husband is on a television screen’s other side, using my work to save people, and still somehow unable to show up for me.”

Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not fair.”

The words came out before he could stop them.

You laughed once, small and wounded. “There it is.”

“Y/N—”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not fair. Someone was dying. The hospital was short. Harper’s kid was sick. There was a trauma. There was a power issue. There’s always a reason, Jack. There is always a reason good enough to make me feel awful for being hurt.”

His jaw worked, but no words came.

You leaned forward slightly, your voice low. “You know what the worst part is? I believe all your reasons. I believe they’re real. I believe they matter. I believe you’re a good doctor and a good man and that people are alive because of you.”

Your eyes filled.

“But I also believe I have been lonely in this marriage. And you keep asking one truth to erase the other.”

Jack looked down.

You reached for the cream envelope on the table. Your fingers brushed over the thick paper, and Jack’s gaze followed the movement.

“What is that?” he asked.

You held it in your lap for a moment. Jack looked at you like he wanted to memorize you and beg forgiveness at the same time. You wondered if he knew how often you had done that to him.

Memorized him, you meant.

The slope of his shoulders when he came home defeated. The faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his hands looked too capable around a coffee mug, too gentle when they touched you, too absent when you needed them and they were somewhere else holding someone else together. You had loved his face through every version of your own disappointment. You had loved him in doorways, waiting for him to take off his shoes. You had loved him across dinner tables where his phone kept lighting up. You had loved him in bed while he slept beside you, too exhausted to notice you were crying.

You had loved him so thoroughly that leaving him felt less like choosing yourself and more like cutting your own heart out before it could beg you to stay.

“I don’t want you to be a lesson,” you said suddenly.

Jack’s brows pulled together. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to look back one day and tell people you taught me what I deserved. I don’t want you to become some sad, useful story about growth. I wanted you to be my husband.”

His face broke.

You swallowed hard. “I wanted you to be the person I came home to. Not the reason I had to learn how to stop waiting.”

Jack stared at you, and for a moment, you saw the words land somewhere deep enough to hurt him. You almost hated yourself for noticing. You almost hated that even now, a part of you wanted to soften the blow.

“When you asked me to marry you, I thought I understood what you were asking,” you said.

Jack’s face shifted. “What does that mean?”

You looked at him, and the ache in your chest sharpened. “I thought you were asking me to share your life. I thought it meant we would make room for each other, even when it was hard. I knew your job would be demanding. I knew there would be nights you couldn’t leave. I knew I would have to be patient sometimes.”

Your voice stayed even, but Jack’s expression was already changing.

“I didn’t know I was signing up to become the easiest thing to cancel.”

He closed his eyes. “Y/N.”

“I didn’t know I would have to feel guilty for needing you.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“But I do. Every time. Because there’s always a patient, or a shift, or someone sicker, or something worse. And I know those things matter. I’m not pretending they don’t.”

You set the cream envelope on the table and slid it toward him.

“I just can’t keep living like my pain only counts if it’s an emergency.”

Jack stared at the envelope. For a few seconds, he did not touch it. Then he picked it up.

You watched him open it. You watched him read the first page. You watched the colour leave his face.

“Divorce,” he said quietly.

You folded your hands together so he would not see them shake. “Yes.”

He looked up at you, stunned. “You want a divorce?”

“I don’t want this version of marriage anymore.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You breathed in slowly. “I know.”

Jack stood, then seemed to realize he did not know where to go, so he sat back down hard. “When did you decide this?”

You looked toward the window. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass.

“I think part of me has been deciding for a long time.”

He shook his head. “No. We’ve had hard months. I know that. But divorce?”

“You keep saying it like I’m being dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“No,” you said. “You’re trying to find the part where I did this wrong, so you don’t have to look at how long you were doing it to me.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. “That’s not fair.”

The words left him fast.

Too fast.

You looked at him, and he looked like he wanted to reach across the room and take them back.

“Stop saying that to me,” you whispered.

His face cracked. “I’m sorry.”

“I am so tired of being told my pain has to be fair to yours.”

Jack covered his mouth with one hand and looked away.

You wiped your thumb over your ring. “I sat at that table tonight with your name card beside me. People kept asking where you were, and I kept making you sound noble because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Jack looked crushed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I did. Because I’m used to protecting you from how it feels to be married to you.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. That was the first time he really had no defense.

You continued, softer now. “I don’t think you’re a bad man, Jack. That would be easier. You’re kind. You care about people. You work yourself into the ground because you can’t stand leaving anyone unsupported.”

Your eyes met his.

“But somehow, I became the person you could leave unsupported because I was good at surviving it.”

Jack’s eyes shone. “That’s not how I see you.”

“I know. But it’s how you treat me.”

He pressed his palms together, his hands shaking slightly. “I can change.”

You looked at him with so much sadness that he almost looked away.

“I needed you to change before I had to beg myself to stop hoping.”

The room was quiet after that.

Then Jack noticed the second envelope. The white one. It sat beside the award, small and plain, with the doctor’s office logo in the corner.

His eyes stayed on it too long.

“What’s that?”

You felt your throat close. This was the part you had dreaded most. The part that made everything feel impossible.

You picked up the white envelope. Jack watched you like his body already knew what his mind did not.

“This is what I was going to give you tonight after the gala.”

His face went still.

You held it out.

He did not take it right away.

“Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Please just open it.”

He took the envelope. His fingers were careful, almost gentle, as if the paper might bruise. He pulled out the test results, unfolded them, and read.

You watched the exact second he understood.

His lips parted. His eyes moved over the page again. Then again. When he looked at you, his face had fallen apart so completely that you had to look down.

“You’re pregnant,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since this morning.”

“This morning?”

You nodded.

Jack looked back at the paper, then at you. “You went alone?”

“I didn’t know if it was real yet. I took tests at home. Then I booked bloodwork.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

You laughed once, and it came out more like a sob. “You weren’t even there when I tried to tell you after.”

He took that quietly.

He deserved it, and he knew he did.

You pressed a hand to your stomach, more for comfort than anything else. “I had this whole plan. It feels stupid now.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It was.” You wiped under your eye carefully. “I thought we’d get through the gala, and then maybe we’d go somewhere quiet. Maybe the balcony or the car. I thought I’d hand it to you and you’d look confused for a second, and then you’d understand. And I thought, for once, the night would feel like ours.”

Jack’s eyes filled. “I should have been there.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He put the divorce papers and the test results down on the table with shaking hands, keeping them separate, like mixing them together would make the whole thing more unbearable.

“I want this baby,” he said.

Your face crumpled. “I know.”

“I want you.”

You shook your head slowly. “Jack.”

“I do.”

“I know you want me.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“That’s not how this works.”

He stood again, and this time he came around the coffee table but stopped a few feet away from you.

“I’ll do better,” he said.

You looked tired suddenly. Tired in a way he had never really let himself see.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it differently now.”

“You always mean it.”

He swallowed hard. That hurt him because it was true.

You stood too, the black silk falling around you as you rose. Without the heels, you looked more vulnerable. Less like the woman from the news. More like his wife, barefoot in the living room, exhausted from being brave in public.

“I don’t want to punish you,” you said. “I need you to understand that. I’m not doing this because I want you to suffer.”

“It feels like suffering.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

Your voice broke. “Because staying feels like disappearing.”

Jack’s face tightened as if he had been hit.

You looked down, trying to keep your breathing steady. “I don’t recognize myself anymore sometimes. I used to tell you everything. I used to get excited to share things with you. Then I started editing myself because I didn’t want to add pressure to your life. I stopped telling you when I was upset because you already looked crushed when you came home. I stopped asking for dates because it was humiliating to watch you check your phone the whole time.”

Jack closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You didn’t ask.”

The words came out quietly, but they landed hard.

He opened his eyes again. “You’re right.”

That made you cry harder, because you had wanted him to argue. You had wanted him to give you something to push against. Instead, he looked at you with tears in his eyes and finally saw the damage.

“You’re right,” he said again, his voice rough. “I should have asked. I should have noticed. I should have made room for you without you having to keep proving you needed it.”

You covered your mouth for a second.

Jack looked at your hand, then your stomach. His voice softened. “Are you okay? Physically?”

That question broke something small inside you.

“I think so.”

“Any pain?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

“No.”

“Are you nauseous?”

“A little.”

He nodded, doctor mode flickering in, then dying immediately because he seemed to realize how badly timed it was.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’m doing the thing.”

You let out a tiny, sad laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I want to come to the appointments.”

“I know.”

“Will you let me?”

You looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know yet.”

He nodded quickly, even though it hurt. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying no forever.”

“I understand.”

“I just can’t make promises tonight to make you feel better.”

He breathed in shakily. “Okay.”

You moved toward the chair near the hallway and picked up a small overnight bag.

Jack saw it, and panic crossed his face before he could hide it.

“You packed a bag?”

“Yes.”

“You’re leaving tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“A hotel.”

“Which one?”

You looked at him.

He nodded once, backing off. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m safe.”

“Okay.”

You slipped the bag over your shoulder. The movement was ordinary, almost boring, and somehow that made it worse. This was what leaving looked like. No screaming. No slammed drawers. Just a woman in a black gown picking up a small bag because she had reached the end of what she could carry.

Jack followed you to the entryway but kept a careful distance.

“Can I drive you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can I at least walk you down?”

“No.”

He pressed his lips together, trying not to fall apart completely.

You put your hand on the doorknob. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Jack said, “Do you still love me?”

You closed your eyes.

Of course he would ask the one question that did not save anything.

“Yes,” you said.

His breath caught behind you.

You turned back to face him, and there he was: wrinkled scrubs, red eyes, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but had finally learned that wanting did not give him the right.

“I love you,” you said, and the truth of it nearly ruined you. “I love you so much that I stayed long after I started feeling alone. I love you so much that I kept making excuses for you because I knew you were tired, because I knew your work mattered, because I knew you were good.”

Jack’s eyes filled again.

“But I can’t keep giving you access to me just because you’re sorry after,” you whispered. “I can’t keep building a home out of promises you only remember once I’m already hurt.”

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

“I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

You looked at him for a long moment. You thought of the gala. The black dress. The empty chair. The envelope. The baby. All the nights you had waited and waited, feeding yourself on old versions of him, surviving on memories like they were meals.

“Be someone our child can count on,” you said. “Start there.”

Jack nodded, crying silently now. “I will.”

You wanted to believe him.

God, you wanted to believe him so badly that for one dangerous second, your hand almost left the doorknob.

But then you remembered the chair.

You remembered your name being called in a room full of people while the place beside you stayed empty.

You remembered that love had not been enough to bring him there.

So you opened the door.

The hallway outside was quiet and softly lit. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbour’s television murmured behind a closed door. Life was still going on in all the ordinary ways.

Jack said your name once more.

You looked back.

He stood in the entryway with your award visible behind him on the coffee table and the two envelopes lying open beside it.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

You gave him a small, broken smile. “I know.”

And that was what made it worse.

Because you knew.

You knew he loved you. You knew he was proud of you. You knew he would miss you when the apartment went quiet and the hospital could no longer give him somewhere else to run.

But knowing had never been the same as being held.

So you stepped into the hallway. This time, when you walked away, you did not wait for him to follow. You heard the door close gently behind you, and the softness of it hurt more than a slam would have.

After you left, Jack did not move for a long time.

The apartment stayed quiet around him. The lamp hummed softly. Rain touched the windows. Your heels were still by the couch, lined up neatly, as if even your heartbreak had manners.

On the coffee table, the divorce papers sat beside the pregnancy results.

The ending and the beginning.

Both addressed to him.

Jack picked up the remote with a hand that did not feel like his and opened the news replay. He did not know why. Maybe because grief made people stupid. Maybe because some part of him thought if he watched the night properly, he could punish himself into becoming the man who should have been there.

The video loaded.

There you were again.

Black dress. Soft hair. Bare shoulders. That careful, beautiful smile.

He watched you enter alone. He watched you answer questions alone. He watched you sit at the table alone. Then the camera panned, briefly, almost accidentally, to the empty chair beside you.

His name card was clear.

Dr. Jack Abbot

Jack paused the screen.

The room went silent.

There it was.

Not a feeling. Not an argument. Not your sensitivity. Not his schedule. Not bad timing.

Proof.

A chair with his name on it.

A space he had promised to fill.

Jack sat on the couch slowly, still staring at the frozen image. His face crumpled, but no sound came out at first. He had cried before. He had cried after losing patients. He had cried in stairwells, in supply closets, in the shower with one hand braced against the tile.

This was different.

This was not the grief of failing to save someone he had only just met.

This was the grief of realizing he had been losing you slowly while calling it survival.

His eyes moved from the frozen screen to the divorce papers.

Then to the pregnancy result.

Then back to your face.

“How do I forget you?” he whispered, but there was no one there to answer.

The apartment seemed to hold the question for him.

Your perfume still lived faintly in the room. Your mug was still in the sink. Your cardigan was still folded over the back of the chair. The book you had been reading was still open on the side table, a receipt tucked between the pages because you hated using proper bookmarks. There was a sticky note on the fridge in your handwriting reminding both of you to buy more oat milk. There was a pair of your socks half-hidden under the coffee table because you always kicked them off when you were working late. There was a framed photo from your courthouse wedding on the console, both of you laughing because Jack had been unable to get the ring onto your finger at first.

You were everywhere.

That was the cruelty of it. You had left, but the life you had built with him remained behind like a house still waiting for its owner to come home.

Jack covered his mouth with one hand and bent forward, shoulders shaking.

For once, no one was paging him. No one was asking him for help. No one was bleeding, crashing, coding, crying out, reaching for him from the other side of a curtain.

For once, there was no emergency left to run toward.

Only the life he had kept meaning to choose.

Only the wife he had loved too late.

Only the baby he had learned about on the same night he learned she was leaving.

Only the empty chair beside you, waiting on a screen for a man who never came.

And the worst part, the part that finally broke him open, was that Jack knew this would not be a clean grief. He would not miss you once. He would miss you in places. In the kitchen when the coffee brewed too strong. In the car when he passed the hotel downtown and remembered black silk under gold lights. In the emergency department when the power held steady because of the system you built. In every waiting room, every hallway, every quiet elevator ride where he would think of you standing somewhere else, living a life he was no longer trusted to enter.

He would miss you when the baby came.

He would miss you when your child had your eyes.

He would miss you when people asked about his wife and he had to learn how to say your name without saying mine.

Jack stared at the empty chair until the screen blurred.

For the first time all night, he understood that you had not left because you stopped loving him. You left because you were terrified you would spend the rest of your life loving him from a room he never came home to.

And Jack, too late, finally knew what it meant to wait. Not for a patient. Not for a shift to end. Not for the next crisis to pass. But for a woman who might never come back.

The television stayed paused on his name.

The apartment stayed still around him.

And Jack sat there in the home you had built together, finally surrounded by all the love he had assumed would wait forever.

You suffered from regular Crohn’s attacks — too regular in fact. They told you a stoma would improve your quality of life, but they didn’t say it would come with its own problems. 

Medical supplies piled up outside your apartment because you were too overwhelmed with it all. It was all new — the stoma, your weak immune system, the stoma bags that never seemed to fit right. The fear of leakage, especially in the night, then the blockage… All of it. 

But thanks to the lovely staff at PTMC, who had saved your life more times than you could remember. Between weekly injections, stoma blockage and skin infections, you became a regular there. This wasn’t the life you imagined, but it was the life given to you so you dealt with it. You sighed and dropped your head back into the pillow, waiting in room three at PTMC for one of the doctors to come and check on your stoma. 

If they insisted on one more round of antibiotics, you were going to cry and give up on all of this. 

— 

Abbot’s mind was elsewhere; that’s how it was most days. He stared into the distance, mind empty but yet so full of worries. 

Then the image of you popped into his head, and that got him to focus. Only you and just you. Although he hadn’t seen your face, just your hair, your body… your shadow. He wasn’t a very curious man, no. But when it came to you, he certainly became one. 

“… there doesn’t seem to be an infection, but we can give prophylactic …”

The chatter was all a distant echo for him. 

“Dr Abbot?” Perla’s voice snapped him back to reality. 

“Sorry missed that” he blinked a few times, remembering where he was. 

“I was talking about your patient in room three? I need one of your doctors to take a look at her before I leave.”

He looked around for someone but everyone was too busy doing rounds. 

“Can you do it?” She asked. 

“Uhh… I would love to but I have to be somewhere else. I’ll send Parker. Thank you,  Perla”

He smiled at her and quickly rushed off. This wasn’t him — to not listen, not mentor or not take it all in. 

This wasn’t like him at all.

— 

“Hey” 

“Hey, Dr Ellis, thank you for seeing me so quickly. I really don’t mind waiting”

“Oh, I don’t think it would be wise for us to do that. You’re spiking a fever, and your stoma’s looking inflamed.”

“So just the usual then?” you gave her a small smile. 

“I’m sorry you’re having to come back. It must be disheartening to keep going through this every week”

“I should be the one saying sorry for wasting your time. What’s it gonna be this time? Antibiotics and fluids?”

She shook her head. 

“You’re admitting me?!” 

“Just for a few hours — we’ll get an IV and a cocktail of the best mix on the house”

“I can do it at home through the PICC line. Just tell me what I need to take and when, I’ll be okay!” 

“Not this time, I’m sorry” 

You sighed. It wasn’t her fault, of course, it wasn’t. You lived alone, you were considered high risk — it would be stupid to go home in this condition. 

“Few hours — I promise you.” She gave you a tap on the shoulder and walked out. 

She indeed stuck to her promise; she prioritised you and managed to get your meds in quickly, so you can go home early. 

“Patient in room three is getting discharged” Ellis said to Lena by the hub.

“Already?” Abbot said, looking back at the room “Isn’t she high risk?”

“It’s either that or she never comes back here, and we need her to keep coming back”

He muttered hmmm, not wanting to argue further. He didn’t know who the patient was — didn’t look at the name or address. Not his patient, not his problem. 

Until he saw the same figure again, leaving the ER doors shortly after. 

It couldn’t be, no, he thought to himself. He tried to walk towards the shadow but people kept talking to him. Voices and bodies blocked his path. Too many people got in his way. Until the shadow moved away and he indeed missed it again.

He convinced himself he was dreaming, or it wasn’t you. It couldn’t be you — how did he miss you? 

He was so close. 

He thought of going through the records or asking someone who you were. But that would be wrong, morally wrong. And Jack Abbot was a good man. 

— 

Thanks to Dr Ellis and her magical cocktail, you were feeling much better. At least now, you had the energy to move all the boxes into the apartment. It didn’t mean that you were going to empty them, no. They will most likely sit in boxes and overwhelm you until next week’s delivery. 

But by the time morning came, you indeed woke up a bit more energised. But you weren’t going to empty the boxes. You wrote on your anonymous, online blog about yet another struggle. 

Living with chronic illness was tricky for the patient and not just physically, not just mentally, but also socially. As much as your loved ones were supportive as you navigated through your illness, you felt like a burden.

They’d ask you how you were.

The honest answer would be: I can’t seem to gain weight, my stoma is yet again inflamed. I’ve changed my stoma bag three times today, which is actually wonderful given that I no longer go to the toilet fifteen times a day. 

But you simply said: I’m great! How are you?

So having an anonymous diary where you could share your struggle with people who also were going through chronic illness was a great coping mechanism.. 

You wrote:

I wonder if people without a chronic illness think about how their life would be if they had one? How would they cope? What would they say? Would they survive it?

Because someone told me once that they think they wouldn’t struggle too much if they had a chronic illness themselves. 

What I would have liked to say was: screw you. But instead I said: Aren’t you lucky you get the option to imagine it and not live it?

Your online blog was a way to cope, a way to survive, and a way to connect. 

You saw comments flood through, and you smiled at your screen. You loved this corner of the internet. 

— 

The boxes had been moved in; that was what Abbot noticed first. He wondered if you were physically able to lift them all yourself? If you had somewhere to store all of them?

He stared at the door for a little too long before walking back into his apartment. 

He dreamt that he no longer missed you. That he finally got to meet you. 

—

Abbot had convinced himself that the shadow was now following him at work. Because otherwise, why did he see it weekly at PTMC?

Sometimes it was your shadow.

Sometimes it was your hair. 

Sometimes it was the shape of your body through the glass doors.

It was never your face. 

Until one day…

“Hey Lena”

“Hey Jack, how are you doing? You’re here early”

“Uh couldn’t sleep. So I obviously came back to my favourite place” 

She smiled and shook her head “You need a hobby”

“Hey, can I ask you about the patient in central 11 — I saw her initials on the board, and she’s here a lot” Abbot tried to sound casual. 

“Oh yeah, her” she replied with a warm smile “she’s a sweetheart. Comes in weekly for injections, and sometimes for complications with her Crohn’s or her PICC line.”

“Why come to the ER for that? Why not her usual clinic?” Abbot wasn’t upset that the patient was coming in regularly, more curious to see why she was here all this time. 

“If you read her chart, you’d understand. She should never be turned away. She can go downhill in minutes.”

Abbot stared at the room in the distance 

“Why?” Lena tried to hide her smile.

He snapped out of whatever land he was in and looked at Lena letting out a hmm?

“What’s ticking in that old mind of yours?”

“Oh nothing. I was just curious about her that’s all. What’s her name?”

“Why don’t you go in and ask her?” Lena smirked.

“Too busy — gotta go” he smiled and walked away. 

— 

“Parker Central 11 isn’t looking too well” Mateo rushed over to her “fever, shakes, pain and meds not even touching it”

“Shit, alright.” Parker muttered “Get Shen in, please” 

He nodded and rushed off.

You were curled onto your side, tears slipping down your face “Parker… please make it stop.”

“Talk to me — what the hell happened?”

“It won’t stop leaking and there’s blood coming out of it”

“How much blood?” Parker asked. 

You and Ellis, whom you now call Parker, became close. Being in and out of the hospital so often didn’t really give you a choice; you ended up forming bonds with almost everyone on the team. Parker also trusted you — you knew your condition too well, better than anyone else here.

“I don’t think… it was a lot” you winced “but it was fresh, light in colour no clots”

“Okay let’s get you on your back, please”

“I’m leaking everywhere” you sobbed as she helped turn you over. 

“And I don’t give a shit, literally” she joked. You appreciated her sense of humour, despite how much pain you were in. She normalised your illness which you were immensely grateful for. She didn’t treat you like you were… dying. She treated you like a person first, then chronic illness second. 

“Backup’s here” Mateo rushed back in with another nurse and Shen.

“Dunkin Doc, how are we doing?” You managed to quietly say between waves of pain.

“Better than you” he joked, putting on gloves “how bad?”

“Fifteen” you yelled. Another wave of pain was taking over. 

“Morphine?” Shen asked as he helped Parker on the stoma. 

“She said no to start with” Parker said “but she’s being stupid”

“I love you too, Parker” you groaned “I’ll take some of that morphine now”

Mateo nodded and added some to your IV. You had leaked all over the bed, yourself and them. But no one said anything as they worked around it. 

— 

“What’s with all the yelling in central 11?” Abbot asked Lena.

She shrugged and casually said “go in and see for yourself”

He shook his head and walked the opposite direction. 

— 

“That is a good mix” you said quietly as you felt the pain meds starting to work. “Miracle workers, all of you” 

“Bleeding’s slowing down but we’ll need to speak with colorectal. O-neg?” Parker seemed a bit more relieved now. 

“Not yet, let’s wait for bloods?” You sighed “I hate colorectal. They’re a pain in the ass. Literally” you joked quietly, eyes fighting sleep “hey can I have some wipes to clean this mess, please?”

“I’ve got it,” Mateo said gently. He leaned over with warm wipes and started cleaning you up with care.

“You’re too good to me” you said quietly as you drifted off to sleep.

— 

“How’s central 11 doing?” Abbot asked Lena, trying to sound causal but this time he failed. 

Lena raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips “I don’t know, Jack, you seem really interested in her” 

He stayed quiet. His mind was ticking, who was she?

“You are interested in her!” She teased “Why don’t you go check in on her?”

Jack hesitated for a moment then finally mustered the energy to go see the patient. Her shadow reminded him of you. 

He walked in to find the room empty.

He stood there in silence, staring at the freshly made bed. Another missed chance.

He wondered why fate was so against him. 

—

You woke up alone in the room, your head feeling heavy but pain-wise, you had none. Or maybe you did, a small bit. But compared to your attack earlier on, you felt good. 

Colorectal of course, didn’t come down to see you, and you were pleased with that. They were only going to push more immunosuppressants on you, which you weren’t ready for anymore. You were a lot cleaner now and had been changed into a gown. There was no more poo on you or the bed. You then realised you had changed rooms altogether. 

You ordered donuts for the whole team as a thank you for everything they’d done. You were hungry too, so you got plenty for yourself. One of the one perks of your Crohn’s was that you never seemed to gain weight, so you figured you might as well enjoy the extra donuts. 

— 

“Room 22 got everyone donuts” Mateo announced, carrying a few boxes with a big smile on his face. 

“Well isn’t that nice of her” Parker said, immediately taking two “how is she doing?”

“Last time I checked she was waking up slowly. Colorectal isn’t here yet”

“Who are we talking about?” Abbot walked over, casually stealing a donut.

“Room 22” Parker said as she took a bite

He put his hands out to say who?

“You know… our ER regular. Frequent flyer” Another bite. 

He shook his head.

“Central 11? Yelling? Stoma?”

Central 11 is still here? His mind was screaming, telling him to go. But he casually said “No clue. I’ll go say thank you — leave some donuts for the rest, please”

Abbot’s heart hammered in his chest as he walked toward the room, donut in hand.

“Hi, I just wanted to say thank you for the donuts, I—”

The words died in his throat.

The donut slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.

It was you.

It was unmistakably you. 

He had never seen your face but he’d recognise you anywhere. 

You were more beautiful than he ever imagined. 

He pictured your face, of course, he did. He pictured a million scenarios on how you two would meet. 

But you being in a hospital bed, fragile, sick, at risk, was not one of the scenarios.

Because if he had met you anywhere else, he would be asking for your number. Heck, he’d even tell you how gorgeous you were and how many complicated feelings he had for a stranger. 

But there you were, in his hospital and under his care. And he couldn’t even ask for your name.

Not his patient, not his problem, he reminded himself. 

But then he thought to himself — this might be the time to be selfish. The time to… shoot his shot. 

“For the donuts. Sorry, uh…” he bent down and picked it back up “How are you feeling?”

He cleared his throat and tried to look anywhere but you. He waited all these months, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye. 

— 

You wondered why this doctor was so flustered; it was quiet intriguing actually. 

He was a lot older than Parker and John; he had beautiful salt and pepper curls that shaped his face. You watched him as he fidgeted with his stethoscope and you wondered if he was nervous to see you? You also wondered if he was new. 

He asked for your name.

“It’s on the chart” you said quietly. You liked how flustered he seemed, so you decided to tease him. “But you can call me…”

“Misty. Can I call you Misty?” 

“That’s a cute nickname” you smiled “yes you can call me misty”

Jack’s expression softened. To him, you felt like mist — quiet, difficult to catch, hard to hold onto, yet refreshingly beautiful.

“Nice to meet you Misty. My name is Jack”

“I know” you teased.

Jack’s heart dropped and thought to himself you knew him?

“It’s on your name badge — I’m not a stalker, I promise”

Jack let out a nervous chuckle, running a hand through his curls. You made him strangely nervous, though he couldn’t quite understand why. You then felt him relax a bit. 

“Would you like a donut?” He asked, still holding onto the one he brought in. 

“I would love one… but maybe not that one. I heard there was a poop explosion earlier in one of the rooms and bacteria spreads”

He froze for a second, then burst into a genuine laugh. You laughed with him, the sound easing some of the tension in the room

He nodded, still smiling “I’ll bring you a fresh one”

And with that, he left the room. Jack didn’t return to the room no, he rushed outside for fresh air. 

He had finally found you and, you were his patient. 

His fate was cruel. His fate was unkind. 

He clutched onto his chest and tried to slow his breathing down. He repeated to himself 

I found her… but I can’t have her.

I found her… but I can’t have her.

I found her… but I can’t have her.

— 

Jack, the doctor, never returned to your room with the promised donut. You asked Parker if she’d let you go home which she of course protested, but eventually agreed to it. On the basis that you’d come back the next night for another check up. You protested, of course, but then agreed to it. 

You said bye to everyone and wondered if you’ll get to see Jack again. 

“Central 22 self-discharged but she said she’ll be back tomorrow night for a check-up”

Jack’s heart sank “she— she left?”

“Couldn’t keep her here. She’s more than capable of managing her condition”

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling dizzy. A thin sheen of sweat broke out across his skin. “I, uh… I’m gonna head out. Robby’s around, right?”

Parker shot him a look of concern and slowly said “yeah… he is”

Jack barely waited for her answer before heading for the exit. He drove home faster than he should have, heart pounding the entire way. When he stepped off the elevator, he froze.

There you were, trying to unlock your apartment door. 

You glanced up, did a double-take, and your eyes widened.

“Jack…?”

“Hi” he said softly, almost breathless.

“What are you doing here?” You couldn’t help but smile, although still surprised. 

“I live here,” he replied, gesturing to the door just a few steps away. “Right over there.”

“We’re neighbours? And you didn’t say anything?” You smiled, your heart screamed: he was your neighbour!

“Yes…I did see it on your chart but I didn’t want to mention it. Didn’t want to seem like a stalker,” he said quietly.

“That’s…. Good to know” you smiled “nice to see you again, Jack”

“Nice to see you too” he walked to you slowly “Parker said you’ll be back at the ER tomorrow for a check-up?

You nodded. 

“Anything you need, just let me know. My shift starts at seven in the evening”

“I will do, thank you” 

Your heart was racing. The attractive, mysterious doctor who had made you nervous earlier was now your neighbour.

“See you later, Jack”

“See you later, Misty” his voice warm and gentle. 

—

Of course, you didn’t leave Jack’s mind. He had found you, finally found you. The shadow he’d chased through hallways and dreamed about…And now he knew you weren’t a ghost. You were real. With that bright smile and those beautiful eyes that had completely undone him.

He wished if you could be his, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

He made it over to the Pitt and kept glancing over at his watch, waiting for you to come in. But you never came. 

“Parker, she didn’t come”

“Who?”

“Stoma? Central 11? Self-discharged yesterday?”

“Ohh shit yeah” she muttered “We need to call her or send someone over for a welfare check. I discharged her on a promise she’d come back tonight” she glanced over at Jack who had the look of his fear in his eyes. “Spit it out Jack”

He hesitated for half a second before saying, “She’s my neighbour. I saw her in the morning… she told me she’d be in.”

“I can hold the fort” she said.

“What?” 

“Go!” She could see the hurt in his eyes. “We have Shen and Henderson, don’t be long”

He rushed home.

Knocked on the door. Hard. 

No one answered. 

He wanted to break the door down.

So he knocked again. Harder. 

The door opened. It was an older woman, crying. 

There were boxes everywhere.

He smelt blood.

His stomach dropped. 

He didn’t even know your name. 

He couldn’t even ask about you. 

Jack Abbot wished he weren’t a good man. 

He wished he had pushed for more.

So many regrets.

So little time. 

And just like mist, you disappeared again.

You suffered from regular Crohn’s attacks — too regular in fact. They told you a stoma would improve your quality of life, but they didn’t say it would come with its own problems. 

Medical supplies piled up outside your apartment because you were too overwhelmed with it all. It was all new — the stoma, your weak immune system, the stoma bags that never seemed to fit right. The fear of leakage, especially in the night, then the blockage… All of it. 

But thanks to the lovely staff at PTMC, who had saved your life more times than you could remember. Between weekly injections, stoma blockage and skin infections, you became a regular there. This wasn’t the life you imagined, but it was the life given to you so you dealt with it. You sighed and dropped your head back into the pillow, waiting in room three at PTMC for one of the doctors to come and check on your stoma. 

If they insisted on one more round of antibiotics, you were going to cry and give up on all of this. 

— 

Abbot’s mind was elsewhere; that’s how it was most days. He stared into the distance, mind empty but yet so full of worries. 

Then the image of you popped into his head, and that got him to focus. Only you and just you. Although he hadn’t seen your face, just your hair, your body… your shadow. He wasn’t a very curious man, no. But when it came to you, he certainly became one. 

“… there doesn’t seem to be an infection, but we can give prophylactic …”

The chatter was all a distant echo for him. 

“Dr Abbot?” Perla’s voice snapped him back to reality. 

“Sorry missed that” he blinked a few times, remembering where he was. 

“I was talking about your patient in room three? I need one of your doctors to take a look at her before I leave.”

He looked around for someone but everyone was too busy doing rounds. 

“Can you do it?” She asked. 

“Uhh… I would love to but I have to be somewhere else. I’ll send Parker. Thank you,  Perla”

He smiled at her and quickly rushed off. This wasn’t him — to not listen, not mentor or not take it all in. 

This wasn’t like him at all.

— 

“Hey” 

“Hey, Dr Ellis, thank you for seeing me so quickly. I really don’t mind waiting”

“Oh, I don’t think it would be wise for us to do that. You’re spiking a fever, and your stoma’s looking inflamed.”

“So just the usual then?” you gave her a small smile. 

“I’m sorry you’re having to come back. It must be disheartening to keep going through this every week”

“I should be the one saying sorry for wasting your time. What’s it gonna be this time? Antibiotics and fluids?”

She shook her head. 

“You’re admitting me?!” 

“Just for a few hours — we’ll get an IV and a cocktail of the best mix on the house”

“I can do it at home through the PICC line. Just tell me what I need to take and when, I’ll be okay!” 

“Not this time, I’m sorry” 

You sighed. It wasn’t her fault, of course, it wasn’t. You lived alone, you were considered high risk — it would be stupid to go home in this condition. 

“Few hours — I promise you.” She gave you a tap on the shoulder and walked out. 

She indeed stuck to her promise; she prioritised you and managed to get your meds in quickly, so you can go home early. 

“Patient in room three is getting discharged” Ellis said to Lena by the hub.

“Already?” Abbot said, looking back at the room “Isn’t she high risk?”

“It’s either that or she never comes back here, and we need her to keep coming back”

He muttered hmmm, not wanting to argue further. He didn’t know who the patient was — didn’t look at the name or address. Not his patient, not his problem. 

Until he saw the same figure again, leaving the ER doors shortly after. 

It couldn’t be, no, he thought to himself. He tried to walk towards the shadow but people kept talking to him. Voices and bodies blocked his path. Too many people got in his way. Until the shadow moved away and he indeed missed it again.

He convinced himself he was dreaming, or it wasn’t you. It couldn’t be you — how did he miss you? 

He was so close. 

He thought of going through the records or asking someone who you were. But that would be wrong, morally wrong. And Jack Abbot was a good man. 

— 

Thanks to Dr Ellis and her magical cocktail, you were feeling much better. At least now, you had the energy to move all the boxes into the apartment. It didn’t mean that you were going to empty them, no. They will most likely sit in boxes and overwhelm you until next week’s delivery. 

But by the time morning came, you indeed woke up a bit more energised. But you weren’t going to empty the boxes. You wrote on your anonymous, online blog about yet another struggle. 

Living with chronic illness was tricky for the patient and not just physically, not just mentally, but also socially. As much as your loved ones were supportive as you navigated through your illness, you felt like a burden.

They’d ask you how you were.

The honest answer would be: I can’t seem to gain weight, my stoma is yet again inflamed. I’ve changed my stoma bag three times today, which is actually wonderful given that I no longer go to the toilet fifteen times a day. 

But you simply said: I’m great! How are you?

So having an anonymous diary where you could share your struggle with people who also were going through chronic illness was a great coping mechanism.. 

You wrote:

I wonder if people without a chronic illness think about how their life would be if they had one? How would they cope? What would they say? Would they survive it?

Because someone told me once that they think they wouldn’t struggle too much if they had a chronic illness themselves. 

What I would have liked to say was: screw you. But instead I said: Aren’t you lucky you get the option to imagine it and not live it?

Your online blog was a way to cope, a way to survive, and a way to connect. 

You saw comments flood through, and you smiled at your screen. You loved this corner of the internet. 

— 

The boxes had been moved in; that was what Abbot noticed first. He wondered if you were physically able to lift them all yourself? If you had somewhere to store all of them?

He stared at the door for a little too long before walking back into his apartment. 

He dreamt that he no longer missed you. That he finally got to meet you. 

—

Abbot had convinced himself that the shadow was now following him at work. Because otherwise, why did he see it weekly at PTMC?

Sometimes it was your shadow.

Sometimes it was your hair. 

Sometimes it was the shape of your body through the glass doors.

It was never your face. 

Until one day…

“Hey Lena”

“Hey Jack, how are you doing? You’re here early”

“Uh couldn’t sleep. So I obviously came back to my favourite place” 

She smiled and shook her head “You need a hobby”

“Hey, can I ask you about the patient in central 11 — I saw her initials on the board, and she’s here a lot” Abbot tried to sound casual. 

“Oh yeah, her” she replied with a warm smile “she’s a sweetheart. Comes in weekly for injections, and sometimes for complications with her Crohn’s or her PICC line.”

“Why come to the ER for that? Why not her usual clinic?” Abbot wasn’t upset that the patient was coming in regularly, more curious to see why she was here all this time. 

“If you read her chart, you’d understand. She should never be turned away. She can go downhill in minutes.”

Abbot stared at the room in the distance 

“Why?” Lena tried to hide her smile.

He snapped out of whatever land he was in and looked at Lena letting out a hmm?

“What’s ticking in that old mind of yours?”

“Oh nothing. I was just curious about her that’s all. What’s her name?”

“Why don’t you go in and ask her?” Lena smirked.

“Too busy — gotta go” he smiled and walked away. 

— 

“Parker Central 11 isn’t looking too well” Mateo rushed over to her “fever, shakes, pain and meds not even touching it”

“Shit, alright.” Parker muttered “Get Shen in, please” 

He nodded and rushed off.

You were curled onto your side, tears slipping down your face “Parker… please make it stop.”

“Talk to me — what the hell happened?”

“It won’t stop leaking and there’s blood coming out of it”

“How much blood?” Parker asked. 

You and Ellis, whom you now call Parker, became close. Being in and out of the hospital so often didn’t really give you a choice; you ended up forming bonds with almost everyone on the team. Parker also trusted you — you knew your condition too well, better than anyone else here.

“I don’t think… it was a lot” you winced “but it was fresh, light in colour no clots”

“Okay let’s get you on your back, please”

“I’m leaking everywhere” you sobbed as she helped turn you over. 

“And I don’t give a shit, literally” she joked. You appreciated her sense of humour, despite how much pain you were in. She normalised your illness which you were immensely grateful for. She didn’t treat you like you were… dying. She treated you like a person first, then chronic illness second. 

“Backup’s here” Mateo rushed back in with another nurse and Shen.

“Dunkin Doc, how are we doing?” You managed to quietly say between waves of pain.

“Better than you” he joked, putting on gloves “how bad?”

“Fifteen” you yelled. Another wave of pain was taking over. 

“Morphine?” Shen asked as he helped Parker on the stoma. 

“She said no to start with” Parker said “but she’s being stupid”

“I love you too, Parker” you groaned “I’ll take some of that morphine now”

Mateo nodded and added some to your IV. You had leaked all over the bed, yourself and them. But no one said anything as they worked around it. 

— 

“What’s with all the yelling in central 11?” Abbot asked Lena.

She shrugged and casually said “go in and see for yourself”

He shook his head and walked the opposite direction. 

— 

“That is a good mix” you said quietly as you felt the pain meds starting to work. “Miracle workers, all of you” 

“Bleeding’s slowing down but we’ll need to speak with colorectal. O-neg?” Parker seemed a bit more relieved now. 

“Not yet, let’s wait for bloods?” You sighed “I hate colorectal. They’re a pain in the ass. Literally” you joked quietly, eyes fighting sleep “hey can I have some wipes to clean this mess, please?”

“I’ve got it,” Mateo said gently. He leaned over with warm wipes and started cleaning you up with care.

“You’re too good to me” you said quietly as you drifted off to sleep.

— 

“How’s central 11 doing?” Abbot asked Lena, trying to sound causal but this time he failed. 

Lena raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips “I don’t know, Jack, you seem really interested in her” 

He stayed quiet. His mind was ticking, who was she?

“You are interested in her!” She teased “Why don’t you go check in on her?”

Jack hesitated for a moment then finally mustered the energy to go see the patient. Her shadow reminded him of you. 

He walked in to find the room empty.

He stood there in silence, staring at the freshly made bed. Another missed chance.

He wondered why fate was so against him. 

—

You woke up alone in the room, your head feeling heavy but pain-wise, you had none. Or maybe you did, a small bit. But compared to your attack earlier on, you felt good. 

Colorectal of course, didn’t come down to see you, and you were pleased with that. They were only going to push more immunosuppressants on you, which you weren’t ready for anymore. You were a lot cleaner now and had been changed into a gown. There was no more poo on you or the bed. You then realised you had changed rooms altogether. 

You ordered donuts for the whole team as a thank you for everything they’d done. You were hungry too, so you got plenty for yourself. One of the one perks of your Crohn’s was that you never seemed to gain weight, so you figured you might as well enjoy the extra donuts. 

— 

“Room 22 got everyone donuts” Mateo announced, carrying a few boxes with a big smile on his face. 

“Well isn’t that nice of her” Parker said, immediately taking two “how is she doing?”

“Last time I checked she was waking up slowly. Colorectal isn’t here yet”

“Who are we talking about?” Abbot walked over, casually stealing a donut.

“Room 22” Parker said as she took a bite

He put his hands out to say who?

“You know… our ER regular. Frequent flyer” Another bite. 

He shook his head.

“Central 11? Yelling? Stoma?”

Central 11 is still here? His mind was screaming, telling him to go. But he casually said “No clue. I’ll go say thank you — leave some donuts for the rest, please”

Abbot’s heart hammered in his chest as he walked toward the room, donut in hand.

“Hi, I just wanted to say thank you for the donuts, I—”

The words died in his throat.

The donut slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.

It was you.

It was unmistakably you. 

He had never seen your face but he’d recognise you anywhere. 

You were more beautiful than he ever imagined. 

He pictured your face, of course, he did. He pictured a million scenarios on how you two would meet. 

But you being in a hospital bed, fragile, sick, at risk, was not one of the scenarios.

Because if he had met you anywhere else, he would be asking for your number. Heck, he’d even tell you how gorgeous you were and how many complicated feelings he had for a stranger. 

But there you were, in his hospital and under his care. And he couldn’t even ask for your name.

Not his patient, not his problem, he reminded himself. 

But then he thought to himself — this might be the time to be selfish. The time to… shoot his shot. 

“For the donuts. Sorry, uh…” he bent down and picked it back up “How are you feeling?”

He cleared his throat and tried to look anywhere but you. He waited all these months, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye. 

— 

You wondered why this doctor was so flustered; it was quiet intriguing actually. 

He was a lot older than Parker and John; he had beautiful salt and pepper curls that shaped his face. You watched him as he fidgeted with his stethoscope and you wondered if he was nervous to see you? You also wondered if he was new. 

He asked for your name.

“It’s on the chart” you said quietly. You liked how flustered he seemed, so you decided to tease him. “But you can call me…”

“Misty. Can I call you Misty?” 

“That’s a cute nickname” you smiled “yes you can call me misty”

Jack’s expression softened. To him, you felt like mist — quiet, difficult to catch, hard to hold onto, yet refreshingly beautiful.

“Nice to meet you Misty. My name is Jack”

“I know” you teased.

Jack’s heart dropped and thought to himself you knew him?

“It’s on your name badge — I’m not a stalker, I promise”

Jack let out a nervous chuckle, running a hand through his curls. You made him strangely nervous, though he couldn’t quite understand why. You then felt him relax a bit. 

“Would you like a donut?” He asked, still holding onto the one he brought in. 

“I would love one… but maybe not that one. I heard there was a poop explosion earlier in one of the rooms and bacteria spreads”

He froze for a second, then burst into a genuine laugh. You laughed with him, the sound easing some of the tension in the room

He nodded, still smiling “I’ll bring you a fresh one”

And with that, he left the room. Jack didn’t return to the room no, he rushed outside for fresh air. 

He had finally found you and, you were his patient. 

His fate was cruel. His fate was unkind. 

He clutched onto his chest and tried to slow his breathing down. He repeated to himself 

I found her… but I can’t have her.

I found her… but I can’t have her.

I found her… but I can’t have her.

— 

Jack, the doctor, never returned to your room with the promised donut. You asked Parker if she’d let you go home which she of course protested, but eventually agreed to it. On the basis that you’d come back the next night for another check up. You protested, of course, but then agreed to it. 

You said bye to everyone and wondered if you’ll get to see Jack again. 

“Central 22 self-discharged but she said she’ll be back tomorrow night for a check-up”

Jack’s heart sank “she— she left?”

“Couldn’t keep her here. She’s more than capable of managing her condition”

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling dizzy. A thin sheen of sweat broke out across his skin. “I, uh… I’m gonna head out. Robby’s around, right?”

Parker shot him a look of concern and slowly said “yeah… he is”

Jack barely waited for her answer before heading for the exit. He drove home faster than he should have, heart pounding the entire way. When he stepped off the elevator, he froze.

There you were, trying to unlock your apartment door. 

You glanced up, did a double-take, and your eyes widened.

“Jack…?”

“Hi” he said softly, almost breathless.

“What are you doing here?” You couldn’t help but smile, although still surprised. 

“I live here,” he replied, gesturing to the door just a few steps away. “Right over there.”

“We’re neighbours? And you didn’t say anything?” You smiled, your heart screamed: he was your neighbour!

“Yes…I did see it on your chart but I didn’t want to mention it. Didn’t want to seem like a stalker,” he said quietly.

“That’s…. Good to know” you smiled “nice to see you again, Jack”

“Nice to see you too” he walked to you slowly “Parker said you’ll be back at the ER tomorrow for a check-up?

You nodded. 

“Anything you need, just let me know. My shift starts at seven in the evening”

“I will do, thank you” 

Your heart was racing. The attractive, mysterious doctor who had made you nervous earlier was now your neighbour.

“See you later, Jack”

“See you later, Misty” his voice warm and gentle. 

—

Of course, you didn’t leave Jack’s mind. He had found you, finally found you. The shadow he’d chased through hallways and dreamed about…And now he knew you weren’t a ghost. You were real. With that bright smile and those beautiful eyes that had completely undone him.

He wished if you could be his, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

He made it over to the Pitt and kept glancing over at his watch, waiting for you to come in. But you never came. 

“Parker, she didn’t come”

“Who?”

“Stoma? Central 11? Self-discharged yesterday?”

“Ohh shit yeah” she muttered “We need to call her or send someone over for a welfare check. I discharged her on a promise she’d come back tonight” she glanced over at Jack who had the look of his fear in his eyes. “Spit it out Jack”

He hesitated for half a second before saying, “She’s my neighbour. I saw her in the morning… she told me she’d be in.”

“I can hold the fort” she said.

“What?” 

“Go!” She could see the hurt in his eyes. “We have Shen and Henderson, don’t be long”

He rushed home.

Knocked on the door. Hard. 

No one answered. 

He wanted to break the door down.

So he knocked again. Harder. 

The door opened. It was an older woman, crying. 

There were boxes everywhere.

He smelt blood.

His stomach dropped. 

He didn’t even know your name. 

He couldn’t even ask about you. 

Jack Abbot wished he weren’t a good man. 

He wished he had pushed for more.

So many regrets.

So little time. 

And just like mist, you disappeared again.

The man turns. His brows lift when he sees you. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “Nice to see you too.”

He laughs, slinging his weekend bag more comfortably over one shoulder. He’s wearing a simple, dark henley, jeans, and boots, and you curse yourself for how long you’re staring at his forearms. “What are you doing here?”

You gesture toward the resort. “I was invited. My friend Amy’s getting married. We’ve been close since high school. You?”

“I was Harry’s attending for a few years.” He says, “we go on morning runs together.”

You both stand there, processing. “Well,” you say, “small world.”

“You here alone?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. I figured a three-day wedding was too much for a plus-one.”

You actually don’t have anyone to ask.

“Yeah… same,” he says.

You adjust your jacket and glance up at him. “Well. Looks like we’re each other’s only familiar face this weekend.”

Jack glances at you sideways, a smile playing on his lips. “Could be worse.”

Just then, the check-in staff hands over your key cards, and you go your separate ways, promising to catch each other later at night.

The first night of the wedding weekend is a casual dinner, just something to help everyone unwind after the long drive. There’s no assigned seating, no pressure, just softly lit tables scattered across the area and the low hum of laughter and clinking glasses.

You scan the crowd and spot Jack near the open bar, standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting on a drink.

You smooth your dress—wait, why? Your brows furrow. It’s just Jack. You work with him every day. You’ve seen him elbow-deep in trauma, yelling over chest compressions, running on three hours of sleep.

But you’ve never seen him like this. Standing there, wearing a nicely fitted navy button-up, the sleeves casually rolled past his elbows, the fabric pulls across his chest when he crosses his arms, and a glimpse of veins and muscle you’re trying very hard not to stare at. The light hits his hair just right. He looks…too good. Your mouth suddenly feels dry.

You swallow and start walking before your thoughts get any more dangerous.

He looks over just as you approach. “You look great.” Jack compliments.

“First time seeing me not in scrubs, Jack?”

He smiles, glancing away for just a second, “No, but not like this. You look beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks flush. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

You’re about to order yourself a drink when Jack’s already flagged the bartender down. “Margarita, extra salt?”

You try to hide your smile. “Yes, please.”

It was months ago, when Shen made attending and everyone’d gone out to celebrate. You didn’t plan on getting drunk, so you stood back with Jack. He noticed your empty hands, then made it a game: guess your favorite drink by your expression alone. You ended up sharing ten drinks between you, laughing harder with each one, until he got it right—margarita, extra salt. You’d both been drunk by the end, but you’d remembered the way his eyes crinkled when you called him a sore loser. You’d remembered that night more than you probably should have.

And he hasn’t forgotten.

“You still remember my drink.” You point out.

He smirks, “Hard to forget when it took me 10 guesses.”

“And one hell of a good time?” You offer.

“With you?” He chuckles. “Always.”

You and Jack spend dinner at a small table for two, the buzz of the crowd fading into background noise. It’s the first time you’ve really talked—not flirted, not exchanged sarcastic quips in between traumas, but talked. About life outside the hospital. Your childhood. Books he reads when he can’t sleep. The way you like your coffee. How you both hate the same podcasts. It's easy and warm, and a little addictive.

You’ve never seen this side of him before. It makes it harder not to like him more than you already do.

It shouldn’t feel like this—any of this. But it does. Like a date. Like a weekend away together for a couple in love. You catch it in the way his eyes keep drifting to your lips, the way he hovers protectively when guiding you through the crowd, the quiet smiles he gives you when no one else is looking.

Whatever this is, it’s not just you. It’s different for him, too.

You’re in the middle of a conversation about some travel mishap of his when you hear a familiar squeal.

“Oh my God, you made it!”

You stand to greet your friend—Amy, glowing with excitement, bouquet swapped for a champagne flute. “Congratulations,” you beam, hugging her tightly. “Amy, I’m so happy for you. And this wedding? It’s like a Pinterest board came to life.”

She laughs, squeezing you back. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I want to let you know, if I’d done bridesmaids, you’d have been first on the list.”

You smile, touched. Meanwhile, Harry’s pulling Jack into a bro-hug.

“Wait,” Amy blinks, looking between the two of you. “You know Jack?”

“He’s my attending at PTMC.”

“Small world.” Harry comments, and Amy squints, connecting the dots. She glances between you and Jack, then grins like she’s just solved a puzzle.

“Wait a minute—are you guys… together?”

“Oh n—”

“Looks we’ve been found out.” Jack cuts in smoothly, sending you a wink.

You give him a questioning look. This was never something you talked about or planned, so you think he’s trying to pull a prank on you, or… nothing. You have no idea what’s going on.

“OMG since when??” Amy gasps.

“Only been a few months. Nearing a year.” He says.

A year???

Amy bumps your shoulder, “And you didn’t tell me?? I could’ve put you guys in one of the bigger, nicer rooms!”

“I—I…” You stammer.

“I suggested not to tell anyone,” Jack saves you. He somehow sounds like he has this all planned out. “Didn’t want to risk her reputation, you know.”

Harry nods understandingly. “Right, especially with your exams coming up.”

You chuckle nervously, “Ah, yeah… still need to take the exams.”

“You’re gonna do great.” Amy clasps your hands, “You’re the smartest person I know, you’re gonna ace it.”

You smile, flustered but grateful. The conversation turns to easier things—honeymoons, the venue, the resort spa—and eventually Amy and Harry are off to greet the next table.

“What the hell?” As soon as they’re gone, you turn to Jack with a half-laugh, half-glare. “So we’re in a relationship now?”

He leans back in his chair, fighting a grin. “Figured it’d be a good way to make the weekend interesting.”

You blink at him. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Besides… you didn’t say no.”

You want to argue—but you don’t. So you just try to hide a smile behind your margarita and look away.

The night winds down quietly. Amy’s sister plays a photo montage of Amy growing up, meeting Harry, and their early years together, while Harry steps up to thank everyone for coming. The staff announces tomorrow’s rundown: free time until 5PM, when the ceremony begins in the garden, and then gently ushers everyone to get some rest.

You and Jack are making your way back toward your rooms when Harry catches up to you, grinning.

“Hey,” he says, handing you a small card. “Quick thing.”

You blink, taking the card. Your brows immediately pull together.

“What’s this?”

“An upgrade,” Harry beams. “Amy and I moved you guys to one of the nicer suites. It’s bigger, better view. Our little gift.”

Your stomach dips. “Oh no, Harry—seriously, that’s really sweet but we can’t—”

“Come on,” he waves a hand. “Let me do this. For my wife’s best friend,” he says to you, then claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “—and for my greatest mentor. You’re both our dear friends.”

You glance at Jack, silently begging him to say something—to fix this—but he looks just as stunned.

“Harry—” Jack starts.

“Nope,” Harry cuts him off, walking backward with a grin. “Already moved your bags. Enjoy!”

He disappears before either of you can stop him.

You and Jack stand there for a moment, staring at the spot where Harry had just been.

You turn slowly. “We’re terrible people.”

Jack lifts a brow. “We? You didn’t exactly stop me back at dinner.”

You gape at him. “You said we were dating out of nowhere! What was I supposed to do?”

He smirks. “You could’ve denied it.”

“I was stunned! You lied so confidently I thought I had missed something.”

He chuckles and starts walking again. “Come on, let’s check out this palace we’ve been gifted.”

And you find out soon enough—he wasn’t exaggerating.

The suite is beautiful. Massive windows overlook the forest, soft yellow lighting glows from fixtures built from stone and wood. There’s a sunken living room with a couch, a cozy fireplace, a soaking tub the size of a car, and one king-sized bed with silk sheets and pillows you could drown in.

You both stop in the doorway, silently taking it in.

“Well,” Jack says after a beat, setting the key card on the entry table, “this got out of hand fast.”

“No kidding,” you mutter, though your disbelief is already turning into laughter. You sit on the edge of the bed like it might still vanish. “This your idea of a fun weekend?”

Jack undoes the first buttons of his shirt, shrugging. “Hey, I said interesting. Didn’t say how.”

You shoot him a look. “One bed.”

He nods. “I can take the couch if you want.”

You grab a pillow, chucking it at him. “You better not hog the blanket.”

You’re not scared of sharing a bed with Jack. He’s respectful, responsible—he’d never do anything to make you uncomfortable.

What you’re scared of is yourself.

Because you can’t deny the attraction. Not when he steps out of the bathroom in just a pair of low-hung sweatpants, his dog tags resting against his chest. His skin is still dewy from the shower, his hair slightly damp and curling at the ends. You try not to stare, but it's a losing battle.

And to make matters worse, you only packed the nice nightwear. Silky, a little sheer, a bit too short. You’d brought it thinking this weekend would be a quiet getaway. A solo indulgence. But clearly, plans have changed.

It’s awkwardly quiet.

“So…” You start.

“So.” He sits beside you. Still no shirt on. “I’m sorry I got us into this mess.”

You smile, sitting up a little. “A great view, a nice bathtub, and silk sheets? I wouldn’t call this a mess.”

Jack lets out a quiet chuckle.

You glance over at him, then down—he still has his prosthetic on. “You don’t take it off when you sleep?”

He hesitates. “…You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” You furrow your brows. “I’ve seen you take off your leg multiple times at work.”

“I guess… but this is different.”

“How?”

“…I don’t know,” He pauses, “It just is.”

And you kind of know what he means, but you don’t address it. Jack makes sure you’re okay with it once again before leaning forward and taking his prosthetic off. He groans in pain, and so without thinking, you reach over to help.

Jack’s breath hitches when he notices you climbing over your side of the bed and is massaging his leg. And then he sees what you’re wearing. A satin, violet nightgown, with lace decorating the hem and bust area. Spaghetti straps hang delicately off your shoulders, the fabric brushing high along your thighs. His eyes linger, his mouth slightly parted.

You feel his eyes on you. It’s only then that you realize—oh. You’re practically on top of him in this thing.

“Don’t judge me.” You mumble, “I thought I’d have a room to myself.”

“’M not.” He grunts.

That’s when you notice his flushed face, his grip on the sheets, the way his eyes flicker down your body and then guiltily back up. Your heartbeat quickens—he likes it. Maybe even wants it. You.

You move back to your side, dragging the covers up to your chest, and Jack follows, shifting under the covers, trying to will away the heat still buzzing under his skin and in his pants.

“So,” you say, trying to focus on anything else, “we’re going to have to keep this up the whole weekend?”

Jack nods. “At least to the just-married couple.”

“We’re gonna have to get them a gift from us. This room must’ve been expensive.”

He chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

“Well, we’ll be stuck with each other the whole weekend anyway.” You say. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, right?”

Jack lets out a slow breath, trying to calm the way his pulse is racing. “We’ll manage.”

You pause. “We should probably, I don’t know… practice. So we don’t look awkward.”

He glances at you. “Practice?”

You raise an eyebrow, heat crawling up your neck. “You know. Just in case they’re watching. A kiss or two might sell it.”

Jack is awfully quiet.

“I—I mean, we— forget it.” You stammer, “I was just—”

He turns to you and leans in, eyes never leaving yours. And you’re surprised, but you don’t pull away. You close the space first, just enough to brush your lips against his, soft and uncertain.

His hand rises to your cheek, deepening the kiss. He tastes like mint and something warm, and your heart feels like it’s exploding. His thumb brushes your jaw, his mouth tilting against yours, and you barely suppress the small sound that rises in your throat.

You don’t know who breaks it first, but you part—just barely.

“…That was…” Jack starts, voice low.

You breathe out, “Convincing?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

You both lay back down after that, still facing each other.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “We should get some sleep.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Right. Yeah.”

You both shift under the covers. Careful not to touch, even though the warm feeling is still there in his skin. On your lips.

Jack stares at the ceiling, then turns to look at you, your back now facing him, your breathing shallow and uneven.

None of you can sleep, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to get through the rest of the weekend pretending as if any of this doesn’t mean something.

-----

Day two

Thankfully, Jack is not a blanket hogger.

But you are.

Sometime during the night, you must’ve robbed the covers like a seasoned thief. Because now, Jack is half-wrapped around you, as though he had to burrow under the blanket you hogged to survive the night. One leg hooked around yours. One arm draped across your ribcage, his hand resting just under your breast. The other curled under your neck like a makeshift pillow—how did that even get there?

His chest is warm and solid against your back. He’s still asleep, his breathing even, slow. His nose is near your temple, breath fanning lightly against your ear, and it takes every bit of willpower not to shift. Not to look.

Your heart, however, is pounding.

You need a cold shower. Immediately.

So you slip out of his grasp as quietly and quickly as you can, running to the shower. You immediately turn on the cold water setting, but it doesn’t help the itch between your thighs.

You try to force your mind away. Think of something else.

Work. Traumas. Codes. Blood. Bloodied gloves. Jack's hands in gloves—fuck.

You groan. Your hand wanders to where Jack’s was a few minutes ago. Just under your breast. If he had just gone up a bit… just slightly brushing your nipple, and squeezing, and pinching—you bite your lip and sigh.

Against your better judgment, two of your fingers lower to where you need it most, a small hiss escaping you as you relieve the tension. You touch yourself like you imagine he would. His rough, padded, calloused, experienced fingers toying with your clit. How he would absolutely tease and bring you over the edge just from them.

You sigh, rubbing your clit in figure eights, your other hand pinching and squeezing your breast. Your fingers move lower, quietly cursing to yourself as you feel how wet you are. It’s all for him and he’s not even here to see it. You insert one finger in, then two, and you wonder if two of Jack’s fingers would feel similar. You know it’s not the same. Your fingers curl to hit your spot, and your head hangs forward, thumb circling your clit to chase your release.

You come quickly. Easily. But it’s hollow. You’ve done this yourself so many times, and it’s just too easy for you to come. But it’s not what you want. It’s not what you need. A mere release from your fingers isn’t enough… but it’ll have to do. For now.

You finish showering and wrap yourself in one of the hotel’s bathrobes. You were in such a rush you forgot a change of clothes. When you step out of the bathroom, Jack’s already up—still shirtless, coffee in hand, standing near the window and looking out at the forest.

“Morning.” You offer.

He smiles, “Morning. You got up earlier than me.”

“That surprising?” You raise a brow.

“I’m usually an early bird.”

You towel your damp hair as you move to the vanity table. “Must’ve been really comfortable, then. Maybe the cuddling helped,” you say lightly—despite your own reaction to it—watching him in the mirror.

Jack chuckles. “I’m not the one who hogged the blanket.”

“And I guess I was just helping you sleep.” You smile, as he shakes his head. “So, what’s your plan for the day?”

“Breakfast,” he says easily. “Then maybe I’ll check out that heated pool. Care to join me?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.” He saunters over to you, surprising you with a lift of your chin, and pecks you lightly on your cheek. “For practice.”

And then Jack disappears into the bathroom, and you think you almost died. He’s playing with you. Teasing you. He probably knows what he does to you—and oh, Jack Abbot… two can play that game.

You rifle through your bag for something to wear. Your fingers hesitate on the safer choices… then drift toward something else.

It’s cheeky. Flirty.

But you wonder… how far can you push him before he finally cracks? Before he lets go of his self-control and gives you what you really want? So fine. You’ll wear something cute. Maybe just a little sexy. Just enough to stay innocent, but more than enough to keep you in his head all day.

A cute sundress. Spaghetti strapped, short, just enough cleavage and thigh, and most importantly, no bra. Why would you? You’re headed to the heated pool. You’ll be changing into your red bikini anyway. Your very red bikini.

You smirk to yourself.

You’re finished doing your hair just as Jack steps out wearing shorts, and a loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, collar open enough to hint at his chest. The man knows he looks good.

“You can swim with your leg?”

“It’s waterproof.”

“Fancy.”

“Didn’t pay for it.” He chuckles. “Ready to go?”

“Mm-hm.” You hum, bending over in front of him to put on your shoes. You can hear him curse behind you. “Ready.”

You turn to face him, and bat your eyelashes innocently, “Something wrong?”

Jack’s jaw clenches and he reaches for the key card. “…Nothing. Let’s go?”

You’re still smirking as you walk out the door—Jack trailing a step behind, and probably hating how much he’s staring.

Breakfast isn’t crowded. It’s still early—most guests are probably sleeping in, nursing hangovers or enjoying the quiet. Which is why, as you sit across Jack at your table, you dare reach over for the jam—anyone behind him would be able to see that you’re not wearing a bra. And Jack—poor Jack—almost chokes on his orange juice.

“Christ.” He coughs, eyes wide, flicking from your chest to your face like he can’t quite believe what just happened. And then a twinkle of playfulness, like he’s saying: It’s on.

You pretend nothing happened, spreading jam all over your bread and taking a bite.

Jack watches you like a man possessed. Then he leans over the table. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth slowly.

“Missed a spot,” he murmurs.

And then he sucks his thumb clean.

Your jaw drops.

It seems like you’ve silently created a game of who will fold first. And you’re both damn competitive.

Jack clears his throat, changing the topic. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

You raise your brows. “Of course.”

He leans back slightly, watching you. Not with the usual flirt or challenge in his eyes.

“How are you still single?”

The question catches you off guard. You blink, caught somewhere between flattered and exposed. But you try to cover it. “Such a serious question.” You deadpan.

He doesn’t smile. “I mean it. You’re smart, funny, beautiful, and… I don’t know, you’ve got this… thing.”

“I’ve got a thing?”

He gives you a small smile. “Like you know exactly what you want. And it’s damn attractive.”

You pause, a piece of bread halfway to your mouth.

“Wow,” you say. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me over eggs and toast.”

Jack chuckles, but his eyes stay on yours. “Still waiting on the answer, though.”

You take your time answering. Spread a little more jam, chew thoughtfully, anything to delay the way your heart’s pounding in your chest.

You take a deep breath, letting yourself open up a little. “I guess…” you start slowly, setting your knife down. “Most guys say I’m too much. They like the flirting and everything, but when things actually become real… they kinda just want the flirty and sarcastic me.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Jack’s still looking at you—he’s known to have a staring problem, and now you see why. You won’t lie, there’s a part of you that wonder if Jack would be one of those guys. If he just wanted the flirting, non-commital chase. Maybe he’d rather pretend none of this happened when you’re back in your regular, ER lives. The thought scares you a little more than you’d like to admit.

You add, a little lighter, “Besides, you think I’ve got guys lined up just because I can make a joke and wear a dress without a bra?”

Jack’s smirk returns, but his voice stays low. “No. I think guys like the idea of a challenge—and then punish you for having standards. I think you’ve been waiting for someone who actually sees you. Not just the version they want you to be.”

You pause. His words hit harder than you expect.

“Maybe.” You say. “It’s hard to find a man like that.”

“Not as hard as you think.” Jack simply says.

You sit with his words for a moment longer, chewing on your lip.

Then, maybe a little shyly, maybe to level the playing field, you ask, “Can I ask you something?”

Jack nods, already know what you’re going to ask.

“Why are you single?” you ask, tilting your head. “You’re handsome, funny, albeit a little annoying…” you add, smiling, “That should’ve landed you someone by now.”

It’s not a teasing question, not really. You already know about his past—about the wife he lost, even if you never asked for details. But you’ve always wondered. Jack could’ve had anyone. So why… no one?

Jack’s smile fades—not completely, but just enough for you to notice. His gaze drops to his coffee, thumb brushing over the rim of the mug. “I think I just stopped looking for a while.”

You nod, quietly.

“And when I did start again…” He trails off for a second, fingers tapping lightly against his mug. “No one really felt right. Not in the way that makes me want to stay. Or try.”

“And are you?” You regret the moment that left your mouth so quickly.

“Am I what?”

Too late to back out now. “Looking for someone.”

He holds your gaze a second too long. “Yeah.”

And suddenly, breakfast doesn’t feel so light anymore.

The pool is a little crowded, but it wasn’t bad. Some kids are in the pool playing, adults are on the other side just enjoying the warm water. Jack comes back from the bathroom already shirtless, ready to soak in.

“Try not to stare too much.” He whispers to you.

“You’re the one with a staring problem.” You bump his shoulder before going to change.

Jack watches you go, running a hand through his hair. His mind drifts—Are you? Looking for someone? Your question keeps looping in his head.

God, the number of times he’s almost asked you out is countless. He’s been drawn to you since Shen’s “congrats-you-made-attending” party, when you both downed ten drinks in the booth and you told him everything. You might not remember all of it, but he remembers every second. How you laughed without holding back. How you leaned on his shoulder like it meant something. How your eyes lit up when you talked about what you loved—he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

There’s a glow in you that he wants to protect. Feed. Watch grow brighter.

But he always holds himself back. Because he’s scared if you think he might be too old for you. Not anymore. This weekend sums it up. He’s going to ask you out by the end of the week. By tomorrow.

As he watches you walk back to him, his resolve almost breaks right there. Because now he’s seeing you, in a glaring red bikini, making your way to him and time seems to slow down, it’s like he’s watching Baywatch. He has to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth.

“Try not to stare too much.” You tease him.

He groans audibly into you, his head resting on your shoulder. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“I would never.” You fake a gasp.

You go into the water first before Jack follows. You thought Jack would be a little uncomfortable, with everyone looking at him for a longer second, some even doing a double-take because of his leg, but he seems fine with it.

You, on the other hand, seem to be glaring at everyone who looks at him a certain way or whispers after.

“Don’t worry.” Jack chuckles, “I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t make it right.” You mutter.

He smiles at that. The water’s not too deep, so you just stand on the side, watching kids splash water around each other, some are crying, and you glance at Jack.

“You ever want kids?”

Jack turns to you, the corners of his mouth twitching before he gives an honest answer. “Used to. Not anymore. Not really. You?”

You shrug. “I only want it if my partner really wants it. Our jobs don’t exactly make it easy to have family.”

He snorts. “Spot on.”

You lean back a little, water sloshing softly around you as a kid cannonballs nearby. Jack lifts an eyebrow at the splash, brushing droplets off his face.

“I honestly think I’d be a bad parent.” You admit. “I wouldn’t know what to do if my kid is misbehaving.”

He sucks in a breath, “Well, seeing how you are in the ER… I don’t think the kid would even think about misbehaving.”

“Hey!” You hit him lightly and Jack laughs.

“Kidding.” He smiles, “I think you’d be a great mom. You’re strict, but you care.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure. You flirt like this with all your co-workers?”

And so the game continues.

“Only the ones I like.” He smirks. “And what’s your excuse for this red, hot bikini?”

You raise a brow, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating. “This one? It’s just red. Nothing special. Why? You like it?”

Jack’s eyes flick down, then back up. “I think that bikini’s not helping me stay on my best behavior.”

And then he turns away like he didn’t just say the most distracting thing in the world, pushing off the wall and floating backward lazily.

You’re left with your mouth gaping again, and a scoff leaves your lips.

It’s still a tie.

It’s been a few hours and now you’re lounging by the pool bar, nursing a margarita, watching over the crowd and Jack, a good few feet away, reading his book. You’re practically ogling him, and you’re pretty sure he knows you’re looking, because he just flexes his arm and puts it behind his head—you scoff. The gall.

But you’re not the only to notice, so it seems. One woman, decides to sit next to him—in your supposed chair—and starts talking to him. You frown, but would also like to see how it’ll play out.

She says something to him and Jack only gives her a curt, polite smile. Never says anything more than 4 words. And you don’t know why, but you feel like saying “that’s my man” when he technically isn’t.

That’s until she laughs a little too hard at something he didn’t even say and lands her hand on his arm. A little too close to his chest. So, fine, you’ll have to teach her a lesson.

You make your way to Jack and that woman. He’s sitting upright now, clearly trying to get away from the conversation. You step out of the pool dripping wet and place your hand on Jack’s shoulder, bringing his attention to you.

You don’t give him time to react, you just kiss him. Deeply. And Jack gasps a little before returning the fervor. You finally pull away first.

“I’m gonna head up to shower.” You say loud enough for the woman to overhear, “You wanna join me, baby?”

Jack swallows thickly, not expecting that, but abruptly stands up and follows you out of the pool area. You can only hear that woman scoff and groan while you grin, walking away with Jack holding your hand.

The second the elevator doors close behind you, Jack exhales sharply. He turns to you, trapping you with his arms. “You really committed to the bit,” he mutters, a half-laugh escaping him.

You grin, still dripping a little, your towel thrown over one shoulder. “You looked like you needed saving.”

“She was two seconds away from asking if I wanted to do a tequila shot in the hot tub.”

“Would you have said yes?”

Jack’s gaze flicks to you. “Not when I have you walking toward me looking like that.”

You tilt your head, playful. “So you were watching me.”

He smirks. “You weren’t exactly subtle yourself.”

Jack leans in a little, wanting to taste more of your honey, but the elevator dings and the doors open, and he groans. Terrible timing.

Back in the room, you go straight to the shower, and Jack lets out a quiet disappointed sigh, knowing he’d missed his chance of kissing you again. But that’s until you clear your throat, catching his attention from the bathroom.

He turns his head, watches as you only poke your head out from one side of the door. You have a playful smile on your lips as you put your hand out, revealing your red bikini—off, and dropped on the ground. You’re stark naked behind that wall, and the door’s wide open.

Jack’s jaw drops.

“Offer still stands, Jack.” You wink at him, and Jack’s never ran so fast in his life.

The bathroom’s already fogging up from the steam by the time Jack steps in, the door clicking shut behind him. You’re already under the spray, water gliding over your skin like something out of his wildest dreams.

He swallows, hard.

You tilt your head toward him, your smile gentler now, more real. “You coming in, Doctor?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just pulls down his shorts, wanting to join you fast, and when he finally steps in, he looks at you for a minute. Like he’s trying to remember every curve, every dip, every supple flesh—and his hands finally touch your waist.

The heat of the water is nothing compared to the heat in your chest when he touches you.

Jack mutters against your neck, kissing your skin like he’s starving. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You hum, arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly close, bare chests touching. “Oh I think I do.”

His mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth. His hands roam down your back, gripping your ass, pressing you against him—and there’s no pretending now. No flirting for show. Just the hunger of two people who’ve been dancing around this for far too long.

Your back hits the tiled wall, water raining down between heated kisses and wandering hands. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it like a man who’s been dying of thirst.

You can feel his length standing proudly against your stomach and you moan.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, forehead pressed against yours. “You know that?”

You smile, breathless, and then a flashback of this morning plays in your mind. You bury your head in his neck, groaning.

“What?” He asks. “Something wrong?”

“No—nothing.” You say, still slightly avoiding his eyes.

Jack frowns, a little worried. “Sweetheart. Tell me.”

“It’s stupid, it’s just—” You sigh in defeat. “I… may have touched myself this morning thinking of you. Right here.”

Oh?

An amused smile quickly replaces Jack’s expression. A raised brow. And now a smirk. “Yeah?”

You nod shamelessly.

“Show me.”

“..Huh?”

“Show me how you touched yourself.”

You blink a few times. You’re trapped between Jack and the wall, with no escape.

“Go on.” He encourages and you close your eyes, biting your lip as you repeat what you did this morning.

One hand on your breast, the other on your clit. And you feel so shy now. Because he’s watching you, watching as you play with yourself, legs slightly apart to finger yourself, and because you know he wants you to beg.

The figure eights aren’t working for you. Your eyes search for his as your free hand grips his wrist.

“Jack, please, I—”

He hums, “What’s that, sweetheart?”

You let out a breath. “I… I can’t cum like this. I—I need you. Please, Jack—”

He smiles, kissing you once more before bringing his own hands to your core. It’s wet and sloppy, and he knows he’d have no trouble fucking you right now but he wants to take his time.

So he kisses your neck, toys with your breasts, pinches your nipples in better ways than you imagined as he basks in all your moans and whines.

He finally reaches where you want him most, and you jolt in surprise when you feel his fingers rubbing your clit. His calloused fingers are rougher than you expected, and you welcome it warmly.

He puts in one finger into your core and you gasp, maintaining eye contact as Jack watches you crumble before him. “You’re doing so good for me, princess.”

Fuck him and his pet names. You bite your lip. It makes you feel things.

He pumps his finger a few times before adding a second and you moan loudly, feeling the stretch that is oh so good. “This how you imagined me?” He asks.

You hum, nodding your head. “Yeah… Just like this—ah fuck, Jack…” You call out his name when he hits the right spot.

You moan as he pumps his fingers, thumb circling your clit with practiced, devastating skill. You’re barely holding yourself up, legs trembling, breaths choppy and uneven. He kisses you again, swallowing your cries as he fucks you with his fingers, relentless, until you’re falling apart in his arms.

You fall over the edge, body shaking, clutching him like you’ll drown without him. He holds you through it, fingers slowing until your legs can steady again.

“That’s a good girl…”

You think your lips must be bruised by now. Jack is looking at you like he’s trying to coax out another orgasm, but you shake your head.

“Want you… please.”

He groans, “You keep asking me so nicely like that, and how can I say no?”

And when he finally lifts your leg around his hip and you feel the hard length of him press against you, you realize just how big he is.

“Having second thoughts?” He asks.

“Fuck no.” You tell him. “You’re just… so big.”

Jack chuckles. “You’ll be able to take it. Won’t you?”

You whimper as he pushes his tip in.

“That’s it…” He coaxes, “My good girl.”

You pant when he finally bottoms out inside you. He’s practically splitting you open.

“Feel that, baby?” Jack says, his hand rubbing your lower belly. “I’m all the way in there.”

You never took Jack as a dirty talker, but you love it.

“So deep, Jack—” Your breath hitches when he finally moves his hips, snapping up sharply.

You kiss him desperately, biting his lower lip, your cries muffled into his mouth.

You grip his back, dragging your nails down as he thrusts into you again—and again—slow at first, then harder, deeper, as your bodies find the rhythm you’ve craved.

He fucks you with purpose, with heat, with every ounce of restraint he’s been clinging to. His hips snap against yours, your bodies slick and hot, your name falling from his lips like a broken record.

Your moans echo off the tile, drowned slightly by the water still rushing above you.

He slips out of you for a second, turning you around to press you up against the wall, before gripping your hips, slamming back inside you from a new angle, and you gasp, because he’s much deeper now, and you feel him more. Especially with his balls slapping against your clit with every single thrust.

“You feel so good,” he pants. “Squeezing me so tight—”

“Jack—oh my God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his hand reaching for your shoulder, pulling you back. “Let go for me, baby.”

Your second orgasm comes hard, clenching around him with a sharp cry, body writhing in pleasure as your vision flashes white. Jack groans, burying his face into your neck as he follows, spilling deep inside you with a shudder and a hoarse growl of your name.

You moan, feeling him twitch inside you and filling you up. It’s warm, and you keep pushing back against him, wanting more of his cum.

“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” He grins, one hand on your throat as you lean back onto him. You only bite your lip return.

Jack whispers a ‘Jesus’ and hugs your waist, pressing a kiss on your shoulder.

He pulls out of you and you whine from the loss, feeling him drip out of you and down to your thighs. Jack groans at the sight.

You both breathe, hearts hammering, water cooling.

Jack kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips, slower this time.

By the time you’ve finished showering, it’s already 3:30PM. You only have about 30 minutes to get ready because Amy needs you to help her.

Jack helps you dry your hair while you do your makeup, casually brushing through the strands with a towel as if he’s done it a hundred times. It’s domestic. And if you didn’t already feel dizzy from what happened earlier, this would’ve done it.

You slip into your dress—a deep emerald green satin that hugs and flows in all the right places, held up by two delicate straps that run down your back. It’s timeless. Quietly stunning. And the moment Jack sees you in it, he lets out a quiet breath, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like it’s the only way to stop his hands from reaching for you.

You catch his eyes in the mirror just before he steps up behind you, his hands finding your waist.

“Is everything you own made of silk?” He hums, lips brushing just below your ear.

“Satin,” You correct, “But no, just this and yesterday’s nightie.”

He groans softly into your neck, “Don’t remind me.”

You laugh. “I have to go earlier to help Amy. I’ll see you in the garden?”

Jack nods. “Want me to go with you?”

“It’s okay,” You assure him, “Probably some girl stuff.”

He hesitates, then nods again. You press a kiss to his cheek and start to walk away—but his fingers catch your wrist, stopping you mid-step.

“Wait,” Jack says. His voice is quieter this time, a little uncertain. “Can we talk? Tonight?”

You pause. You know exactly what he means. This isn’t pretend anymore—it hasn’t been for a while now. And even if there’s a chance he might tell you this was all a mistake… you don’t think that’s what he’s going to say.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Of course we can talk.”

He exhales, relief flashing in his eyes, and lets your hand go. You walk to the door.

But before you can leave, he calls after you one last time.

“You look beautiful.”

You wink at him before closing the door.

Turns out Amy needs help getting dressed. Her stylist is busy retouching her makeup—because she bawled earlier—and now your mission is to use as many tide pens as it takes to erase the smudges she left on her dress.

“Oh my God,” Amy mutters, fanning her face with both hands. “I can’t believe I made a huge mess of myself.”

You chuckle, dabbing at the fabric. “It’s your wedding, girl. Tears are part of the dress code.”

“Don’t even say the W-word,” she hisses. “Talk about something else. Quick. Or the waterworks are coming again.”

“Uh—okay, what do you want me to talk about?” You panic, attacking another mascara stain.

“You and Jack.” She grabs your wrist. “Distract me with how you fell in love with him. Give me the juicy details.”

You blink.

Shit.

“Well… I…” You gulp. “I guess it started when I transferred. Like two years ago.”

It’s not a lie—you’ve had a crush on Jack practically since day one. The man’s competent, confident, funny as hell. Checks all the boxes. And when he calls you by your first name in that deep voice of his? Game over. “He made me feel like I had a high school crush again.”

“That’s it?” Amy stares at you flatly, “Give me more details! Where’s the tea??”

You groan, finally caving. “Okay, okay. I fainted once, and he caught me in his arms.”

Her jaw drops. “Like a princess?”

“Yeah, except covered in blood,” you laugh. “It was one of those marathon shifts. I’d just finished doing CPR on a guy, barely slept, barely ate—next thing I know, lights out. And Jack—he just broke my fall and carried me to the on-call room like it was nothing.”

A chorus of soft “awwws” breaks out in the room from Amy’s mom, cousin, and stylist.

You roll your eyes. “Relax. He probably did it out of duty. He’s my attending. Professional courtesy.”

Just then, you hear a loud voice from the hallway.

“Jack!” Harry calls from just outside the room. The door is slightly ajar.

Your entire body goes stiff. You whip your head to Amy, wide-eyed. “Do you think he heard all of that?”

Amy winces. “Would it make you feel better if I said no?”

Fuck. It’s not a huge deal, it’s just… a little silly. A little secret you hope Jack would never know because then he’d know you’ve had a thing for him for years now.

Amy finally walks down the aisle, her father giving her away. The garden is glowing—fairy lights strung between trees, blooms in every shade of pinks and whites, and soft mist curling along the grass like something out of a dream.

You’re standing next to Jack, having met him by the garden after helping Amy get ready. You’re not sure if he heard your whole fainting confession from outside her room, but if he did, he’s been polite enough not to bring it up.

Now, as the guests settle into their seats, watching Amy and Harry at the altar, Jack places a hand gently on your knee. You rest yours on top of his without thinking.

And when your best friend starts her vows—shaky but glowing with joy—you feel the tears build up. Jack silently hands you a folded handkerchief.

“God,” you whisper with a watery laugh, dabbing at your eyes. “You’re so old.”

“You like me old.” He whispers back.

The ceremony ends beautifully—vows exchanged, cheers rising, a kiss under the canopy of lights. Soon, everyone begins drifting toward the ballroom for food, drinks, and dancing.

You’re at the bar by yourself, sipping your second margarita, watching Amy spin around the dance floor in Harry’s arms. She looks completely happy. The kind of happy you hope stays forever.

“Amy’s best friend, right?” You hear someone beside you. “I’m Jackson. A friend of Harry’s.”

You squint for a moment before shaking his hand. “Avery?”

“Guilty.” He smiles. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen you on the news. And your mother. And grandfather.”

Jackson hums. “Figures.”

You nod. “How do you know Harry?”

“We went to the same med school.” He says and glances at your drink, “I take it you love margaritas?”

“Gee, what gave it away?”

He laughs, “Well you were drinking one earlier today too. By the pool.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. Is he flirting with you? “Oddly observant, aren’t you?”

“No,” He denies, “You just make quite the impression. Hard to miss.”

Okay he is flirting.

You raise a brow, amused, and you glance over your shoulder. Jack’s across the room, just finished talking to some people, and now he’s weaving through the crowd, eyes locked on you with a slightly furrowed brow.

“Boyfriend?” Jackson asks.

“Yep.” You say without hesitation.

“Darn.”

“You didn’t see how I was making out with him by the pool?”

Jackson smiles, shrugging. “My mind must’ve been elsewhere.”

“Well,” he says, already stepping back, “I should go before he decides to break my nose.”

You smirk. “Nice meeting you, Jackson.”

“You too.” He gives you a nod before disappearing into the crowd.

Just then, Jack reaches you, sliding a hand to your lower back like he’s staking a claim. You lean into him, pleased. And just a little smug.

“Hi,” He smiles.

“There you are.” You smile back.

He offers you his hand. “Dance with me.”

You blink, caught off guard. Jack Abbot dances? But you take his hand without question, letting him lead you to the floor just as a soft, slow cover of The Way You Look Tonight drifts through the speakers.

“Didn’t know you dance, Jack.”

Jack pulls you in gently, one hand resting on your bare lower back, the other folding around yours. Your free hand finds his shoulder. You breathe in the clean scent of him—his cologne and something you can only describe as him—and try not to melt into him entirely.

“Only with the right person,” he replies, voice quiet near your ear.

Your cheeks flush. You hope he doesn’t feel how fast your heart’s beating.

“So,” He starts casually, “Jackson Avery, huh?”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Jealous?”

Jack shrugs, “A little.”

Your eyes flicker up to him, surprised. No man would ever admit that so easily—have themselves be vulnerable in front of a woman like that. It makes you feel warm inside, the thought that Jack can be protective of you because another man was flirting with you.

“I’d understand,” Jack says, a little dejected. “He’s a lot younger, more handsome, definitely rich—”

“—I shoo-ed him away.” You cut his sentence.

Jack raises a brow. “Why’s that?”

You mimic his shrug, trying not to smile too much. “I have a boyfriend.”

And he grins, a genuinely happy smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

You rest your head lightly against Jack’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the music sways through you both.

“So should we rip off the band-aid now?” You daringly ask.

He chuckles under his breath, the vibration soft against your cheek. “If you want to.”

You pull back just slightly so you can see him.

He lifts his gaze to yours, steady and warm.

“This weekend,” you say, your voice quiet but clear, “it’s not just pretend. Right?”

“No,” he says simply. “I…I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a sap,” he admits. “But I want to be with you. In every sense of the word. I want to make you laugh, be there when you cry, I want… I want everything with you.”

Your heart trips over itself, but your smile is calm.

“Me too.” You don’t hesitate. “I want all of it with you, Jack.”

He exhales, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been holding onto for a long time. Then he leans in and kisses you, soft and slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, your lips are still tingling, and you hum at the loss.

For a second, you both just look at each other, breath mingling.

“So…” Jack tilts his head with a teasing smile, “you’ve had a crush on me since you transferred?”

“Ugh,” You try to hide your face in his chest. “So you were eavesdropping??”

“By accident,” he says quickly, laughing. “I was just looking for you.”

You squint. “Missed me that much, huh?”

He’s here. At this bar. Of all nights.

He hasn't spotted you yet, but you can see he's having a great time with his co-workers. Langdon is there, Collins too, and for once Robby is laughing without a care in the world. You want to say hi, but your friends are already dragging you to the dance floor. Besides, you're curious what he’ll do when he finally notices you.

But Jack’s already noticed.

He’s been stealing glances since you walked in, pretending not to look too long as you twirl and laugh under the flashing lights. Your dress clings in all the right places, dipping perfectly to show your cleavage, hugging every line of your body like it was stitched for sin.

Jack’s heart stutters.

The way you move isn’t for anyone in particular, but it damn well feels like a siren call—slow, confident, sensual. The dress rides up slightly as you spin, and your thigh peeks out just enough to make his breath catch.

If it weren't for Langdon calling for his attention, he would've jumped you by now.

"Yo Abbot— Damn," he whistles, "Someone’s out to kill tonight."

"You're tellin' me." Jack mutters, a proud yet hungry smile etched across his lips, "My girl knows how to put on a show, alright."

"Wait, that's your girl??" Langdon follows his gaze.

Jack nods once.

"I don't believe it." Javadi says.

"And you let her dress like that when you’re not around?"

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. "I don’t let her do anything. She can dress however she wants."

Langdon raises a brow. "Alright, modern man."

Jack sets down his glass and says calmly with a smirk, "Besides, she knows who she belongs to."

The table goes in waves of "oooh"s and whistles for half a second before someone murmurs, "Damn, okay," and they all take another shot.

Back on your side of the bar, you’re oblivious to the murmurs about you, caught up in the music and the high of the night. You wander to the bar for another drink, separated from your group for just a moment, when an uninvited man decides to make his move on you.

A guy—tall, clearly drunk, and way too confident. "Hey, beautiful," he slurs. "You look like you could use some company."

"No thanks." You say curtly.

He laughs and leans in closer anyway, eyes dropping to your dress. "You whores always try to play hard to get..."

Then his hand reaches out—fingers grazing your lower back.

He doesn’t get far.

A hand closes around his wrist, firm and alert.

"Hey, buddy—" the guy starts to protest, turning slightly, only to find himself face-to-face with your lover.

"You should walk away." Jack says with the kind of presence that makes everything in the room feel suddenly still.

The guy scoffs. "And who the fuck are you, old man?"

"I'm her man." Jack says proudly.

The guy lets out a sharp laugh. "You??"

Jack tilts his head, smile slow and cool. "Yeah. Me."

He steps in like he’s trying to size Jack up. "Why don't you go play hero somewhere else?"

"Last chance." Jack exhales once. "Back away."

Instead of listening, the guy sneers and reaches to you again—like he’s about to brush against your hip.

That’s when Jack moves.

He grabs the guy’s wrist mid-motion and twists. Not enough to do damage. Just enough to send pain shooting through the idiot’s arm.

The guy chokes out a curse, dropping back, eyes wide now.

Jack leans in slightly, stares at him like looks could kill. "You don’t want to find out what I’d do next. Now walk away."

And this time, he does. Muttering while rubbing his wrist, vanishing into the crowd.

"Hi, hero."

"Hey, trouble." He smirks, hands draping around your waist, making sure he covers the area that asshole tried to touch you. "You okay?"

"Mm-hmm," you hum. "That was kinda hot."

Jack chuckles, "Oh, honey, you're drunk."

"Yes I am," You confirm. "So what are you doing here, handsome?"

"Donnie's birthday," Jack explains, "we're celebrating. Wanna come say hi?"

"Of course." You smile.

As you approach the table, conversation dips for a beat before Santos lets out a low whistle. "No way. This is your girl, Abbot?"

Jack doesn't answer, just gently pulls you closer and kisses you to make a point. His hand settles just above the curve of your ass, thumb brushing slow circles while you lean into him.

Langdon raises his brows. "My mind is blown right now. How'd you convince her to put up with you?"

"He didn't," you say sweetly, crossing one leg over the other. "I just like a man who can handle power tools, bruised ribs… and knows exactly what he’s doing in bed."

Jack nearly chokes on his drink, and the group erupts with laughter and a few scandalized woo-hoos. He clears his throat, glancing at you with a half-smirk. “Remind me to keep you away from tequila.”

You say goodbye to Jack's coworkers and your friends—they all had their jaws on the floor when they finally saw Jack in the flesh. With screams of "you go get it girl" and "someone's gettin' some tonight" following you out, you finally leave the bar, ears flushed, heart hammering in your chest.

You take a deep breath, finally breathing cool, fresh air. Jack's given you his jacket, like the gentleman he is, and now you're walking home, hand in hand.

"You okay walking? Want me to carry you?" Jack asks, glancing sideways.

You shake your head. "Need to walk off the alcohol anyway."

He hums, "So how was your night?"

"Fun!" you say brightly, then wrinkle your nose, "Until that asshole tried touching me. Ugh."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Jack says, kissing your hand.

"It's okay, you were there to save me. And you made it all okay." You smile, draping his arm around your shoulders. "Though maybe it’s the dress. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this."

"No, no, we're not gonna do that." Jack stops walking. "You said no, and he didn't listen, he's an ass, and karma will get him one day."

You hum, though Jack can tell you're still not convinced.

Jack turns to you and gently cups your cheek, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Sweetheart. You can dress any way you like. You look stunning tonight. You always do."

You smile softly. "Okay."

His mouth curls into that slow, grinch-like smirk you know too well. "Besides... I love being the one to take off those clothes once you're done showing off."

Your gasp, then narrow your eyes playfully. "Is that a threat, Dr. Abbot?"

"Oh, baby," he says, sliding his hand from your cheek to the back of your neck, "That’s a promise."

----