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born to marry him, forced to read fanfics about him

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Discoveries of My Own ~ ryland grace x reader
2.8k words, smut, use of vibrator, overstimulation a little
Ryland finds a little secret you've hidden away on Erid, would he even be a scientist if he didn't experiment?
This is actually filthy, sorry in advance
---------
You hadn’t meant to start something, but that’s usually how conversations go with Rocky and Adrian now that you were settled on Erid. When asked if there was anything still on the Hail Mary that you might want brought down to the planet, you mentioned a duffel bag that was left behind in the initial move. You didn’t tell them why you wanted it, just made a passing comment about if they happen to see it, could they grab it.
That, of course, led to a small group of Eridians, accompanied by Rocky, making the trip back up to do a sweep of the ship. They brought down a ton of stuff, just kind of whatever they saw, really. You and Ryland spent an afternoon sorting and organizing, it sounded silly but you realized that neither of you wanted to throw anything away. Any reminders of earth you had were on that ship, which made it hard to separate from. Ryland drew the line at literal trash, saying that the Eridians could at least study the materials for their own research.
Your duffel bag was the first thing you brought back to the house, setting it in the closet and honestly forgetting about it. With so much going on in the biodome, there was always something to supervise. If nothing else, Rocky and Adrian kept you busy.
So when you returned to the house one afternoon, quietly studying some new materials Rocky dropped off for you both to examine, and spotted Ryland sitting on the bed, you thought nothing of it.
He let you show him the samples, listened intently while you explained where they came from and what they were used for. He left you alone for a bit, letting you do your thing for a few hours.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
His arms wrapped around your stomach, head coming down to kiss your temple, your cheek, your jaw. You don’t try to stop him, recognizing his message instantly. He wanted something, he was just being a little shy about asking. You turn to him with a hum, giving him a smile with raised eyebrows, expectant.
“Making any big discoveries over here?” He asks with a smirk against your lips.
“Huge discoveries, actually,” and you kiss him properly.
He kisses you lazily, taking his time, drawing out whatever he was so shy about. He used to be this way when it came to intimacy of any sort, reserved, like he was embarrassed to ask for anything. But it had been a few years since then, the confidence boost you gave him made him a little bit of a monster in bed, honestly. You had quietly told him that you like it when he takes charge, like when he’s not scared to tell you what he wants. That conversation had freed him, he told you later.
You wouldn’t push him now, he would tell you when he was ready, even if it did make you extremely curious. He’s not mysterious, as much as he wants to be, he’ll crack soon, he can’t help it. You let him pull you out of your seat and loop your arms over his shoulders. He hugs you to him for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then he’s moving, dragging you to the bedroom and down onto his lap. You don’t fight him, taking a seat right where he wants you.
He kisses you again, this time it’s heated. Teeth and tongues, groans and whimpers as you roll your hips over his a little. His hands roam your thighs and hips, sliding over your ass to help move you on him. He makes a small noise into your mouth and pulls back, he’s struggling to hold eye contact with you and oh, that’s new.
“I-um, so I made a discovery of my own today…” His face is red, he’s staring at your nose, hands tightening on your back.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. You know all that - um, all that stuff they brought down from Mary for us?”
Uh oh, you’re caught. It brings a small smirk to your lips, thinking about Ryland snooping through your things, his face going bright red when he saw it.
You let out a breath, tapping his cheek to get him to look at you. “Tell me, baby,” you’re all sweet tones, might as well have a little fun with him, you think.
He finally looks into your eyes, “I, ha-uh found your-your vibrator…”
There it is.
“Didn’t know you had that up there,” a pause, “did you ever use it?”
You never had the chance, considering the close quarters and the alien who could see through walls and hear every sound you made. He would have alerted Ryland immediately, you just knew it. You shake your head with a laugh, “no, there’s no way I would’ve been able to without you knowing.”
He sits with that for a moment, gears turning in his head. The eye contact feels a little overwhelming now, he’s biting his bottom lip and circling his thumbs on the skin under your shirt. “Can I use it on you?”
Your brows shoot up, heat flushing your face. “You want to… I-I mean, yes, yeah totally,” your flustered answer pulls a laugh from him. A hand on the back of your head slams you down to his lips, he groans into you, unable to help the twitch of his hips at your words.
He makes quick work of your clothes, peeling you out of everything and laying you flat on the bed. His mouth suctions to your throat, little nibbles and licks making your breath hitch. One of his hands holds him up while the other roams your body. Nimble fingers run up your side, skirting around your breast. He’s all teasing touches and soft words, slowing down like he’s been waiting for this all day. He probably has been, you think.
Kisses move down your chest, paying special attention to each nipple. The scratch of his beard is delicious against your heated skin, he leaves red marks everywhere he kisses without even trying. Your hands are in his hair, on his back, sinking nails into his shoulders. One thing you know about Ryland is that when he has you like this, he can’t help but ravish you, taking his time and working you up so sweetly.
He’s moving again, sliding all the way down until he can throw your legs over his shoulders. He doesn’t dive right in, taking a second to look up at you and admire the sight. You feel that heat in your cheeks again, then he said, “I turned it on earlier, it’s kind of strong. Is.. is it better for you if I-um warm you up a little?”
The heat changes for you then, from a hot flush in your face to a warmth settling in your chest. Of course Ryland would be thinking about how he can make it as good for you as possible. All he ever does is worry about your comfort, you can almost picture the look on his face when he felt how powerful the toy was.
And you can’t blame him, to be completely fair. You know what Stratt packed for you, it was your request - a brand new satisfyer pro 2. You had the pro on earth, Stratt decided on the upgrade to the pro 2, citing that the reviews were even better. There was no resistance from you, if she was going to shoot you into space, well, you wouldn’t stop her from providing the best of the best for personal time.
But with Ryland already laying between your legs, you didn’t really want to stop him. “Warm me up a little, please?” Your hand strokes his cheek, watching his eyes flutter closed as he leans into you. His tongue licks a smooth stripe up, wide and flat, stopping just short of your clit. He does it a few more times, wanting a moan from you before he finally flicks over your sensitive bud.
Your hands bury in his hair, tugging the golden strands, encouraging him on. Ryland handles eating your pussy like he handles the rest of your body, he takes his time, chasing your noises, planting soft kisses between the harsher sucks. He feels your legs try to clamp around his head and pulls back, climbing up over you to lick into your mouth and let you taste yourself. It makes your moan jump up in pitch and he eats it up.
You see him slide a hand under his pillow, he pulls out the vibrator and just sets it beside you, looking to you for help. “Show me how you use it?” He whispers it against your mouth, a little unsure but so endearing. You nod, kissing him again, and push him up so he’s sitting on his knees between your spread legs.
You pick up the toy, examining it for a moment, you know how intense your orgasms can be with these things, you almost feel like you should warn him in case you accidentally kick him. His hands running soothingly over your legs pulls you back to him, he lifts under your knee and kisses the bend, trying to hide how excited he is behind his simmering stare.
“Come on, baby, wanna see what you can do,” his voice is gruff, like he’s pushing down his own need. That’s all it takes for you to turn the toy on. You reach down and run it through the slick at your entrance. The slow slide up to your clit is familiar, making your legs twitch as you land right where you need it. The pulsing immediately draws a gasp from you, the sight making Ryland moan low in his throat.
“That feel good, sweetheart? Looks fucking amazing,” his eyes are locked on your core, watching how your cunt clenches with each small movement of your wrist. You give it a moment before you turn the speed up once, giving yourself just enough to get your hips rolling. Muscle memory kicks in and your free hand reaches up to your breast, rolling your nipple with a sigh.
Ryland just watches, studying how you move the toy so minutely, amazed at how intimately you seem to know your body. He lets you work yourself up, his steady pressure on your legs grounding you, helping you remember that he’s here. Until he can’t sit still anymore. His hand covers yours, silently asking for control. You give it to him easily, letting him slide the head of the toy around until he finds all the spots that make you shake.
He ups the speed, watching in amazement as your whole body reacts. “Is this okay?” He whispers against your thigh. Your nod and moan are the only answer he gets, but he takes that as permission to experiment more. He sets your leg down to bring his hand to your slit, fingers sliding through your wetness and circling your entrance. He pushes one finger in, groaning at how tight you are. “I can feel the vibrations, holy shit,” he’s just as breathless as you are.
He pumps two fingers into you, curling up and finding that spot inside you. It nearly makes you scream when he rubs against the nerves. That mixed with the pulsing going steadily on your clit pushes you right over the edge. You come with a cry, body spasming around Ryland’s fingers. He doesn’t stop, letting you ride it out until you’re grabbing the toy and turning the speed down with a groan.
“Holy shit, baby. That was amazing. You’re so fucking hot, oh my god.” He’s laying over you again, hands holding your face, kissing you messily. It takes a minute for you to come down, but he’s patient with you while you find yourself again. “That was a big one, you okay?” He’s so gentle with you, you swear he has no idea how much of a turn on it is.
“Mm, I’m good.” A deep breath. You feel his cock pressing against you, you know he would be more than happy to stop after that, but you’re not quite ready for that. “Ry, will you use it while you fuck me?” You’re not even embarrassed at the words coming out of your mouth, too busy thinking about how good it would feel to come with him like that.
He makes a strangled noise, burying his head in your neck. He twitches in his pants, can’t help it when he ruts into you, seeking that sweet pressure against him. “Yeah,” he says your name into your skin, “yeah, we can do that.” The heat in his eyes is a stark contrast to how gently he holds you, like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this.
He sits back again, lifting your hips and sliding a pillow under you. His shirt and pants come off quickly, his dick bouncing up as soon as it’s free. He gives himself a few strokes, watching as you turn the toy back on, making sure it’s on a low setting and settling it against your clit again. It makes you moan, you’re so sensitive from your last release. Ryland lines himself up and presses the tip in, leaning over you again like he just can’t hold himself up.
The moan that slips out of him is raw and high pitched. The vibrations are a lot, and he’s only got the tip in. “Holy - oh baby, this is - you’re incredible.” The praise falls from his lips like second nature, he’s nearly babbling already. Your legs wrap around his back enough to press him in a little further. He manages to hold it together until he’s fully seated in your warm heat, but as soon as his hips meet yours he whimpers.
You feel so full, the stimulation from the toy making you clench harder than normal. You bask in it for only a moment, turning the vibrator up a notch and letting your head fall back with a gasp. He gives a testing thrust, shuddering as he makes it almost all the way out before bullying his way back in. He finds a rhythm, his face stays buried in your neck, muffling his whines.
The warmth in your stomach coils tight, your legs shaking on either side of him. Ryland feels it, can sense how close you’re getting, so he slides a hand down and pushes a button on the toy, turning it up once more. Your jaw drops, voice cracking on his name. Your back arches up into him, your spasming walls pulling him under with you. Your vision whites out as he comes with the loudest groan you’ve ever heard from him.
He keeps pumping into you, biting back his cries to hear yours. It’s an overwhelming feeling, you can’t stop shaking, can’t stop your fingers from digging into his back. And you don’t know what comes over him but the hand he still has on the toy hits the button again. The speed jumps up and you feel him slam into you one, two, three more times. You never had a chance, really, and that coil built fast and snapped faster.
You convulsed under him as you came a third time, your body wringing his cock for all it’s worth before going limp. He quickly turns the toy down, taking care to remove it from your swollen clit gently. Your breath comes in short pants, eyes heavy and legs shaking.
You feel Ryland set the toy aside, his now soft cock sliding out of you with a wet noise. He’s placing kisses all over you, whispering praise quietly, like he was afraid to disturb your peace. His weight presses you into the mattress, grounding pressure helping to bring you back to him. When your eyes finally crack open, you see Ryland above you. He’s smiling from ear to ear, his eyes glowing.
“There you are. You okay, sweetheart?” His voice is low, big hands coming up to stroke your hair out of your face.
You take a quick inventory of yourself - shaking legs, trembling hands, floaty head - yep, you’re more than okay. You pull him into a kiss, trying to find your voice.
“That was so good, Ry. So, so good.”
His smile grows impossibly wider and he pushes up to look down at your body, his face going a little red again. “Did you know you could squirt?” The sly smirk that comes out does not go unnoticed.
“Mhm, just haven’t ever done it with a partner,” it’s your turn to go a little red.
“Aw, I got to be your first?” And he laughs, kissing your cheek.
“Shut up,” and you laugh too.
He rolls you both over so you’re laying on his chest. You enjoy the quiet for a few minutes, just soaking in the bliss. But Ryland is Ryland, and he always has something to talk about.
“I bet Rocky could make different kinds of toys for us to use…”
“Ryland!”
“Just a thought! I never tried any back home, I’d love to see what else I’ve been missing out on.”
Robin Hood and Reader - That of two hearts one heart make we
I wrote this based on little more than the Death Of Robin Hood trailer and this new fic has had not much more inspiration! But inspired I was.
This was supposed to be just a one shot, but apparently it had other ideas...there will be at least one more part.
Disclaimer - obviously I have no seen the film yet and so my interpretation of Robin is very much based on the trailer and pics of Hugh that we have so far had. Reader is not Jodie Comer's character.
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence, implied poisoning, masturbation (f)
****
You noticed the figure coming across the fields. At first, you didn’t really pay much attention. It was not unusual to see someone taking that route. It was unusual for them to be heading towards your cottage. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed and waited. He, for it was a he, was limping slightly, a large staff in one hand, helping him along. When he finally reached the edge of your property, he stopped. Stopped and stared at you.
‘Well,’ you said, ‘what has the wind blown to my door?’
The man looked at you, not daring to move closer.
‘Just looking for a kind face and a soft bed,’ he said.
You snorted.
‘And you thought you’d find both here? That was presumptuous of you.’
He shrugged and you sighed.
‘Come,’ you said and moved inside.
Your home was comfortable, for what it was. You had the luxury of two rooms, a small chamber at the back was where you slept. Everything else happened in the main room. The man peered around, noting a small cot in the corner near the fire.
‘You have the sight and were already expecting me?’ he grinned.
You glared at him.
‘Of course not!’ you snapped, ‘that is my daughter’s.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘You have a daughter now?’
Your back was to him and he could not see your face. Something you were glad of as he could not see the emotions warring there. Yes, you had a daughter now.
‘I do,’ you said, turning around again, ‘she will be returning soon. She helps the farmer with his milking. It’s not much but it helps.’
‘And what do you do for work?’ he asked, taking a seat on a stool by the door. Presumptuous again as you had not invited him to sit. You perched on the edge of the small table.
‘Same as I always did.’
He smiled.
‘You were always fine with a needle,’ he said.
‘Better on cloth than on flesh, so if you’ve got any injuries that need tending to you’ll have to find your way to the healer woman.’
‘I have no injuries,’ he said, ‘not this time.’
You looked up as your daughter appeared at the door. She stood stock still and looked at this stranger. Or, not quite a stranger. The stranger looked decidedly like her.
‘Robin, this is Beatrice. She is your daughter.’
***
Thirteen years before
Robin had come to the village injured and had remained long after he had been mended. More correctly, he had remained a fixture in your bed. The shame of it disappearing each night as he took you. You were greedy for him, as he was for you. He had awakened in you a hunger and a lust that you had not been aware of before.
‘The women in the village think me a whore,’ you said to him one night as you lay entwined, bodies still glistening with the sweat of your exertions.
‘You're no whore,’ he said, his voice deep and low.
You hugged yourself to his side, feeling his arm snaking around your waist.
‘Well, that’s the opinion some have.’
He snorted derisively.
‘What in God’s name has it got to do with them? You’re hurting no one. No harm in a little pleasure.’
He was right. You hoped he was right. You were not an overtly religious person, but you knew that what you’d both been doing was a sin. Maybe you should go to confession. You knew what he’d have to say about that if you did. You reached down and pulled the thin blanket up over you both, tucking it in around you.
‘You need to let me trim your hair tomorrow,’ you said, your voice now thick with sleep.
‘Whatever you wish,’ came the reply.
You were husband and wife in all ways but one. At least that was how the fantasy played in your head. You knew it wouldn’t last and that one day he would move on. Men like him always did. He was too dangerous and you were surprised he’d stayed in this place for as long as he had. But, you supposed, he had reason to. At least for now.
When he did move on it was with reluctance. Too many of the sheriff’s men had started appearing in the village to be comfortable. To his credit he made no promises about coming back as you both knew they were unlikely to be kept. A few months later when your courses had failed to arrive again and you felt nauseous every morning, you began to wish he would appear. He did not. And you were left to carry your shame alone.
Except you were not ashamed. You stroked the swell of your belly and felt the kick of the babe inside. Your heart soared to meet them. You would not be the first woman to have a child out of wedlock but you might have been the first one you knew who was actually honest about it. You sat in defiance of people’s judgement until one day the blacksmith’s son approached you and asked if you would marry him.
‘Why?’ You’d asked him.
He gestured at your belly. You looked down at it.
‘You wish to be a father to my child?’
‘Is that so bad?’ He asked, ‘you are in want of one after all.’
You stared at him. In the manner that had gotten you called sly and devious by many before now.
‘My child has a father,’ you said plainly.
He looked around.
‘And where might he be?’
You rolled your eyes.
‘I meant that you are not her father and you never will be. You would have no claim over her.’
He looked a little taken aback at how freely you spoke of a daughter when you could never know such a thing. Maybe you were a witch after all.
You didn’t want to, not really. But you were beginning to now wonder if a man at your side, wed in the eyes of God, might not be such a bad thing. It would legitimise your daughter at the very least. Which was ridiculous and everyone knew it. Everyone knew the child wasn’t this man’s and no one would be foolish enough to pretend it was, but when she was born, you’d be married and thus she would not be deemed a bastard.
So, you married him. And then about a month later your child was born. Your child. And Robin Hood’s. Your husband stood looking at the baby in your arms, squinting.
‘Stop trying to work out who she looks like,’ you cooed at the child, ‘she is her own person.’
When he finally was able to take you to bed, he was, as you expected, a letdown. Robin had fucked you well, as he had rather arrogantly put it but you couldn’t disagree. Hard, deep and slow. He made sure that you were also pleasured, be it with his cock, fingers or mouth, something that your husband seemed incapable of doing even with your instruction. Instruction which just made him more resistant. Was he jealous of that that man had done with you, how he had made you feel? You thought he likely was. Idiot.
The first time you tried to push your husband’s head down between your legs he recoiled and left the room. You sighed and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. When it became clear he was not returning, you hitched up your shift and ran your own finger along your slit and over that sensitive little nub. This was something else Robin had shown you, encouraged you to do. He loved to see you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers stoked and rubbed, the noises you made, the way your legs shook as you came. In a moment of mischief, as you moved your hand between your legs, you sighed out Robin’s name, thinking of him and what he had done all the while. You didn’t know if your husband heard you or not and you didn’t care.
The first time he hit you was the last time. You’d done nothing to provoke him other than exist within his orbit. He was a weak man, clear from the way he slapped you. Something else Robin Hood had taught you was how to defend yourself and you were not going to be beaten by some lanky streak of piss. You hit him back. Hard in the face. He was shocked and went to hit you again but you simply stood and stared at him. He walked off and you sat down at the table, calmly, and thought.
What Robin had not taught you was a darker means of defence. That was what you got from the healer woman. As she pointed out, not all herbs and plants were meant to heal. It was obviously a tragedy when your husband died but you somehow managed to carry on and thrive, as did the henbane growing at the edge of the garden…
****
As your husband had inherited the forge from his father so you inherited it from him. You had no clue how to do blacksmithing and had little desire to take up the trade anyway, but you knew it was a good and steady business. The apprentice who had been working with your husband took over the work and you split the profits with him. It was an arrangement that suited you both and meant that you always had a means of income when times were lean.
As the years went by, you thought less and less about Robin Hood, even while your daughter grew and resembled him more. A few who had remembered his stay gave you and she a few judgmental glances but you did not care and neither did she. You told her who her father was, why he was not around, the stories that people told of him. She asked questions which you answered, as best you could. You told her that if you knew where he was then you would tell him about her.
‘It’s not a bother,’ she said one afternoon.
‘No?’
She shrugged.
‘I have lived this long without him,’ you smiled a little, she was only about eight, ‘I think I shall be fine.’
Still and all, it broke your heart a little to see her a few days later fashioning a bow and practising letting off arrows into a target she had propped against a tree.
And now he sat in front of her.
‘You are my father,’ she said bluntly.
Robin looked from her to you and then back again.
‘I…I suppose so.’
‘Beatrice, take this to the healer,’ you said, handing her a basket full of cloth.
‘But…’
‘Go. And take your time please.’
You stood with your hands on your hips and watched the girl walk off.
‘You could have warned me...’ he began.
‘And how did I do that exactly?’ you said, ‘you never returned…I had assumed you would not but a girl can dream...and then what? I did not know where you were. And I certainly did not know you were going to show up at my door today.’
He stared out the door in the direction the girl had gone.
‘She’s bonny,’ he said.
‘She is.’
‘Takes after her mother,’ he added with a smile.
‘No,’ you admonished, waggling a finger at him, ‘don’t think you can charm your way back in. That might have worked when I was an innocent girl but not now.’
He had laughed a little when you said the word innocent and you glared at him.
‘If I recall you told me that I was not a whore.’
‘You weren’t. But that doesn’t mean you were a blushing virgin either.’
‘Not after you’d had your way,’ you muttered.
‘Make it sound like I forced you.’
You sighed.
‘Of course you didn’t. I…I had just gotten used to the idea of never seeing you again, that’s all.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding genuine.
You smiled at him and turned back to the table, pouring him a cup of ale.
‘You can stay for tonight,’ you said.
‘But...?’
‘But what?’
‘But then you want me to leave?’
You picked at a loose thread on your skirt.
‘I don’t know.’
***
Beatrice returned and while you prepared supper, she sat outside with her father, peppering him with questions. Highly inappropriate questions but he did at least have the decency to answer her.
‘Why did you not marry my mother?’ she asked.
‘I never thought to ask her. And my life is not made for a wife to be following me around.’
‘Did you know about me?’
‘No. Not until today.’
She thought for a moment.
‘Would you have come back if you had?’
He looked at her, this girl who was so like him but also so much like you.
‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
She shrugged.
‘You’re honest. It’s best to be honest.’
She sat silently a while. She had given Robin her bow to examine and he was making a few adjustments. As he worked, she tucked her legs up under her skirt and rested her head on her knees.
‘Have you killed many men?’ she asked.
His hand stilled for a moment before continuing with his work.
‘Too many to number,’ he admitted.
‘Do you regret it?’
He tested the tautness of the bowstring.
‘Some. Not all.’
‘If they are bad then they deserve it,’ she said matter of factly.
Robin glanced at her.
‘You think so?’
‘Mama said…’ then she stopped.
‘What did you mother say?’ He encouraged.
She hid her face in her skirt, shy now.
‘She wouldn’t like it.’
Robin gave her a smile.
‘Then you need not tell me,’ he said softly.
You came to the door.
‘Come along you two, supper.’
Robin leant over and spoke in a stage whisper.
‘We’d better do as we are told.’
He turned and smiled as he heard your tutting.
Robin sat at the table sharing the stew you had prepared, watching the child. He had thought of finding nothing more than a place to lay his head, an old man’s foolish hope that you might let that be in your bed, on your bosom. He never expected to find this, a daughter. A child so like her mother and yet also like him, despite the years of absence. He liked her. A good start he supposed, and she appeared to like him. She was bright, a dry wit, inquisitive. She also had a glint in her eye he recognised all too well. She wanted more than this life, she wanted adventure, danger and wildness. Admittedly he had not encountered many 13 year old girls but he wagered few of them had their own bow and hunted with it. She was good. She’d shown him before he’d taken the weapon from her to fix it up. Her mother had not shown her what to do, she’d just known instinctively. A connection with him, perhaps. An echo in the bones.
She and her mother were talking, village gossip. Seemed like a boy had his eye set on Beatrice.
‘She’s just a child,’ he said out-loud.
Both of them turned to him. He coughed and apologised and went back to his meal.
‘She is. And she will not be courted or married until she wishes it,’ you said.
‘I do not wish it,’ Beatrice said.
‘No?’ her father asked.
‘No. I do not need a man to be happy.’
Robin smirked at you.
‘Does she not?’
‘None of the men in my life have ever brought me much happiness,’ you grumbled, spooning some more stew into the bowls.
Robin chewed contemplating this. You weren’t wrong. Leaving you alone and with child was not the act of a noble man.
‘Except for my father,’ Beatrice said, smiling at her, ‘because he gave me to you.’
You sighed.
‘I see you two have formed an alliance.’
You looked at your daughter as she and her father shared a smile. You sighed again. You feared your offer of a bed for the night may have been a mistake. The man at your table was not going anywhere for a while.
if you can, and if you’re able to,
are you okay with writing a wolverine x reader fic where reader is like, so much older than Logan (they were born somewhere between the 1620’s) and because of their mutation as well, they’re able to fight really well because of how much they recognize and practiced fighting styles over the years? (you can make up their personality if you feel like it!!!)
Ancient | Logan Howlett (Wolverine) x Older!Mutant!Reader
A/N: YOOO THE FACT I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT A SCENARIO LIKE THIS LIKE AN HOUR PRIOR TO GETTING THIS ASK-- like, down to the year and everything. Anon do you have mind powers mayhaps?? Also, you didn't specify a variant (Origins/Trilogy/Old Man/Worst) so I went ahead with Trilogy!Logan (between him and Origins tbh). Reader is described as gender neutral.
Genre: One Shot, Fluff
Summary: A group of students make a bet to figure out the age of Wolverine, only to make a secondary bet on the assistant history teacher once a new fact is revealed. Now Logan is intrigued.
Warnings: Brief mention of nudity at one point, brief mention of war & PTSD. Students being little shits and making bets. Getting called "Ancient."
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
You breathe in the fresh air outside of the school, shrouded in the warmth provided by the orb of light hanging above. If there was one constant in your life, it's the sun.
A student calls you over to their little group, currently being chaperoned by a gruff Logan, nursing a cigar and occasionally swatting a pesky fly that refuses to leave him alone. Hard eyes lazily find yours, and though he doesn't think anyone notices, they soften the tiniest bit.
"Whatcha need?" They catch your playful tone and one of them grins.
"How old do you think he is?" They point at Logan. "We're making bets and he won't answer us."
He turns, glancing at the trees in the distance and tapping the ash from his cigar. There's a look in his eyes you can't quite place, but, regardless, gears start turning.
"Depends...who was president when you were born?"
The question sparks a mock laugh from the man, "Wasn't a president. I'm from Canada."
"Okay then...who was prime minister?" He glances at you, noticing a spark in your eyes. Now he can't quite place the look in your eyes.
Yet it intrigued him.
"Didn't exist."
"Huh..." There's a quiet murmur amongst the students, readjusting their bets as they try to figure out his birth year.
Logan stands from the bench he had been perched on, stepping around sitting students, and leans in close, "Who was president when YOU were born, Bub?"
You grin, "Didn't exist."
.
.
.
Logan lets out a huff of air as his back hits the ground, you over top of him, "Give it a rest, Lo...not saying you can't beat me...just saying maybe we should take five."
For the better part of three days, he had been trying to decipher your age just as you had been trying to learn his. Neither of you could help it, really.
It became a tango, dancing around years but reciting the occasional old memory (or at least attempting to recall them on his end).
Wars fought in favor of the side deemed right.
Cowboys and The Wild West, watching outlaws and ranch hands at work, keeping heads low while finding work where you could.
More wars and some PTSD sprinkled in, watching young men needlessly die at the hands of one another.
But he had a feeling about you that he couldn't shake, deciding you both were likely born around the same time based on how your memories synced with time, almost making him question if you had crossed paths before.
He had also been secretly admiring the way you seem to dance around every fight with poise and grace. Its almost as if you could predict everything he was about to do.
And some of the styles you used he didn't recognize.
And he's been around for a while.
He attempts to get you on your back, yet you're three steps ahead, and turn it around on him. Back hitting the ground once again after getting grappled and spun to the ground, using his weight against him.
.
.
.
Logan watches from a distance, heightened senses picking up on your form as you teach Kurt something he had been wanting to learn for a while after seeing you do it.
It had been one thing seeing you truly fight, whether it was on a mission or while sparring with him, but seeing whatever this was? Logan couldn't peel his eyes off of you. Was it dancing or fighting?
He picked up on what you were telling Kurt, "Capoeira. This is a style developed by enslaved Africans in Brazil. Used to hide self-defense training from oppressors, disguised as a rhythmic dance."
Kurt twists onto his hands as you do, legs cartwheeling in the air as yours does, "And where did you learn it?"
"I had been traveling with someone who came to America years ago who taught it to me," you evade one of his kicks. "Decided to incorporate it into my developed fighting style."
Logan recalls something you had told him about traveling with someone who "fought like a feather but struck with the force of a rusty nail."
It was at that moment he seemed to pick up your nature of observing others and love for learning various forms of self-defense, something important to a mutant of any kind, whether they had regenerative properties or not. It seemed meditative on your end, simply being able to move as a river and cut through air like warm butter. Even if you didn't enjoy fighting, you seemed to enjoy the motions and movement of it.
Like a warrior in a garden instead of a gardener in a war.
And that was something he had grown to admire about you.
.
.
.
You stand at the front of a class of students, being tasked to help teach a history class, focusing on Colonial America. And, though Logan hadn't been around for that period, he had already made it to the classroom to join on the class out of boredom, not having anything going for him today.
"Now, the era Colonial America was around 1607 to 1776." A chunk of the students glance down at notes they had taken the day prior. "I'm going to cover a few different topics today and, considering yesterday your usual teacher stopped the class after mentioning The Mayflower, the ship I was born on, I'll pickup from there."
There was a quiet murmur amongst them before a small group sitting together started groaning, "I had my money on The American Revolution! You mean to tell me you're a Colonial kid??"
"Yep!"
The kid pipes up again, "Dude! You're ancient!"
"Hey-- watch it." You point a finger at them, not able to hold out a chuckle, mocking offense.
And out the corner of your eye, Logan's eyes widen, unable to stop the mild surprise from filling his facial features. Stoic demeanor faltering before returning back to its usual self.
The class had continued normally with the occasional question regarding your personal day to day activities during that period of your life, wishing you kept at least one piece of wardrobe from then to use for the class. Unfortunately it was likely in museum archives somewhere, unable to be accessed. Left to be on display for other generations, yet you had no idea where they were. And before long, the class comes to an end.
"Almost 400, huh, Bub?" You catch his voice behind you as you stuff an itinerary into a folder and shove it under your arm. "Beat me by a landslide."
"Yep! 1620! Born on The Mayflower as it sailed the sea." You turn to exit the room, "Looking back on it all, I'm surprised I was one of the lucky few that survived being born in such conditions."
He holds the door open, "Well... I'm glad you did. Kids seemed to like your little presentation there." Logan didn't quite want to admit that he learned things during that class he had no idea about. Then again, a lot of history books don't cover things as mundane as waking up in the morning or as chaotic as slipping away in the middle of the night to swim in the nude in a nearby channel at age seventeen.
"Y'know, I can always tell you more about my life before your time." Spinning on your heel and walking backwards down the hall, you face him. "I don't mind."
He thinks for barely a moment, wondering how many more of those chaotic stories you have, enjoying that you had more to share than meets the eye. His stoic expression doesn't leave and he lights a cigar.
"Neither would I, Bub."
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I have no idea if this is to your liking (hopefully I did good). Been awhile since I cranked out a requested fic 👍
Omg you need inspo? For Logan, I have 1 word: debauched
Debauched
Old Man Logan
Warnings: Prostitute! reader, sexual themes
You were his respite in endless days of driving around drunks, guzzling his own booze, and dealing with Charles moods. The only thing he has to look forward too.
"Back again, so soon sweetheart?" You cooed when you walked up to him, your hand messing with his the collar of his shirt, loosening his tie. The man, Logan- he looked tired. Bags under his eyes, the lines of his face more prominent- but there was a fire in his eyes when they landed on you. "You were just here last night, bad day?"
"Always is." He murmurs. He never talks much, always prefers to get down to business- which is fine for you.
"And you came to me to make it all better, that right?"
He doesn't smile often, but you can draw one out of him, sometimes a faint one, or a real one. You don't know much about his life, but considering how he drags himself into the bar whenever he comes to visit you, looking the way he does you imagine it's not very easy one. That's the story for anyone who lurks in this place.
He took a step closer, that faint smile he granted you disappearing quick. "That alright?"
"Of course that's alright, hun." You laughed, grabbing his hand leading him out of the bar to the shitty motel next to it- one he's become all too familiar with in his visits with you.
Logan's a regular- but more than regular. He's coming around more and more often for your "services", it's the 4th time already this week...Not that you mind. He's one of your better customers, you never have to fake an orgasm with him, or deal with complaints. He seems to care more about getting you off than himself. Whether it's with his mouth, hands, or his cock. You're not sure how he affords you so often, but his moneys good and his dick is even better.
With him it's always passionate and heavy. His touch feels like worship on your skin. His hands large and calloused yet gentle as they can be with you. Kisses your lips and your skin like you're something to be devoured. You suspect he's becoming addicted to the intimacy, to your body, the smell of sweat and sound of pleasurable moans that fill the room when he comes around. The same way he guzzles an entire bottle of vodka through the night, or chain-smokes an entire pack of cigarettes- but it's you, and you don't mind the feeling of being worshiped by a man like him.
The door shut behind him, and you turned to wrap your arms around his neck. "How many hours you want tonight?" You purred, your hands playing with the ends of his silver hair. His grabbed your hips, tugging you against him where you can feel his very obvious desire.
"How much for the entire night?"

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I’M AN ASTRONAUT, YOU’RE THE MOON
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Your stomach drops.
Jesus.
"You required multiple transfusions." Garcia continues. "But you're stable now."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
Taglist: @gennywennypenny @kneelforloki @unknownhuman102 @thebewitchingvagabond @danah-20 @i-do-not-care-bear @nerdgirljen @silksepia @rathatosy @proudlyvastlake @coconuthoneyandjaguars @acciotwinz @thefemininemystiquee @rei-scorpio @buckystwilight
cw: f!reader, implied/referenced age gap, reader has a little bit of acne and is a little insecure
Jack watches with quiet fascination from the foot of your bed as you do your nightly routine. You sit at the vanity he’s bought you a few weeks ago—beautiful brown wood, carved by hand and painted with a glossy finish. It works well in your bedroom. Fits you. Fits you just as well as the tiny little stickers you apply to your face.
He thinks they are sweet.
His time to worry about things like acne has long passed—it was a different century after all. Now, as he sits between your fluffy pillows and mountains of blankets, he only has to be concerned about the gentle furrow between your brows as you place a sticker on your cheek.
You’re not terribly insecure about your skin, at least not anymore. It’s more annoying than confidence-shattering, but the “imperfections” don’t exactly make you feel better about yourself. The stars, however, do.
Tiny little patches adorn your face—one above your brow, another just next to the corner of your mouth. Jack adores them.
Your eyes meet his through the mirror, and your frown eases a bit.
“What?” you ask.
Jack shrugs softly and gets up. His knees pop as his feet hit the floor.
“You look pretty,” he mumbles. His hands find the nape of your neck, resting there with the lightest touch of pressure. He leans forward and kisses the side of your head—not an inch of your freshly cleansed skin, though. He knows you hate that.
“You don’t have to say stuff like that,” you murmur with a smile. He can tell you that you mean it, your face all earnest and content. But your words tug at his heartstrings.
“I know I don’t have to,” he replies. “But I want to. You do look pretty.”
“With a face full of spots?” you counter.
“Mhm,” he murmurs, “Especially then.”
Through the mirror, he sees how you roll your eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he kisses the top of your head and sighs. The pads of his fingers go back to pressing into the tense tissue of your neck, working out the knots that you keep inviting back with your teeth clenching and mildly bad posture. He is always reminding you to straighten up just a little bit. Then again, you’re hardly known for listening to his advice.
“You know what?” Jack says softly. He doesn’t wait for you to answer as his lips brush against the spot where your neck ends and your shoulder begins. The strap of your tank top slips down a bit, exposing more skin. With your eyes closed, you tilt your head forward, and a soft “mhm?” spills from you.
“You’re almost wearing my favorite outfit of yours,” he whispers.
Your lashes flutter open as you glance at your pajamas. You raise your brows in question, as there is nothing special about the top or shorts you're wearing.
“You…” he begins, then pauses dramatically and kisses your neck again. “In nothing put those star patches.”
Gentle Monday 🤍
feeling. l Ryland Grace
Ryland Grace x Reader
warnings : romantic movie; careful touch; a few confessions
note : the movie showed you what you can miss.
[Ryland Grace masterlist][main masterlist] [gentle monday series]
The “Don’t Go Crazy” room was quiet except for the faint sound coming from the speakers and the dim glow of the screen.
Ryland stopped mid-step and glanced inside uncertainly. His hand still rested against the doorframe when he noticed the soft light falling across your face as you sat there, completely absorbed in the movie.
Onscreen, two people stood in the rain, soaked to the bone, wet hair plastered to their faces. They looked at each other like nothing else existed, laughing softly before melting into a tender kiss.
“Oh.” Ryland blinked, immediately embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “You can stay if you want.”
He hesitated for a second before stepping inside. Carefully, he lowered himself beside you. Your attention drifted back to the screen as though the story had truly captured you. The characters touched each other gently, naturally, like closeness was the simplest thing in the world.
Ryland swallowed. “You like this movie?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly. “I think I’m just trying to remember what it feels like.”
“What what feels like?”
You shrugged, letting out a soft sigh. “Being close to someone. Wanting someone.” A quiet laugh escaped you, though it sounded more sad than amused. “Honestly… I barely remember anymore. I don’t even remember the last time I felt like that.”
Silence settled between you, broken only by the soft music from the movie. Ryland stared down at his hands for a moment.
“Yeah,” he murmured eventually. “Same.”
You looked over at him in surprise. “You?”
Grace snorted softly. “Trust me. My life before this?” He gestured vaguely toward the screen. “Definitely not like that movie.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re telling me the charming science teacher wasn’t constantly surrounded by women?”
“Wow. Okay. First of all, rude.” Ryland scratched the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed. “And second of all - absolutely not.”
You laughed quietly, and something in his chest loosened at the sound. He liked hearing you laugh. Probably more than he should. Ryland relaxed a little.
“Maybe,” he said after a moment, “when you go long enough without something… you kinda learn how to live without it.” He shrugged faintly. “You still feel the absence. You’re just used to it.”
You considered that for a moment before nodding slowly. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
He glanced sideways at you. For the first time since waking up aboard the Hail Mary, you looked calm. Vulnerable, yes, but comfortable around him. The realization made his heart skip painfully.
Don’t make it weird. The thought appeared instantly. Unfortunately, it stayed there.
Very slowly, hesitantly, he shifted his hand until his fingers brushed lightly against yours. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you looked at him.
Ryland immediately looked terrified. “Sorry… I mean, unless you don’t… I wasn’t trying to…”
You turned your hand over and gently slid your fingers between his. He froze completely. The movie continued quietly in the background, but neither of you were really watching anymore.
Ryland stared at your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Here. In the middle of nowhere. Then he looked at you. You were smiling softly at him. Warmly. Ryland smiled back, a little uncertain, a little stunned.
His attention drifted briefly to the screen, where city lights blurred gold against the night rain. He no longer had any idea what the movie was about or whether he’d even seen it before.
He was holding your hand. That was the only thing that mattered.
When you shifted beside him, Ryland tensed instinctively, convinced you were about to pull away. Instead, your head rested gently against his shoulder. His breath caught immediately. It felt like his entire nervous system short-circuited.
“Oh,” he whispered faintly.
His shoulder was warm and solid beneath your cheek. You could feel the heat radiating from him through the thin fabric of his shirt. And Ryland didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned slightly closer, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth. The realization filled your chest with something soft and aching.
Outside that little room, the Hail Mary drifted silently through the endless dark, the low hum of the ship surrounding you both. The hope of all humanity rested on your shoulders. But here, for the first time in a long time, you simply felt safe. Human.
Ryland cleared his throat before speaking quietly. “You know, statistically speaking, this is probably the nicest evening I’ve had in… honestly, several years.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s kind of sad.”
“No, no, don’t say that.” He glanced down at your intertwined hands again. “This is good. Really good.”
Eventually, the credits began rolling across the screen. Ryland glanced reluctantly toward the door. “I guess we should probably sleep. We’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Mhm.” You stayed where you were. “Do you want to go now?”
The credits rolled slowly onward. And Ryland realized, with sudden painful clarity, that he wanted to stay here as long as possible. Hold onto this moment with both hands.
He shook his head. “No. These credits are extremely interesting. Very scientifically important.”
You laughed softly. The piano music filled the room as the final scene faded to black. Neither of you moved. At some point during the movie, Ryland’s thumb had started absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And honestly? This was the best thing that had happened to him since waking up alone on the Hail Mary.
You liked him. You stayed close to him. You didn’t look at him strangely when his jokes failed spectacularly. Your warmth beside him already felt dangerously important.
“Ryland?”
Your quiet voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down, only now realizing you’d lifted your head to look at him. Sleepiness lingered in your eyes.
“Yeah?”
You hesitated before speaking. “Do you think maybe…” You swallowed nervously. “We could sleep next to each other?”
His eyebrows shot upward, and you rushed to explain.
“I mean… not like that. We could just push the mattresses together. I just…” You looked away briefly. “I hate being alone here. It’s terrifying.”
He understood immediately. “I’m pretty sure HR would have concerns about this.”
You smiled.
“But scientifically speaking,” he continued, slipping easily into lecture mode, “there are studies showing people sleep better beside someone they trust. Lower stress levels, better recovery, improved mental stability…”
“I was literally about to say that.”
“Well, good. Nice to know we’re both committed to science.”
You stood up almost at the same time. Your fingers remained intertwined. Grounding. Safe. Real.
As the two of you walked back toward the sleeping quarters together, warmth spread steadily through Ryland’s chest. For the first time in a very long while, hope didn’t feel impossible anymore.
thank you for reading <3
A Quick Dip
here is my entry for the Wet Hot Logan Summer Ficathon!
I was given a prompt from @dis-plus-fanfic-reblog-writes and it was Logan and you in a cabin/hotel/wherever. Both covered in sweat one summer night, full moon, and even the shower water cannot be cooled, but you two are near a beach/lake/similar
For The Wolverine/Ronin/Mountain Man Logan.
Was quite excited about this as there aren't many fics for this particularly (or these?) version of Logan and that's a shame. I knew, however, that I could never do justice to a Logan in Japan story so chose to base this one around Mountain Man Logan. He might only appear at the start of the film but he makes an impact.
word count: 2741
warnings: smut, fondling, nudity, unprotected p in v
***
You’d seen the man in town a few times. Whispers and rumours followed him and you confessed that you were more fascinated by him than you should be. He lived up in the mountains ‘somewhere’ no one was really sure. His long tangled hair and unkempt beard coupled with his almost permanent scowl should have made him a person to avoid, but when you’d heard him speak he was quieter than you’d imagined he’d be, blunt but generally polite. He radiated a general air of ‘if you don’t fuck with me I won’t fuck with you’ and that seemed to suit everyone. His name, you were told, was Logan and he had ‘abilities’. No one would elaborate on what those ‘abilities’ were.
You’d moved, at least temporarily, into a cabin owned by an uncle, nestled away on a mountain road. Not totally isolated but far enough away to give you the peace you needed. It was a short drive into town and an even shorter walk to the sparkling lake in which you’d taken any number of bracing swims. The first time you’d encountered Logan close up was when he had walked up to the cabin one day and knocked at the door. He’d come to warn you about the start of hunting season and how the combination of men, beer and guns wasn’t always the best. Maybe a woman by herself should find a room in town for the duration. You thanked him for his concern but for now you’d stay put. Why should a bunch of drunken yahoos drive you from YOUR home? Logan didn’t argue, he’d delivered his message and what you did with that was your business. ‘I’ll be around though,’ he said quietly, ‘keep an eye on things’ and stalked off ‘Thanks,’ you called to his retreating back.
For some reason you couldn’t quite pin point the idea of Logan keeping an ‘eye on things’ didn’t feel creepy and intrusive. You felt safe. You spotted him occasionally, and if you did you gave him a friendly wave. It took a few times before he waved back. Or rather briefly raised his hand before disappearing into the trees.
As time went on, he would come and spend more time with you. He reminded you of a stray cat, one you would not ignore as such but just leave to his own devices, not push him, not try and force anything until finally he was there and you both acted like it had always been that way. He didn’t say much, just listened while you chattered on. At one point you started to come back from your job in town to find previously broken things fixed. Logan never asked, just saw a need and did. You would thank him the next time you saw him, and he’d nod in acknowledgment, refusing any payment or gratuity for his work.
Eventually you managed to persuade him that he didn’t have to do it all for nothing. Which was how you found yourselves on your porch, you on the swing chair, him sat on the steps, enjoying the comfortable silence of the late afternoon. He’d fixed some loose shingles on the roof for you for the low, low price of a cold beer and a sandwich, the empty plate and bottle on the boards next to him.
He had shed his usual heavy coat and was sat just in a pair of grubby jeans and a white tank top, his hair caught back in one of your hair ties, much to his chagrin. You laughed as he grumbled and told him to stop complaining and wasn’t it better to not have his hair in his face while he worked in the heat. The weather had taken an extremely warm turn, hot and sticky and humid. There was little to no breeze and moving at all just made you feel sweaty and tired. There was a sheen of sweat on Logan’s arms and the bit of his chest you could see. You felt guilty for looking but, well, you were only human. There was nothing even vaguely resembling air conditioning in the cabin and you were suffering for the lack of it. Logan snorted. ‘You’ve got a window don’t you?’ You fanned yourself with a magazine. ‘For all the good that does. Just lets more bugs in.’ ‘Get some screens, I’ll put them up for you.’ You were too hot to argue with him. ‘This fucking heat is supposed to go on for daaaays,’ you whined, ‘i tried just sitting in the bath last night with the shower on me but even the cold water was warm.’ Logan shifted a little at the thought of you lying in a cool bath, slightly ashamed of the effect such thoughts were having on him. Standing up, he brushed the dust off his jeans and picked up his shirt and coat. ‘Well you could always go jump in the lake,’ he suggested, and off he walked. Logan wasn’t much for saying goodbye.
Later that night, laying like a starfish in bed, still awake, hot and sweating after at least an hour of trying to sleep, you gave up. You just wanted to be cool for a fucking minute! Maybe Logan had the right idea. Maybe you should go and jump in the lake. You lay staring at the ceiling for a while longer, turning the idea over in your head. You could…it was past midnight, the chances of you running into anyone was remote. You could just jump in, cool off. You knew, somewhere in the back of your brain, that this was not a good idea. That you didn’t go swimming at night, certainly not without letting someone know. But you’d been wallowing in your own sweat for days now and you were sick of it. The heat had possibly driven you out of your mind.
You gathered up a towel and slipped on a pair of sneakers. You saw no reason to change from the tank top and shorts you had on. Maybe you’d skinny dip for a bit anyway. You just wanted to be cool.
You found a flashlight and started to make your way down the path to the lake. You hardly needed it, the moon full and bright in the sky, no artificial light to dim her glow. As you neared the lake you thought you heard a soft splashing. Animals you assumed, coming for a much needed drink. What you saw when you emerged from the trees was no animal. Well…not quite.
Logan was stood, his back to you, knee deep in the water. Naked as the day he was born, his hair still caught in the hair tie at the base of his neck. His back rippled with muscle as he flexed his arms and you had to stop yourself from gasping on seeing six brutal looking metal blades shoot from between his knuckles. That solved the mystery of what his ‘abilities’ were you supposed.
All sense left you and while you knew you should leave him and go back home you couldn’t look away. He was magnificent. As he turned to walk back to the lake shore, you took in his broad chest, the thick hair across it and down his stomach to the thatch of public hair and his cock…you were ashamed to feel yourself clenching around nothing at the sight of it.
You felt hotter now but it had nothing to do with the weather.
Logan stood still and scanned the tree line, making no effort to pick up his clothes. ‘I can smell you,’ he said. Coming from any other man the shiver up your spine would have indicated how creeped out you were by that statement. When Logan said it…
You emerged from the trees and walked across the patchy grass at the shore. Logan made no effort to hide his nakedness and you made no effort to hide that you were looking at him. ‘Both had the same idea, huh?’ You said ‘Something like that,’ You pointed at where the blades were still protruding from his hands. He noticed and you watched as they slowly retracted back into his arm. ‘The folk in town told me about you. Not details but…’ ‘Thought you wanted to cool down,’ Logan interrupted. You stared up at him. ‘Yeah I do.’ He splashed his feet around. ‘Water’s cold.’
Logan did not look away as you peeled off your top and pushed down your shorts. You found you did not mind. You stood there naked on the shoreline, only a few feet between you. Logan simply gestured to you with his fingers and as if he was pulling an invisible string you walked into the water.
The water was cold. Not cool. Cold. As it rose up your legs the further you walked in, the more your breath started to catch. You continued walking until you were waist deep, Logan having followed you as you waded deeper. ‘Are you still too hot?’ He asked. His voice felt so close and you could feel his heat radiate off him. Turning your head slightly you could see that he was now standing no more than a few inches behind you. ‘Yes,’ you breathed out. You felt the water move around you, felt Logan bending down and cupping his hands. Then a slow trickle of water started to run from your neck down your back. It made you shiver and let out a small sigh. Logan did this a few more times before speaking again. ‘Turn around’ You did. You continued to look at him, his gaze on you never wavering. He cupped his hands in the water again and let it run down your front this time, over your breasts, your stomach. He was just about to anoint you for a third time when you stopped him, taking his hands in yours and placing them over your breasts. He froze, staring down at where his large hands rested. You placed yours over his and urged him to squeeze. He did and you gasped, a slow massage to each breast, then his fingers trailed slowly down the slope of each, culminating in a soft pinch to your nipples. ‘Logan..’ you began ‘Don’t talk,’ he said. You nodded your head. With an almost glacial slowness he leant forward and pressed his lips against yours. Once, twice he kissed you softly, his hands settling on yours waist. Your skin felt hot where he touched you, but a different kind of heat to that of the last few days. He pulled you flush to him, his erection now pressed against you as he kissed you again, his hands moving down over your backside to cup your buttocks. ‘You going to fuck me or what?’ Logan looked at you. ‘That what you want?’ You wrapped a hand around his hard cock. He groaned into your touch. You supposed that gave him his answer.
You felt Logan run his hands over your ass again, lifting you so that your legs were wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck. You could feel his cock against you and feel the wetness of your arousal leaking against him. ‘Been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you, Princess?’ and for then the first time you saw Logan smile. A proper smile. It opened up his face and you saw the man he was behind the beard and hair and scowl.
He carried you to the edge of the water, dropping to his knees and laying you back on the ground. You were already so wet for him but he reached a hand between your legs and began to stroke you, making you raise your hips to press harder against his hand. ‘This what you do?’ He breathed in your ear, ‘this what you think about to get yourself off?’ For a man who often said barely three words to you he had suddenly found a voice. You nodded your head which gained you another smile. ‘Tell me you want it,’ he said, already lining himself up to push inside you ‘I want this,’ you said and with that he thrust himself inside you. You let out a gasp at the suddenness of his entry. Maybe once this was a man who would have taken his time but now, now he just wanted to be inside you, to fuck you, to fill you up.
You looked up at Logan as he loomed above you. His eyes had darkened with the lust pulsing through him. The feel of his skin against yours was hot, any coolness the water had provided long since gone. As he moved his hips, hard and fast, there was a soft slap slap slap sound as your bodies touched. It didn’t take long for you to be covered in a sheen of sweat again although this time you didn’t really care. All you cared about were the long hard strokes of Logan’s cock as he fucked you. Your legs were open so wide and he was so deep inside you. There was something primal in what you were doing, the lake lapping at your legs, the moon the only witness to your actions. Logan was a rutting animal, the only sound his grunts and near snarls as he continued to pound into you. When your brain allowed you to remember that you were entirely alone in the wilderness and no one would hear save Logan you let yourself go, no longer allowing yourself to be restrained by propriety. You were loud, panting and wailing into the night air. Logan’s arm snaked around your waist and he flipped you both, you now on top. ‘Go on,’ he snarled through gritted teeth, ‘fuck yourself.’ He held tightly onto your hips as you moved and fucked back onto his cock, hard and so big. You braced your hands on his chest, the hair tickling your palms, his pubic hair tickling against your clit as you ground onto him. You reached behind you and felt at the place where you met, your fingers brushing over Logan’s tight balls, which garnered another groan from him. You were both smeared in dirt from the shoreline but you didn’t care. Another dip in the lake would soon see to that.
You felt a drop of sweat starting to run down your neck and travel between your breasts. Logan reared up and caught the drip with his tongue, licking a long strip between your breasts and up to your throat. You put back your head and invited him to bite you. As you continued to ride him, he licked and sucked at you leaving marks you weren’t sure you could explain. He remained sitting up and thrust up into you in perfect rhythm with you. Your hands were around his neck then in his hair, the tie long since snapped and discarded. As you felt your climax pooling in your stomach you held his face and stared into his eyes. He didn’t look away and you both came staring into each other, Logan capturing your screams in a deep, messy kiss, his hips stuttering as he pulsed his thick come deep into you.
You had no idea of the time when you walked back to the lake to wash the now drying mud from you. Logan sat on the shore, making no effort to join you, just watching you as you washed. The air had grown humid and sticky again and you felt little cooler than you had when you first walked here. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care.
You dried off and pulled on your clothes. Logan had started to dress as well. ‘I’ll walk you back,’ he said. The walk back to your cabin was silent, you thinking about the ache between your legs and how good it felt. You glanced at Logan and wondered what he was thinking. As usual his face was unreadable. Before you went inside you turned to him as he stood on the path. ‘Thank you,’ you said. Logan merely nodded. ‘Weather isn’t supposed to break for another few weeks,’ he said before turning and walking away. Oh, you thought, and felt the ache between your legs again. You supposed you might have to take a few more walks to the lake. To cool off.
Ideas
FANDOM: MCU / X-men.
PAIRING/STARRING: Logan Howlett x fem!reader.
WORD COUNT: 1515.
SUMMARY: You ignore things like privacy in a moment of weakness – thankfully.
CONTENT: Post-mission, drinking (a bit), invasion of privacy, a sort of voyarism, smut (over the counter, P in V).
A/N: As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.
Ideas
Plucking a beer from the fridge, you’re already looking forward to slurping up the cool liquid. It’s not that you like beer that much, but after a hard day’s work it does hit the spot and today has been just one of those days.
Worse, actually.
You’ve gotten back after a mission with none other than Mr. Grumpy himself: Logan.
You used to like him. Fuck. Who are you kidding? You still do. You have a goddamn crush on the man and no guts to confess. It had been close once but then something changed and Logan began to pull away. Get grumpier. Maybe you’d done something wrong but you don’t know what.
Now that you were back, you just had to avoid him which was going to be easy enough as the school is huge and it’s just the two of you (all the kids are on a field trip), so you should be able to sense him coming.
And speaking of: the sound of heavy footsteps precede him down the hall, probably with the same goal in mind that you had.
Refusing to turn, you rummage in the drawer for the bottle opener, sensing his presence enter the room and pausing. There’s a soft grunt, then he steps up behind you and reach past, grabbing the beer from where you’d put it on the counter.
You’re about to object when he opens it but at least he has the decency to hand it back to you as you turn to tell him off for stealing your drink.
“Thank you,” you mumble lamely.
“Welcome.”
Gods, you love his voice. The gruffness of it that somehow pushes all the right buttons, making you ache for him. If only...but no.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he opens the fridge, taking a beer for himself, and you wonder what he’s thinking. Sure, he’s grumpy as usual it seems like...but at the same time he always does these little things for you. You’ve once promised never to peek into his mind. Surely, though, one little glimpse would only help.
Taking a sip from the bottle as you lean against the counter, you close your eyes and let your mind unfurl.
Naked bodies. A woman barely resting on the counter’s edge with her legs wrapped around the hips of a man as he thrusts into her. You and Logan. Your nails scoring his back but leaving no evidence as you are brought o orgasm.
You damn near choke on the swig of beer, coughing loudly. He’s at your side immediately, hot hands on your shoulder and soothing your back.
“Don’t drown yourself,” he rumbles. Fuck, I’d drown in your pussy if you’d let me.
His thought is clear in you mind, making your head snap up to catch his gaze through a sheen a tears from your near-death experience.
She knows. He opens his mouth as if to say the words but then realizes that it’s not needed. You see how he pulls back, jaw clenching and brows furrowing – and you panic, projecting an image of the two of you into his mind.
You’re on a bed, knees and hands sinking into the mattress and head thrown back with the mouth open in a sinful moan. Large hands hold your hips still, angling you just right as Logan rams into you from behind.
The real Logan shakes his head. “Now you’re not playing fair.”
“Been holding on to that idea for a long time...seemed it was now or never,” you confess.
The kitchen falls silent, only the ticking of a clock on the wall can the buzzing of electricity fills the space until Logan places his bottle on the counter behind you. Then he takes yours, doing the same.
“This is the moment you stop me,” he murmurs, eyes finally locking with yours.
Of course you shake your head and suddenly he’s crowding you against the counter, one hand resting there next to yours and the other flat on your back to prevent you from retreating as if you would have.
The kiss is hard, claiming. Maybe he’s afraid you’ll change your mind and try to stop him, making him take as much as he can. Lips press against yours, slanted and prying your mouth open just a smidgen to allow his tongue to run across your teeth, tempting you beyond resolve to poke yours out.
For a second, you wrestle for dominance before surrendering and letting him own you like you’ve always wanted. And when a soft growl erupts from his chest, you feel your core clench around nothing with a need that makes you weak in your knees.
“Logan,” you whimper as he pulls back for breath.
It’s a plea. When you blink to focus, you can see that he knows it: a cocky smile is pulling at his mouth and his eyes have grown dark.
He moves you easily, turns you around and bends you over the counter so your breasts get smushed against the cold surface and you have to stand on your toes, the edge digging into your hips. He has a hand on the back of your neck, holding you in place as if that’d be necessary.
There’s a whisper of something cool against the back of your thigh and up, tugging slightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts before the resistance dies and the fabric slips aside, baring you. You gasp, trying to fathom that he just cut through your clothes with his claws but the outrage is dashed aside when he grabs a handful of your flesh, kneading your ass.
The other hand trails down your back, mirroring the actions until thick thumbs center themselves and part your folds.
“So damn wet for me already,” he groans.
“Need you,” you gasp, wriggling in his grasp.
There’s a soft chuckle that sends goosebumps up and down your spine. “Yeah yeah...I see.”
Ass getting massaged, you close your eyes and try to enjoy it rather than rush things. God, his hands are heavenly: big, strong, calloused in the right places. When he slides a finger along your petals, you shiver and whimper, hearing the sound of slipperiness.
Then something else follows your slit, big and blunt, making you arch your back so you can press against the sensation.
“Easy,” he growls, moving a hand to splay over your lower back and keep you in place.
Up and down, slick smearing along the entirety of his cock, the tip of it catching at your entrance repeatedly when Logan’s not using it to press against your clit.
“Please!” Your cunt is throbbing with need, juices sticky on him and your inner thighs. It’s not pretty or gentle, what you need, but primal and you just know he can deliver. “Fuck me, please, Logan!”
He doesn’t answer with words, but presses into you slowly. The stretch is almost too much, having you whine at the intrusion because he’s so big and you haven’t had anything for far too long except a flimsy toy and your own fingers.
“That what you need, huh?” he purrs, leaning over you as he bottoms out.
You nod frantically. “Yes!”
Cunt clenches around his girth, trying to hold him there as he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in. One hand on your neck, the other grabbing your thigh to pull you into just the right angle for him to hit your spot, making you cry out.
He focuses on that, bullying the head of his cock into the spongy place that has you trembling and crying in no time, being wound so hard that you don’t understand why you haven’t passed out yet. You’ll be cumming embarrassingly fast like this. And you don’t give a shit.
Even as he let’s go of your neck, you stay prone for him. Your body is on fire – you’re at his mercy – you can’t breathe – all of your muscles are tensed. Then his finger lands on your swollen clit, pressing down hard in a tight circle that has you falling over the edge with a broken sob. A wave of bliss rolls through you, blocking out your hearing and vision.
Logan. Logan. Logan.
Your mind instinctively reaches out for him and suddenly you feel what he feels too: a tightness that surges through his – and your – body as he cums with a curse. He rocks into you, slow and without any sense of rhythm as he empties himself in you.
It nearly makes you pass out if it wasn’t for the one realization in his mind that shocks you into focusing:
Love her.
He sags over you, lips finding every inch of skin he can reach as your pull back your mind to the safety of yourself. Kisses dab at the dew of sweat on your shoulders and neck.
“Should’ve taken you to dinner first,” Logan mumbles against your skin.
A smile cracks you face, cheek still pressed against the counter top. “I don’t mind which order we do things in.”

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A Hundred Times A Day
Summary : Dex is convinced that he‘s bad for you, but maybe you were made for each other.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak!!!! Hurt/comfort(?) Major sex themes, dark romance, codependent relationship, obsessive attachment, Sex is very much described (explicit, but no anatomical detail), hostage backstory, handcuffs/restraint mention, Stockholm syndrome discussion, guilt, panic/anxiety, morally questionable romance, vomiting mentioned (not as a sex act), drug mentioned but no drug use, chase kink mentioned, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 2.9k
Notes : This was supposed to be an impromptu 500-word blurb I wrote while listening to “Free” by Florence and The Machine but I went overboard. This is probably my most explicit fic yet. Enjoy!
The first time you told Dex you loved him, he had thrown up.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
You had said it in his kitchen, half-asleep in one of his old FBI shirts, barefoot with love bites on your neck, reaching for the coffee like you had any right to look that adorable in a place he lived. Like his apartment was not a place where he planned to kill people. Like his hands had never done anything worse than skim under the hem of your shirt and pull you close.
“I love you,” you had said, casual as breathing.
Dex had gone white.
Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.
Because yes, he loved you too.
He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.
Because there was no way you loved him back.
Not really.
Not if you were whole.
Not if he had not done something to you first.
Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.
Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.
“What the fuck—”
His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”
You bit his palm.
He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.
He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”
You glared up at him.
That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.
Instead, you had talked for six straight hours.
You. Fucking. Yapped.
Like a pomeranian on cocaine.
You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.
Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.
So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…
He had done this.
He had broken something in you.
Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.
“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.
You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”
He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”
You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.
“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”
You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”
His whole body jerked at the sound.
“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.
His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”
You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”
“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”
Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”
Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.
His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”
“I know exactly what this is.”
“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”
You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.
Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”
Dex looked like he might be sick again.
Every time.
Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.
“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”
You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.
He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”
“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”
“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”
His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does, actually.”
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.”
He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”
“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.
“You’re not listening.”
“You’re not thinking.”
“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”
“You already want too much.”
His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.
Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.
“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”
“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”
He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.
“You don’t,” he whispered.
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”
Your chest tightened.
He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.
“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”
Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.
It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”
“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”
His breathing turned ragged.
“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”
Dex’s face soured. “No.”
“You gonna leave me?”
“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate.
Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.
“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”
“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”
Dex’s eyes locked on yours.
Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”
His breath hitched.
He didn't stop.
You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.
“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”
Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.
“No,” he rasped.
“No?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.
It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.
“You should run,” he rasped.
“You’d follow.”
His eyes burned.
You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”
Dex looked ruined.
His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.
Then you were on top of him.
Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.
“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.
You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”
His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”
Your chest tightened. “Dex.”
“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”
You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.
“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”
His breath collapsed.
Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”
Dex broke under you.
His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him.
“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.
That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.
That.
The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.
Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.
“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”
You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”
And then Dex broke completely.
He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.
Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.
His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.
You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.
He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”
You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”
Dex went quiet.
He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.
His arms tightened around you.
You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.
You giggled softly.
“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”
His breath stopped.
You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.
Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.
Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.
You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
Pathetic. So utterly gone for you.
“I love you,” he said.
It came out hoarse.
You shrugged like you knew all along.
“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”
And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.
There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.
But Dex didn’t care.
If that was what had happened to him, then fine.
He didn’t want it cured.
—end.
Extra note : I’ll start the Dex taglist in the next post, comment if you want to be added!
Ryland Grace Locks in
Ryland Grace x Reader
Warnings for NSFW
Who else is a part of the "Ryland Grace locks tf in" squad?
I'm talking:
Ryland who is a blushing, stuttering mess when you first start flirting with him
You've been flirting with him for months now but he's just now realizing it (he agonizes over this every night btw. Even far into the relationship.)
When you first kiss him, his brain stops- trying to remember how to move his lips against someone else's. You just laughed and pulled him closer, sighing contently he comes to his senses and starts reciprocating.
He slowly gets more confident in the kiss. Moving even closer and cupping your jaw with his hand, angling his head and parting his lips to explore your mouth with tongue.
His lips are soft and warm and his tongue caresses every inch of your mouth with expert precision, leaving a trail of shared spit between you.
Like any good scientist, he learns and adapts to your body over time. The way you huff silently and moan into his mouth when he angles himself perfectly. The way you whine when he bites down softly on your bottom lip before pulling away.
Everything that makes you tic, he's analyzed it and stored it for later. Surprising you each and every time with how well he knows your body.
But when his lips trail lower, the anxiety returns with the uncharted territory.
It's been so long since he's kissed someone, let alone had sex with them.
But he does the same thing he always does- learn and adapt and overcome.
What spots on your neck make your body writhe underneath his deliciously.
The exact pressure of his teeth and tongue on your skin and nipples that make your fingers grip his hair even tighter- something that sends spikes of electric heat burning down his spine.
He starts to rut into you pathetically at that, especially. Desperately seeking the friction he's denied himself for years. He's embarrassingly close to coming at just the feeling of your hands in his hair. Something he refuses to ever admit.
When you first give him a blow job- he's in heaven.
He doesn't know where to put his hands at first. He just grips around onto the blankets erratically, looking for purchase as his hips rut into your mouth- all while he apologizes and cries out profusely.
He settles on your hair of course. Lightly pulling at the strands and guiding your head along his cock- just the way he likes it.
He returns the favor of course. Face burning with embarrassment as he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Fingers trailing your supple hips and thighs before he parts your knees- exposing you to him.
He's never done this before. Ever. And he makes sure you know that as he kisses the inside of your thighs before taking you into his mouth with feigned confidence.
He's shy at first, licking and sucking as he analyzes every sound and thrust that you give him.
When he finds that spot that makes you see heaven, he focuses on it, leaning impossibly closer as he hums and moans into your body. He pulls you by your hips, forcing your legs to wrap around his head as he finds a home in your body.
He becomes obsessed being on his knees for you. The way you taste, the way you moan, the way you move. Everything about it is a drug to him and he would stay for eternity there.
The first time you have sex, Ryland genuinely shuts off at first. Not knowing where he should be: on his back or on top of you???
He settles with being on the bottom at first. Thinking that maybe it'll be easier if you lead and ease him into it.
His entire body shakes when you sink down onto his cock slowly. His brain short circuiting at how wet and warm you are, at how perfectly your hole sucks him in. His head slams down onto the bed as his hands shoot to your hips.
He holds you there for a second, hands grasping and kneading at your thighs as he whimpers and whines before he slowly shifts you back and forth on top of him. Forcing you to grind down onto his length.
He almost cums right then and there, especially when you bounce on top of him for the first time. But he holds it in, biting his lip so tightly he swears he can taste his own blood.
When the friction is no longer enough- when he decides he needs more. He sits up, you still on top now chest to chest with him. He grabs your hips even tighter and starts fucking up into you. Pistoning his hips as he pulls you closer by your back, locking your lips in a messy, hot open-mouthed kiss.
He doesn't know what takes over him, but all he knows his how you feel against him and how tight and how hot you are around his cock.
He could stay like that forever.
𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐈𝐗 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, guns mentioned, injuries
word count: 7.8k
a/n: thank you all for still being here! i appreciate you lots. love reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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Olivia's never experienced a more painfully awkward breakfast in her life. And she's sat through her parents 'let's-tell-our-child-we're-divorcing-over-croissants' breakfast and survived. But this takes the prize. Because this time she's hungover, struggling for her life as she fights the nausea and throbbing in her head, while she has to watch as the two of you slowly torture yourselves over toast and coffee.
It's mostly quiet except for the occasional scrape of cutlery and chewing—something hungover her usually would appreciate, but today it's killing her. It's like you take turns to look at each other, just missing the other by seconds, and she can see both of you wanting to speak, but neither of you does. When she tries to force conversation, everything dies in short, flat answers.
Olivia had come ready for damage control after your phone call—the one where you'd sounded so heartbreakingly sure everything was over. But after seeing Jack at the party? The gifts, the speech, flying her out, the way he'd looked at you all night. The problem had never been feelings.
She had liked Jack the first time she met him because it had been obvious then, too. The man loved you. Desperately. The problem was that everyone seemed to see it except the two of you.
So, she was certain that things would be okay again. She only needed to give you slight pushes—saw it in the way you didn't deny her every time, how your eyes looked hopeful when she talked about him—and then that kiss happened, and somehow everything got worse.
Olivia still didn’t know what the hell had gone wrong. You hadn’t been in bed when she woke up, and she hadn’t had a chance to corner you yet. But something had shifted. Yes, you'd been upset when she found you afterwards, but not like this. She still thought it could be salvaged with a few encouraging words—the man had kissed you in private for fuck's sake! If that wasn’t a sign that it wasn’t just pretend, what was?
But you looked different now. Quieter. Defeated in a way that made Olivia’s stomach sink.
She sits and watches as you barely touch your food, keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate—except every few minutes, when you’d glance toward Jack before catching yourself and looking away again.
And Jack—
Jesus Christ. He looked awful. Kept reaching for things that didn’t need reaching for to end up closer to you. Refilling your coffee before you asked. Sliding the jam toward you without a word. Every few minutes, Olivia also catches him looking. Quick little glances when he thinks you aren't paying attention. Checking if you’d eaten. Watching your face. Looking away the second you turned.
Two idiots. Clearly sad. Clearly in love. She's seconds away from grabbing both your heads and smashing them together.
"I’ll be right back," she announces suddenly, shoving her chair back.
Your head snaps up immediately, panic flickering across your face. Jack looks up, too, but neither of you says anything, which somehow makes it worse.
She shuts the bedroom door behind her with a long, suffering sigh and collapses onto the edge of the bed, grabbing her phone.
Robby picks up on the second ring. "You're alive," he teases, voice still gruff with sleep.
"Barely," she groans. "These two are gonna kill me."
He laughs softly. There's a rustling sound on the other end, and she imagines him sitting up in bed, sheets falling down on his lap, chest bare—she needs to focus.
"That bad?" he asks.
"You have no idea," she says, rubbing her temple. "We need to do something about it—it's even worse than I thought."
Robby's silent for a moment. "Hmm," he says, voice turning serious. "I think I might have an idea."
Olivia sits up immediately. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
"Oh?" Robby replies, sounding far too pleased with himself. "You like me?
Her ears flush. "Oh, shut up!" she snaps, shifting on the bed. "Tell me your plan!"
"Yes, ma'am," he laughs.
"Any progress?" Parker asks as she leans against the counter, coffee cup balanced in one hand as she watches Shen stare blankly at the computer.
"None," Shen answers after a moment, drumming restless fingers against the desk. "Absolutely none."
Parker sighs and turns her attention down the hall as Abbot rounds the corner, a tablet tucked under his arm. He moves more slowly than usual—quieter, with less of his usual bark and bite.
"He's miserable," Parker murmurs. "Honestly, I’d prefer him to chew me out than to see him like this."
Shen follows her gaze and exhales through his nose. "Yeah."
Abbot pauses near the board, scanning patient updates. His jaw shifts like he’s grinding his teeth.
"Did you see her at rounds?"
Parker nods. "I think she looked even worse than Abbot does." She frowns, contemplating. "Do you think something happened?"
Shen bites the end of his pen. "No way, right? They seemed fine at the party."
Parker watches Abbot again. "...Yeah."
Jack knows he shouldn't be doing this. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't go back. But it's been weeks since the surprise party, weeks since that kiss, and weeks since he’s had a proper conversation with you.
You're still stuck on day shift, too. Through no fault of Robby’s this time—Gloria had stepped in, and suddenly you were staying put 'temporarily'. Temporary, his ass. At this point, he hardly ever sees you. Just quick hallway glances, elevator rides, and once in a while, a brief hug—but those are growing rarer.
So when the text came—the one he’d ignored for months—he answered. He put on his uniform, convincing himself it would be simple. Routine. A warehouse break-in—nothing major. Just in and out. But then someone panicked. Shots were fired, and everything went sideways.
Luke—a tall guy Jack barely knew—went down hard, hit in the side, then the jaw. Training kicked in before his mind could even catch up. Jack moved instinctively, dragging him to cover while bullets cracked overhead, stabilising him and applying pressure where needed.
After that, things blurred. Sirens. Movement. Noise. The Pitt. He barely registered the burning in his shoulder by the time Luke had already been rushed upstairs. Even then, he’d ignored it. Because Luke was alive. Because it barely hurt. Because—
Because maybe part of him didn’t care all that much lately. That thought sat ugly in his chest.
In the midst of it all, he had instinctively searched for you. Even in the chaos, he hadn’t seen you. Now that things had settled, he still can't find you. No glimpse of you in the hub, no voice echoing down the hall, no familiar figure moving between rooms. You're probably in an exam room, likely avoiding him.
His shoulder throbs harder.
"Fuck," he mutters. He steps toward the first empty room he sees, closes the door and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He gathers supplies one-handed, jaw tightening as he starts peeling off his shirt. It catches on the edge of the wound, and he bites back a hiss of pain.
Just as he throws the shirt on the bed, the door slams open. The curtain is ripped to the side violently as the door bangs shut. You stand there, breathing hard like you sprinted through the entire hospital. Your eyes are wild and desperate as you frantically sweep your gaze over him—face, chest, arms, stomach.
"I thought you got shot," you breathe out when you don't see anything out of place.
"You heard about my dramatic entrance?" he remarked lightly. "I was hoping for flowers, at least." He sits down on the bed, beginning to tear off the tape for the dressing.
That gets nothing from you. No eye roll. Not even an annoyed huff. Your chest is still rising too fast.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" you snap, voice cracking halfway through. "Why were you out there?"
"I—"
"Since when do you do that?"
Jack rubs at the back of his neck. "I've done it for about a year."
Your expression changes from confusion to hurt. "What?" Your brows furrow. "Have you done it while we've—" you trail off, hands gesturing between you.
"No," he says quickly and firmly. "No."
Your shoulders relax a bit, your breathing slowing as you watch him squeeze out saline and reach for a cotton swab. You frown, only then realising that he's sitting shirtless in front of you with a tray of medical supplies in front of him. The way he's favouring one arm, the ugly scrape across his shoulder— "Oh my god."
You move instantly, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently slapping his hand away. "Let me."
"It’s fine," he says automatically, even though he knows he can't reach it.
You shoot him a look sharp enough to silence him.
The room falls quiet as you step closer, reaching for a cotton swab with shaking fingers. You don’t say anything as you start cleaning the scrape. Your fingertips brush briefly against his skin as you adjust your grip, and something in his chest twists painfully. You haven’t touched him in weeks—not properly. No absentminded shoulder bumps, no hand on his back, no leaning into him during rounds—none of those quiet little gestures that used to come so naturally.
And now here you are, jaw tight like you're holding yourself together by sheer will, dabbing at the wound gently, fingers holding onto his shoulder to keep him still.
"Why do you do this?" you ask quietly as you place a dressing over it.
He tilts his head instead of shrugging. "It's better than golf," he jokes. You don't laugh. He tries again, "Midlife crisis?"
Maybe you’ll call him old, maybe you’ll roll your eyes—anything that’ll show him that he hasn’t ruined everything with that kiss. Instead, he hears a sniffle behind him.
Jack stills, turning to look over his shoulder. You're staring down at his back, jaw still tight, but now your eyes are also glassy.
"Whoa, hey," he turns around as you tear off your gloves and throw them into the bin forcefully. "Hey."
"I'm fine," you mutter, not looking at him.
"You're crying."
"I'm not." Your voice cracks on the final word, and Jack hates himself for choosing to respond to that text.
"Sweetheart," he says quietly, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop it. He hasn’t called you that in weeks.
You wrap your arms around yourself and sniff once again. You're still not looking at him. "You really scared me. I thought you got shot."
"Hey," he encourages softly. "Come here."
You hesitate, but then take a step closer to him. He reaches for your hands—they're still shaking a little. He’s not sure if you’ll let him, but you do. Before he can think better of it, he pulls you in between his knees.
He tilts his head, waiting until your eyes meet his. "I'm okay. My vest caught it—it’s just a graze."
"This time, maybe," you stress. "What about next time? You can’t control what happens out there, Jack."
He fights the urge to look away.
"You could’ve gotten seriously hurt," you add quietly.
"I know."
"I just—" Your voice wobbles again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—" You bite your lip hard and look away again.
He squeezes your hands gently, bringing your attention back to him. "I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. He wants to promise he won't do it again, but the words catch in his throat. You’ll be out of his life soon—not for good, but in a way that’ll tear the rest of his heart out, and he knows he won’t be able to fight it.
Then a tear drops down your cheek, and he can't stop himself. "If you hate this," he says softly, his thumbs brushing your knuckles subconsciously, "I won’t do it again."
You peer up at him, teardrops beading your waterline. He wipes your cheek gently. "What?"
"I won't go," he promises.
"Jack—"
"I mean it." The thought of seeing you cry breaks him. Not over him.
"Really?"
He can't say no when you look at him like that, like it means everything to you that he's safe. "Yeah," he says. "Really."
You stand there for a second, searching his face like you want to believe him, then something shifts in your face. You step back, drop his hands and wipe your face harshly.
You snap on a new pair of gloves and busy yourself with throwing out the supplies. "You don’t have to do that," you murmur. "I—I overreacted. You can do what you want."
Jack’s heart sinks, unsure what changed so suddenly. "You didn’t—"
"I did," you interrupt, a tiny laugh escaping you. "I just…" you trail off, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. Whatever it is, you swallow it down.
"You should get some sleep," you say quietly instead. "You have to be back in a few hours."
Jack opens his mouth, but you’re already turning away.
"I didn’t mean to—" he starts. He isn't sure what he means, just that he wants you to look at him again.
"It’s fine," you cut in too quickly. You leave him sitting on the bed, staring at the closed door.
The next day, Jack comes in early, shifting awkwardly in front of you until you look up from the computer.
"Uh," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You got a minute?"
You nod, instinctively looking at his shoulder. "Yeah?"
He gestures vaguely. "The dressing thing... It's kinda tricky one-handed."
You close the chart immediately. "Okay."
The exam room he leads you into seems to shrink, feeling even smaller with him standing there, his broad shoulders taking up space as he awkwardly settles onto the bed.
You stand in front of him with gloves on. "Take your shirt off," you say.
His mouth twitches. "You buying me dinner first?"
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He sighs. "Tough crowd." Slowly, he slips his shirt off.
You try not to stare and begin peeling back the dressing. The scrape looks better. You work in silence.
"How’s it look?" he asks eventually.
"Fine." You finish taping fresh gauze over the scrape. "You should still be careful," you say softly.
"I am careful."
You don't answer him.
He sighs. "…Careful-ish."
You almost smile. Almost.
"Thanks," he says quietly when you finish.
"No problem."
He lingers like he wants to say something. You do, too. Eventually, duty calls when rounds begin.
After that, you start looking at apartments like you'd promised. Stealing glances at listings between patients—careful not to let anyone else notice. Scrolling through options when sleep refuses to come. It gives your hands something to do when the house feels too quiet.
You try very hard not to think about how much you don't want to leave. You love this little house. You love sitting on the terrace, listening to the birds. You love curling up on the couch. You even love the coffee machine you can't figure out how to use.
For the first time, moving doesn’t feel impossible. Not with your new salary. It would be tight, sure. Painfully tight. Your student loans aren’t magically gone just because you graduated, but—
You could make it work.
A studio. A shitty kitchen. Questionable plumbing. Somewhere small. Somewhere yours. Somewhere that doesn’t make your chest ache. Jack would probably appreciate it if you left. Sooner rather than later. You wouldn’t blame him.
Ever since the shoulder thing, something had shifted again. Or maybe you had.
Because the embarrassment lingered. You’d panicked. Ran through the hospital like a crazy person because someone mentioned gunfire and Jack. Cried and acted like losing him would ruin you.
You’d scolded him like you were together. Like you had any claim over what he did with his life. And then he’d agreed too easily to stop. That somehow made it worse because obviously he’d just been trying to calm you down. Keep things easier and less awkward.
The sooner you could release him from his shackles, the better. Then he could live his life how he wanted.
One morning, you don’t hear him come home. You’re curled sideways on the couch, laptop balanced against your knees, rental listings spread across the screen. You barely register movement until a familiar hand sets a paper bag down beside you.
"Breakfast," Jack says.
You glance up too quickly and slam the laptop halfway shut, like you'd got caught doing something you shouldn't have been doing.
His eyes flick downward, catching the word lease. He stills, and something unreadable passes over his face. "Didn’t mean to interrupt," he says quietly, then he heads for the kitchen fast.
You stare after him, chest twisting.
"Hey, sweet cheeks," a familiar warm voice greets you as you round the corner.
You glance over, offering a tired smile. "Hi, Myrna. You doing okay?"
"Yeah," she says, raising her cuffed wrists slightly. "Better if you let me out of these."
"No can do," you say, already walking backwards toward the hub. "Sorry."
She lets out an exaggerated grumble that usually makes you laugh, but today, you simply rub the heels of your palms hard against your eyes. Sleep has been awful lately. Even worse than before. For weeks, the same haunting images replay in your mind: Jack bleeding, Jack unconscious, Jack upstairs, Jack—
You stop yourself before your brain can finish that thought. Because imagining what would’ve happened if he had been the one shot, if that shoulder graze had been just inches over—
"You okay, sweetie?" Dana asks, lifting her glasses to look at you more closely.
You immediately straighten and drop your hands. "Yeah, I'm fine," you say quickly. "Just tired."
Which isn’t technically a lie. You are tired. Exhausted, honestly. Still adjusting to attending life. Still trying to prove to the hospital that they didn't make a mistake when hiring you. Simultaneously cursing and praising them for keeping you on day shift a little bit longer.
"We’ll get through it," Dana says, mistaking your expression for stress about the overflowing waiting room and how you'd been running around all day, barely able to catch your breath.
You nod once. "Yeah."
But honestly? The day has been good—busy, but good. You caught a medication error that could have had serious consequences and handled a complex consult. You kept the board moving. The pace allowed you no time to think, and if you just pushed through another few hours, maybe you’d be tired enough not to dream tonight.
Suddenly, the ambulance bays swing open behind you. "Agitated on scene," Ziggler reports as they wheel a patient inside. "Had to give midazolam en route. Vitals stable, but he’s a big guy—took three of us to get him on the stretcher."
You step in beside them, nodding. "Any known head injury?"
"Not clear. Witnesses reported he fell before we got there. Could be alcohol involved."
You exhale slowly. "Okay." Turning, you catch Trinity's eye and nod for her to join you.
Ziggler adds, "No obvious trauma on primary survey," as you guide the stretcher into a room. The transfer goes smoothly—monitor hooked up, vitals steady, respirations normal.
As you step closer to the bedside, the patient stirs slightly. You watch Trinity adjust the pulse oximeter and check his pupils.
"His respiratory rate’s picking up," you note.
"The sedation should still hold," she states.
You don’t answer immediately. You’ve seen this before. "He’s coming up early," you say.
And then—
His eyes snap open. Not slowly or smoothly, but suddenly; confused and unfocused. His head turns slightly, and his breathing sharpens.
"Hey," Trinity says quickly, her voice calm. "You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."
The patient shifts too quickly, his upper body attempting to rise.
"Sir, don’t sit up yet," you say calmly.
Trinity moves in. "Hey—" she starts.
"Trinity, don’t—" you start to warn, but it’s too late. The patient surges forward, and you react without thinking, grabbing Trinity's arm and pulling her back.
This leaves you at an awkward angle, and his elbow strikes your side as he moves. A sharp, crushing pressure slams into your ribs, knocking the breath out of you mid-inhale.
You try to steady yourself with your hand on the railing, but your fingers slip, and your head catches the side of the bed. Everything dulls for half a second as you crumple to the ground, groaning.
Trinity’s voice slices through the chaos, calling out your name in concern. You can't respond. "Hula Hoop!" she screams. She moves back, trying not to further agitate the patient, keeping her eyes on him when all she wants to do is glance down at you.
Footsteps sound in the distance—fast, hurried. The room fills with more people, and you catch glimpses of arms securing the patient. You hear shouting, someone calling for more sedatives.
You attempt to sit up but instantly double over as pain flares in your side. Gentle hands reach down to assist you. It’s Dana. You blink hard, struggling to breathe.
"I'm okay," you manage to say, slowly standing. Dana keeps her hands on your arm the entire time, her brow furrowed with worry.
"I just got the wind knocked out of me," you say, lifting your head. Something drips down on your nose, and when you wipe it away, your fingers come back bloody.
"Mm," she mutters.
Robby appears beside her, panting. He scans you quickly, already assessing the situation, barely glancing at the chaos behind him. "What happened?" He grabs gauze and gives it to you. It stings when you press it against your forehead.
"She hit her side and her head," Trinity blurts out. "Hard." You shoot her a glare.
Robby shares a glance with Dana. "Okay," he says, replacing her touch on your elbow. "I've got you."
"I can walk," you say.
"Great," Robby says. "Walk to an exam room, then." He ignores your groan and guides you out the door into an empty room. "Sit."
"I'm fine," you mutter, taking in shallow breaths.
"Mm," he says while snapping on a pair of gloves. "Let me be the judge of that. Sit down." You listen this time.
He stops in front of you, his voice softening as he looks down at you. "What exactly happened?" He gently touches the edge of your wound, shifting your face around. The bleeding has slowed, and when he doesn't immediately do anything, it confirms that it's superficial.
"I'm fine."
He frowns, pulls out his flashlight, and begins checking your pupils.
"Patient woke up early," you sigh. "Too little sedation. He was confused." You shrug and regret it instantly. Pain flashes white-hot. You mask it.
"You get hit anywhere besides your ribs?"
You glare at him, knowing he already knows. Still, you indulge him. "My head."
"Did you black out?" He lifts his finger, and you follow it.
"No."
"Nausea? Dizziness?"
"No." You answer all of his questions and follow his orders, knowing it's the only way you can get out of this room.
He nods when he's satisfied with your neuro exam and then gestures at your scrub top. He pulls it up slowly. The bruise already blooming along your ribs looks ugly. Robby presses lightly on it, and you hiss despite yourself.
"That bad?"
"It’s not bad," you correct him, but he raises an eyebrow as if not buying it. He presses again, and when your breath catches painfully, you finally admit, "…It hurts."
He rolls his stool back. "Okay. I’m ordering you a CT and chest X-ray."
"Robby, no. I'm fine," you protest. "I just need a moment."
He doesn't answer you.
You try again. "Robby, we’re understaffed."
"You’re not going back on shift like this," he turns and types something into the computer. "Jack would kill me," he mumbles, mostly to himself, but you hear it all.
"Don't call him."
"What?"
"Don't call him. I'm fine," you say. "He doesn't need to worry."
"Too late," Robby says as he takes a seat again. "Dana already filled him in."
"What?" You close your eyes slowly. "Great."
Robby frowns as he begins preparing to clean the wound. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing," you retort sharply, then let out a sigh. "Really, nothing. I just don't want him to worry over nothing."
You don't want a lecture again. You don't want a reminder of what he thought of you the last time this happened.
You straighten again, looking at Robby hopefully, "Can I come back if things look fine?"
Robby exhales slowly. "Maybe."
The usual ten-minute drive to the hospital is cut to a reckless five when Jack receives the call from Dana.
You got hurt. That's all he needed to hear before he was up and out of the house. A patient hit you. You hurt your side and your head.
Dana hadn't sounded panicked, but head injuries could be serious. You could be bleeding internally while he was driving. While he wasn't there with you.
He parks haphazardly in front of the ambulance bay, not caring that he's blocking the entrance. He tosses the keys to Whitaker, who stands outside with his phone, then pushes through the door without waiting for a response—he ignores the dumb expression on Whitaker's face.
"Where is she?" he calls, the second he spots Dana.
"In there," she replies, pointing. She grabs his shoulder before he can take off. "Easy there, soldier; she’s okay."
Maybe so, but he needs to see it for himself before he’ll believe it. He flings the door open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed. He quickly assesses you: one hand is bracing your side, your breathing is shallow, and you blink more slowly than usual. Your jaw is tight, brows furrowed, and there’s dried blood on your face.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. He hears Robby start to explain—
"Possible rib injury, head strike, CT ordered—"
You cut him off. "I’m fine," you say, then look at Jack. "You can go home again."
His brows furrow. He knows what you're like when you're in pain—how you downplay it and try to hide it. He steps closer instead.
"I don’t need a CT," you insist, starting to rise.
Jack exhales. For some reason, you’re negotiating this like it’s optional. It isn’t. "Sit down." He keeps his voice steady. "No," he says as your mouth opens. "Sit down."
You scowl but sit after a second, your breath catching slightly. A flicker of pain crosses your face before you manage to mask it. It lasts barely a second, but he sees it.
His tone softens. "You’re going for a CT." He glances over at Robby. "I can take it from here."
"Jack—"
He doesn’t respond, just holds his gaze steady, and Robby steps back with a sigh. "The wound is superficial. Neuro exam is clear."
Jack nods, snaps on a pair of gloves and sits down. He’ll do his own assessment after cleaning you up.
"I'll come get you when it's your turn," Robby says, shutting the door softly behind him.
"So," Jack says, tilting your face to get a better look at the wound, "you come here often?"
You huff an annoyed breath, easing the tension in his chest. Annoyance is a good sign. "Very funny."
He continues to work in silence, cleaning the blood away, irrigating the wound, and closing the cut with a butterfly stitch. "This probably won’t leave a scar."
"Good. I was really worried about that," you mutter. "Don’t want my face to look like Scarface."
"Even if it did, you'll still be the prettiest woman in the E.D," he says with an exaggerated wink as he turns around to discard his gloves.
You huff another breath, but this time it's softer, less annoyed.
"Can I see?" he says softly, nodding at your side. You nod, and he pulls up the fabric slowly. His jaw tightens again, his fingers hovering just above the bruise before settling cautiously against your side.
"Jesus," he mutters quietly. He pulls the shirt down again after a moment.
You fiddle with the ends of it. "I didn’t do it on purpose," you say quietly.
"What?"
"I didn’t mean to get hit," you say, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of at him.
"Hey." He waits until you look at him. "I know."
Your brows pinch together like you don’t believe him.
Jack exhales through his nose and drags the stool closer until he’s right in front of you. One hand settles carefully over your knee. "Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you. I'm—" scared. The word sits right there, lodged somewhere behind his teeth.
He looks away instead, jaw working once before he settles on, "I’m just glad you aren’t hurt badly."
You study him quietly.
"I just…" He glances down, shakes his head once. "Dana called and said you got hurt, and suddenly I’m thinking about head injuries and internal bleeding and all the shit that could be wrong before I even get here."
His voice stays steady, but only barely. "And then I walk in, and there’s blood on your face."
You look down at your hands. "I didn’t mean to scare you."
"I know, sweetheart." He waits until you glance back up. "I promise I'm not mad. Not at you."
You nod, looking like you accept his answer. He keeps your gaze for a moment, then stands and helps you settle more comfortably onto the bed.
As soon as Jack’s certain you’ll be fine alone, he storms out of the room to find Robby. Spotting him, Jack pulls him into the break room and struggles to steady his breathing.
"Jack—" Robby starts, already sensing where this conversation is headed.
Jack crosses his arms tightly, straining the fabric of his shirt. "She shouldn’t have been in there by herself."
"She wasn’t alone," Robby replies.
"You know what I mean." Jack's voice remains low but cutting, controlled in a way that shows he’s trying hard not to lose his cool. "She got hit hard enough that she needs a fucking CT scan."
Robby leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "Yeah," he says. "But she also pulled Santos out of the way before things turned worse."
Jack’s jaw clenches.
"Jack," Robby says softly now. "You’re scared."
"I'm pissed."
"No," Robby says simply. "You're scared, so you're pissed."
Jack looks away. Because yeah. Fine. Maybe.
Robby continues, "That doesn’t mean she stops being good at her job."
"I know she’s good at her job." That's not what this is about.
"Then trust her."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Because he does trust you. That’s the problem. You were good enough to run toward things that could hurt you. He knows you'll do it again.
Robby sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if I thought she was being reckless, I’d speak up. If I thought she couldn’t handle herself, she wouldn’t be here right now." He pauses. "She made the right call. The patient surged. Santos froze. She did what you’d have done."
Something in his expression shifts despite himself. Jack exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "...I hate this job sometimes," he mutters.
Robby chuckles. "Join the club. We’ve got t-shirts if you’re interested."
That gets a faint laugh out of Jack.
Robby nudges his shoulder lightly. "Go check on her before she decides she’s medically cleared and sneaks back onto the shift."
Jack’s eyes narrow at the thought. It’s not a question; you would absolutely do that. He shakes his head and pushes away from the counter. "...Thanks," he mutters.
Jack stays with you through it all.
From the CT scan to the X-ray, and through the heavy silence in between, he never leaves your side. He positions himself just out of the technologists’ way but remains close enough to notice if you shift incorrectly. The only time he steps away is when he isn’t permitted to stay, and he’s quick to return the moment he can.
When you’re wheeled back into the ER bay, you insist on getting into the bed by yourself, but you can feel his hands hovering just behind you.
You shift wrong, and pain flashes through your side. "Fuck," you hiss quietly.
Jack’s there before you can even regain your balance. One hand rests on your waist, the other steadies your arm. "Easy."
You blink at him as he helps you settle in. His hand remains firm on your waist while the other supports your arm until you're fully seated. It’s only once you’re steady that he takes a small step back—still close enough to catch you if you sway.
And then there’s nothing to do but wait. That’s the worst part. Waiting gives you time to feel things you’ve been outrunning.
"I’m fine, Jack," you say again. "You can go home."
Jack doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, not angry but also not convinced. Just… steady in a way that says he’s not participating in the argument.
Trinity appears at the edge of the curtain before either of you can speak again. She hesitates when she sees both of you. "I—I’m really sorry," she blurts out. "I didn’t think—he moved too fast and—"
You lift a hand slightly. "Hey, it’s fine," you say. "You couldn't have known."
Trinity still looks like she might combust from guilt. Her eyes flick to Jack, then back to you, unsure where to land. "I can—do you need anything? I can stay—"
"No," Jack interjects immediately.
Trinity blinks at him.
He continues, quieter but still firm: "You’ve done enough. She needs rest."
Trinity hesitates one second longer, then nods quickly. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Sorry again." She slips out, letting the curtain fall back into place.
"You didn't have to be that harsh," you murmur.
"You got hurt because of her. She needs to know that," he says.
You sigh. "It was an accident. She couldn't have known what would've happened."
"Maybe," he says, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed. He sighs after a second, "These chairs suck."
You snort, wincing slightly. "Well, what did you expect? If the hospital can't afford more nurses, we're not getting the good chairs."
He huffs. "Still."
Jack calls out from his night shift. You tell him three separate times that he doesn’t have to. He ignores you all three times.
By the time you're discharged, he's there, clearly settled in for the long haul. And as you walk into the house, he keeps one hand on your elbow, as if afraid that if he lets go, you might just collapse.
"I can walk," you grunt for the fourth time.
"Congrats," he says flatly, still not dropping his hand.
You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Mostly because your ribs feel like they’re trying to murder you. Also because—
Well. His hand is comforting.
Inside, he hovers like a worried shadow. He guides you to his room and then to the closet for a change of clothes. When you mention wanting to shower, he frowns. He glances at the door and then back at you.
"I won't lock the door," you assure him with a sigh.
He nods, exhaling reluctantly. "I'll be right outside. Just yell if you need anything."
You raise an eyebrow. "It's just a shower."
His expression remains serious. Before you can say anything else, he rummages through his closet and emerges with one of his button-up shirts. "You can’t lift your arms properly," he points out, awkwardly holding it out. "This is easier."
You look at the shirt, then back at him. You have your own shirts, but you take it anyway. "…Thanks."
He shrugs in response.
The shower sucks. Everything hurts. Washing your hair hurts. Breathing hurts. Existence hurts. By the time you’re done, your head is throbbing again. It's not a concussion. Robby had been annoyingly clear. You got lucky. No concussion, no fractures, no internal bleeding. Just bruised ribs and a nasty bump on the head. You don't feel particularly lucky.
Jack fusses the second you emerge. He follows you to the dining room table, makes you food, and then proceeds to stare until you eat it. After a few painful bites, he helps you stand, his hand finding your elbow again. You don’t mention that you’re perfectly capable of standing on your own this time.
He starts steering you down the hallway toward his room.
You stop. "What are you doing?"
"You can sleep in my bed."
"What?"
"It’s better for your ribs."
You frown. "My bed is fine, Jack."
"Mine is firmer," he says immediately.
You stare. He's right. Your mattress is softer, cheaper, but perfectly fine under normal circumstances. Less ideal when every breath feels like a knife.
Still, you hesitate. "That’s really not necessary."
Jack exhales slowly, visibly trying not to argue. "There’s also more space."
You blink.
"For pillows," he adds hastily. "You’ll probably need to stay propped up. Plus, you hit your head, and I need to keep an eye on you."
You narrow your eyes. "I don’t have a concussion."
"You still have a head injury."
"It’s minor," you say, crossing your arms, only to regret it as pain flares up. You uncross them gingerly. Jack notices but stays quiet.
"You shouldn’t be alone tonight," he says, quieter now.
You look away first. "…I’ll be okay."
"I know," he says softly. "I just wanna keep an eye on you."
Something in your chest aches worse than your ribs because he sounds so careful, so concerned. You shake your head and slowly turn toward your room, hoping he’ll let you go. "I’ll be fine."
Jack doesn’t argue, which somehow feels worse. You take three steps before hearing movement behind you. He returns from the dining room, carrying a chair.
"What are you doing?"
He shrugs. "If you’re sleeping in there, I’m staying in there."
"Jack," you protest.
"What?"
"Your back’s gonna hurt."
He shrugs again and pushes your door open with his shoulder. "I’ll survive. I've slept on worse things." He sets the chair down beside your bed and sits down, like that’s the end of the discussion.
You stare at him from the doorway. At the chair. At him sitting there with crossed arms waiting for you. He means it—he’ll stay there if necessary, on that hard chair rather than crossing any lines by sharing your smaller bed. It's gone too far echoes in your head, but the image of him sitting there all night for you is too much. You're too tired, too sore, to keep this going.
With a long, exhausted sigh, you finally relent. "…Fine."
Jack looks up.
Avoiding his gaze, you mumble, "Your room... I’ll sleep in your room."
His expression softens in an instant—too quickly, almost as if he had been trying hard not to hope you’d agree. "Okay," he says quietly. Then, gentler, "C’mon."
And when his hand brushes lightly against your back as he helps you toward his room, you don’t move away. He helps you get into bed, positioning the pillow so you hurt the least amount. There’s a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table. His fingers brush back your hair, and you lean into his touch before you can stop yourself. For a moment, both of you freeze.
He steps back first. "I'll be right back."
You can hear him rummage around, and then he enters with the chair in his arms again.
"…Jack."
He sets it beside the bed and angles it towards you. Then he sits again, arms crossed.
You stare at him. "What are you doing?"
He frowns like the answer should be obvious. "Looking after you."
"No," you say slowly. "Why are you sitting there?" The whole idea of sleeping here was so he wouldn't stay in that chair.
He shrugs. "You’re hurt," he adds. "It's better if I—." He nods down at the chair, like that explains everything.
You exhale slowly and pat the mattress beside you. "C’mon. I didn’t mean to take your bed from you."
He hesitates, which somehow stings more than the chair itself.
You try to hide your hurt with humour. "Okay, well, I guess this way, there’s more distance from your snoring."
Jack just shakes his head at you. He lasts maybe forty minutes in the chair before you wake in pain, attempting to turn and failing without hissing.
Before either of you thinks about it too hard, he's helping reposition the pillows, one hand braced carefully at your ribs. It's easier for his leg to crawl onto the other side of the bed, and he stays there waiting until you fall back to sleep. He doesn't even realise when he falls asleep half on top of the blankets.
Jack checks on you constantly during that first night. He’s alert every time you shift, every breath that seems off, and even the tiniest sounds. The moment you move, he’s awake.
You don't say anything when you see that he's moved to the bed, and he doesn't either. But he keeps his distance, lying rigidly on the far edge of the mattress like touching you might somehow make things worse. Somewhere during the night, still half-asleep and in pain, you inadvertently shift closer. When you awaken again, you find his hand loosely wrapped around yours. The second he realises you're awake, he instantly lets go.
"Sorry," he murmurs quietly.
You don't answer. You just close your eyes again, a different ache settling in your chest.
The second night, you're not sure why you wake up. There’s a blanket tucked around your shoulders. Jack’s still asleep with one arm stretched awkwardly toward your side of the bed like he’d fixed it without waking properly.
By the end of the first week, things have shifted. You stop waking every time you move wrong. Breathing no longer feels like punishment, and turning in bed has become more uncomfortable than impossible. Sometime during that first week, Jack quietly stopped pretending the chair was still an option.
Somewhere along the way, the physical distance between you also disappeared. Sometimes you'd wake to find yourself closer than you remembered falling asleep—your shoulder brushing his chest, one of his hands loosely curled near your waist like he'd reached for you in his sleep and stopped halfway.
For the first time in weeks, despite the pain, you sleep. No nightmares. No gunfire. No waking up imagining Jack bleeding out somewhere you can’t reach. Because with him there—warm, solid, and close—your brain finally quiets down.
You tell yourself it’s practical. His mattress really is better. Firmer. Easier to breathe on. Less painful to get up from. You tell yourself that staying another night makes sense. Then another. Then somehow—
Another week passes. And you’re still there. By then, you don’t technically need help anymore. Breathing feels almost normal, and the bump on your head is gone.
You could return to your room—probably should. But every night seems to end the same way: you drifting closer in your sleep, Jack pulling you in without thinking, one arm heavy around your waist, your face nestled against his chest.
You tell yourself it’s just because moving hurts. Because untangling yourself would disturb him. Because his room is colder. Because—
You stop examining it too closely. It’s easier that way because you know what you're doing is only gonna hurt you in the end. It almost starts feeling normal again, and with every little thing, you catch yourself hoping. Then you remember the hallway.
I should’ve never agreed to this.
The hope curdles again.
Going back to work takes another week.
Jack hates it, insisting that it's too early and that you should take another week off. Eventually, he relents since you'll be back on night shifts—with him. You assure him you’ll stick to light duty: no lifting, no trauma rooms unless absolutely necessary. You listen—mostly—trying to let your residents take charge whenever possible.
You're still hurting, and maybe you should’ve taken a few more days off, but that's not the worst part. That's how normal everything has started feeling again. The heating pad after shifts. Coffee waiting while you chart. Pain medication offered before you even remember it's time for it. Parker and Shen grinning whenever they see the two of you together.
It should’ve felt reassuring. Instead, some days it made you want to scream. Because none of it made sense anymore. Not after the kiss. Not after the hallway.
The longer it goes on, the harder it becomes to ignore that eventually something will have to give. You needed to move back to your own bed. Look at apartment listings again. Print out the divorce papers.
One morning after rounds, Robby lingers like he’s debating something. "Hey," he says. "You two got a second?"
"No," Jack says flatly.
Robby ignores him. He herds both of you toward a quieter corner near the supply room. You lean back against the wall automatically, careful of your ribs, relieving the dull ache after twelve hours of work. Jack's hand lifts like he wants to steady you, but he drops it again after a second.
Robby notices but says nothing. Just pinches his brows together and hopes that what he's doing won't backfire. "There’s a convention in Cleveland this weekend," he says carefully.
You groan immediately.
Jack blows out a frustrated breath. "Why do I feel like this is about to become my problem?"
"Because it is," Robby admits, wincing slightly.
"Seriously?" you sigh.
Jack exhales through his nose. "Fine. I’ll do it."
You turn toward him instantly. "What? No. You have the weekend off."
"You’re still recovering," he counters.
"I’m fine."
Jack shoots you an unimpressed look. "You’re leaning against a wall right now."
Before you can argue further, Robby clears his throat, looking surprisingly guilty. "Actually…"
Both of you turn to look at him.
"It’s a two-person thing."
Silence hangs in the air.
"…Oh," you say slowly.
Robby immediately starts retreating before either of you can object. "Thanks, guys," he says quickly. "I owe you one."
"Robby—" you start, but it’s too late. He steps around the corner fast.
You let out a sigh, and Jack follows suit.
"Well," he says after a second. "Looks like we’re going to Cleveland." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it.
You aren't exactly thrilled about it either. Hours trapped in a car. A convention neither of you cares about. He could have gotten a weekend to himself, but now, instead, he was stuck with you.
He sighs, then says, "I'll bring the car round."
You nod. "Okay."
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Jack shifts his weight like he’s about to say something else, then doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a short nod and turns away.
a/n: ahhh almost there!! and we finally get trouble's injury scene that i have had planned since the start. a few of you have suggested it as well and i've just been waiting in excitement for it!! :DD
𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, exam, drinking, two people being dumbasses once again
word count: 6.7k
a/n: ahh here we are again :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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Your alarm goes off a little after the first rays of the sun streak through your curtains. You've already been awake for half an hour, staring at the ceiling as you flip through differential diagnoses that you probably won't see on the exam.
It still twists your stomach to think that after this, only the oral boards stand between you and becoming a board-certified physician. It's even hard to wrap your head around the fact that your residency is over, and in just a few days, you'll officially step into your role as an attending physician. The longest and most challenging years of your life are behind you, just like that.
Maybe you should have decided to do a fellowship instead of taking the offer PTMC gave you—are you even ready to have others depend on you to have the answers?
You have to be.
But first, you need to pass this exam—a condition made by the PTMC when they offered you the position, which only makes this day even more nerve-wracking.
You roll out of bed with a sigh, get dressed and then head to the kitchen. You sit at the island, staring blankly at the piece of toast on your plate. Your mouth feels dry.
"You really should eat something." Jack’s voice filters in from behind you, sounding a bit rougher than usual, probably strained from talking all night. He had convinced Robby to come in early so he could be there to drive you. You didn't even have to ask; he simply made the call, leaving no room for discussion. At this moment, with your hands trembling from nerves, you’re grateful you don’t have to deal with public transport.
You steal a glance at him as he leans against the counter, looking more careful than ever. It’s as if he’s making an effort to ease things between you, despite the unresolved tension that lingers. Ever since that conversation, everything has felt off—hesitant. But this morning, it’s like none of that matters. Or perhaps he’s just getting better at masking it.
He takes a few steps forward and nudges your plate closer. "Toast. Half a banana. Something."
You shake your head, eyeing it distrustfully. "I'm gonna throw up."
"You're not," he says.
"I might."
"Then you'll throw up with food in your system."
Despite your nerves, a weak laugh slips out of you. Jack's mouth twitches like he's relieved to hear it.
He turns to the fridge and places a few things inside a paper bag and then pushes it towards you.
"What's this?"
"Emergency provisions," he says. "A sandwich. Pretzels. Protein bar. Water bottle. Some candy."
Despite everything, despite how far away he feels now, he still does this for you. "Jack—"
"Go finish getting ready. I'll make you a smoothie for the car," he says, tilting his head toward your room.
You slide off the chair, murmuring, "Thanks."
He doesn't answer, just turns and grabs the ingredients. You can hear the blender as you throw the last things in your bag. Then you both head to the car.
The drive is quiet, with only the gentle hum of the radio and the rhythmic tapping of Jack's fingers on the steering wheel breaking the silence in the car. You take occasional sips of your smoothie, the liquid gliding down easier than a piece of toast would have. You sit curled in the passenger seat, rereading the testing confirmation email for the hundredth time, even though you already know every detail.
By the time Jack pulls into the testing centre parking lot, your pulse feels like it's vibrating under your skin. You feel nauseous and dizzy at the same time as you step out of the car. Too much hinges on today going well—what if you fuck it up?
"Hey," Jack says, catching your wrist gently.
You look at him, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. He stands closer than he has in days, near enough for you to notice the faint crease between his brows, a mark that's been appearing more often lately. You can’t help but wonder if your own brow mirrors his. Without even realising it, you find yourself following his slow, steady breaths.
Someone passes nearby, and your attention snaps back to the building. Your nerves start churning again.
"You've got this," Jack says.
"Mm," you respond absentmindedly, still not looking at him.
He drops your wrist and cradles your cheeks with both hands, bringing your attention back to him.
"You've got this," he repeats, head tilting to look you deeply in the eye. The way he's looking at you, the softness in his voice, settles painfully behind your ribs. But this is just Jack. He takes care of people. Caring isn't the same as loving.
You nod weakly. His thumbs brush your cheeks lightly, making sure he keeps your attention before it can wander again. He breathes slowly, and you follow his lead.
"Repeat it," he says.
You breathe out. "You've got it," you echo, smirking a little.
"Ha," he huffs, rolling his eyes fondly. His hands leave your cheeks but don't go far, landing on your shoulders instead. "Don’t overthink it. You know what you’re doing."
You don't answer right away, but nod after a moment.
Jack grins and squeezes your shoulders before letting his hands fall down. "Go get them, tiger. I'll see you after."
You hesitate for a second, but then you lean in for a hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, palms rubbing your back gently. You breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over you, and then you step back.
When you look behind you just before the doors, Jack sends you a thumbs up and mouths another 'you've got this'. You give him a shaky smile, and then you head inside.
After signing in, locking away your phone, and being led to a grey cubicle, the day flattens into hours of clicking through cases—trauma, chest pain, aches—questions that seem straightforward until they aren't.
During breaks, you mechanically chew bites of the sandwich Jack made you.
By the time it’s over, your eyes are stinging, and your brain feels completely drained, running on nothing but adrenaline and sheer determination. Finally, you see it: Exam Complete. It’s a bit underwhelming, really, with no score to indicate how well you did—just an empty screen staring back at you.
As doubts begin to creep in, you step out into the afternoon light, squinting against the brightness.
"Hey, I could use an attending over here," a familiar voice calls. Jack leans against the wall, holding an absurdly large bouquet of flowers, grinning from ear to ear.
You shake your head at him, yet a smile spreads across your face. You're too worn out to put on a facade, and his smile is too contagious. As soon as you reach him, he pulls you into a warm embrace. "Congratulations, sweetheart!"
You pull back enough to look at him. "You don't know if I passed."
He gives you a pointed. "I know. I saw how hard you studied for this." His expression softens as he hands you the flowers. "There's no way you didn't pass."
He gently places a hand on your back, guiding you toward the car. "Now, let's celebrate. You want something to eat?"
"Yes, please!" As the adrenaline begins to fade, your hunger sets in. "Can we get fries?"
Jack chuckles warmly as he opens the passenger door for you. "Of course! We can get whatever you want, honey. It’s your special day."
Jack pulls into a nearby diner, which you pointed out had a sign proclaiming to have 'America's best fries'. The place looks frozen in time—shiny red booths, black-and-white tiled floors, chrome-edged tables, and neon signs glowing softly in the windows despite it still being bright outside. It's perfect.
A sweet older waitress named Ethel seats you in the corner booth and takes your orders. She eyes the presents that Jack has placed on the table with a curious smile—you'd been just as curious when he grabbed them from the back.
"Is it your birthday, sweetie?" she asks.
"Oh no," you shake your head.
"She's just finished her residency," Jack supplies with a proud smile.
"Oh wow," Ethel grins. "Congratulations!"
"Thank you," you say shyly.
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "I'll be right back," Ethel says, spinning around to give your order to the kitchen.
Jack looks at you. "You wanna open your presents first or talk about the questions?"
Your eyes snap to his, unaware that he'd noticed how your mind was already spiralling.
"Go over them with me," he says. "I'm sure you did great."
He really is. And when he chooses the same answers as you did for all of the questions you remember, he knows you did great. With each confirmation, your shoulders go down minutely, until you're fully relaxed as the food arrives.
As you tear into your fries, Jack watches you across the table. Even tired and still slightly frazzled, you look gorgeous. He knows things have been weird, his fault really, but he hadn't expected you to bring up getting a divorce already. He thought he had more time. He clears his throat before the feeling can sit too long.
"Sorry to cut in," Ethel says as she walks by. In her hands, she holds a massive milkshake, whipped cream balancing precariously. "On the house. Congrats, sweetie."
"Oh wow," you exclaim. "Thank you so much." Your fingers curl around the glass, and you take a big sip.
"This is delicious," you say, lips still wrapped partly around the straw, words coming out jumbled. You push the glass toward him. "Wanna try?"
"Sure." He takes a sip and gives you an approving hum. He's not the biggest fan of milkshake, but when you offer it, it's his favourite drink in the world. "Now, I think it's time to open your presents."
You eye the boxes warily. "Does it matter which one I open first?"
He shakes his head and laughs when you go for the big one first. Exactly what he knew you would do.
You eagerly peel back the wrapping paper, and he can't help but grin when your eyes widen in disbelief. "No way." You rip off the rest of the paper, holding the box with your mouth slightly agape. "Jack—"
You turn it over, still in shock. It’s a Littmann stethoscope. Glancing back at him, you say, "This is way too much."
He shrugs, a smile spreading on his face. "You deserve the best," he replies, not at all concerned about the price when it comes to you.
"I can’t take this," you protest, still staring at the box.
"It would be rude not to," he teases gently. "It’s yours, honey. I doubt anyone else would want it with your initials on it."
"What?" You gulp, brows knitted as his words sink in. Your eyes begin to glisten. "Thank you."
He brushes it off, looking pleased. "Now, open the other one."
You carefully peel back the wrapping paper this time, revealing a velvet box tucked inside.
Jack suddenly regrets everything. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe Parker was wrong. Maybe getting something sentimental after weeks of distance was stupid.
As you gently open the box, the moon pendant on the necklace glimmers in the light of the diner.
"It’s the phase the moon was in when you switched to nights," Jack remarks, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. "I thought it was... kind of fitting, you know? With you being an attending on the night shift now."
For a moment, you’re silent, simply gazing at the pendant and then back at him. Your expression softens—vulnerable enough to tighten something in his chest painfully. "Jack…" you murmur softly.
Your fingers linger over the engraving of your nickname on the back as if you can’t help but keep touching it. Your mouth presses into something smaller, tighter. "You really didn’t have to do all this," you murmur, voice wavering around the edges.
He clears his throat. "I wanted to."
You nod a bit too quickly. "It’s really sweet," you say, already reaching for a smile that feels slightly too rehearsed. You look back down at the necklace again, thumb dragging over the pendant.
"I love it," you add quietly, almost to yourself. "Help me put it on?"
Jack swallows hard and nods.
You don’t mean to, but you nod off during the drive home, lulled into sleep by Jack’s soft humming. The adrenaline from earlier fizzled out during dinner, and now that you have food in your stomach, it’s harder to stay awake.
You stir awake as he pulls into the driveway, and with your eyes still half-closed, you stumble toward the front door. Jack unlocks it and motions for you to go in first. The house is dark and silent, the only noise coming from you as you hang up your jacket. Jack trails closely behind as you make your way to the living room. You don’t notice the tension radiating from him or how he’s practically holding his breath.
Just as you’re about to cross the threshold, the lights come on, and a loud chorus of voices erupts—
"SURPRISE!"
You yelp, stumbling backwards into Jack's chest. He catches you immediately, steadying you.
"Fuck," you gasp, one hand flying to your heart while laughter erupts around the room. Your eyes widen as you take in the scene: people crammed onto the couch, filling the kitchen and dining area—residents, nurses, and attendings, all grinning from ear to ear. Several phones point your way, capturing your shocked reaction.
Streamers hang askew from the ceiling, and a banner taped to the wall behind the couch reads, ‘CONGRATS!’
Parker cackles loudly at your face. "Told you she'd scream."
"You assholes," you breathe out. You turn to Jack with wide eyes. "Did you plan this?"
Suddenly, everything falls into place. The way he kept glancing at his watch and checking his phone before you left the diner.
He nods sheepishly. "Maybe."
Something warm spreads through you. He texted everyone, ensured your favourite people came, decorated, and made sure there’d be food and drinks so you wouldn’t spiral into anxiety alone. Your lip quivers slightly.
"Hey," Jack says softly. "Don't cry, sweetheart. You'll make everyone else cry, and then Shen'll start. Trust me, he’s an ugly crier."
"Hey!" Shen protests as people laugh.
You let out a laugh, blending the emotion bubbling inside you into something manageable. You grab Jack in a tight hug.
His arms wrap around you automatically.
"Thank you," you whisper into his shoulder.
His hand presses gently between your shoulder blades. "You deserve it," he murmurs into your hair.
You pull back to look at him, and you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. The space between you feels charged, almost unbearable, but you turn away before you can dwell on it too long. You leap into the crowd, hugging and laughing your way through the congratulations.
Through it all, every conversation, every hug, every congratulation, you keep finding Jack.
He's mostly hanging back near the kitchen island, letting people have their moment with you. Directing gifts and cards to the foldable table he put up in the dining room. Occasionally, someone claps him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.
After you've greeted everyone, it's been half an hour. Parker supplied you with a drink somewhere in the middle, and a light buzz has started to spread through you. You find your way back to Jack, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Tired?" he asks.
"A little."
"But happy?" he watches your face carefully, like he's ready to throw everyone out if you ask.
You glance around the room, taking in the lively residents engaged in playful banter, one nurse wrestling with Parker to keep her from popping open champagne indoors, and the precariously hanging banner. You turn to Jack, feeling the warmth radiating off him, and step a little closer.
"Yeah," you smile softly. "Really happy."
Jack beams in return, visibly relieved. "Good."
"Did I miss Robby, somehow?" you ask, taking a sip as you scan the room.
"He's not here yet," Jack replies, something almost boyishly excited in his tone.
Your eyebrows furrow, but before you can question him further, you’re swept into another wave of congratulations as more day shift staff arrive.
The front door opens after a little while. The sound barely carries over the music and chatter, but you’ve been wondering what Jack and Robby are up to since your conversation with Jack. Without hesitation, you step out into the hallway.
Robby steps in first, his tall frame ducking slightly as he walks through the doorway, even though it’s more than high enough for him. The moment he spots you, a grin spreads across his face.
"Robby!" you grin, swaying slightly as you step forward. "You made it!"
"Of course, I did," he replies, opening his arms just in time for you to collide into him. "My best resident's an attending now. And soon enough, board-certified, too. Wouldn't miss it for the world!"
"Best resident?" Trinity says as she passes by, squeezing your shoulder. "Rude."
"Talk to me when you stop falling asleep while charting," he shoots back.
"Make it more exciting then," she replies, leaving before he can answer.
There's a light tap on your shoulder. "Do I get a hug too, or are you too good for us ordinary folks now?"
Your body stills as you recognise the familiar cadence. "No way," you breathe, turning to face her.
Olivia grins at you when you nearly smack into her.
"Liv!" you squeal, wrapping your arms around her tightly. The two of you bounce in place, laughing together as Robby squeezes past with an amused chuckle.
"Oh my god," you gasp. "Oh my god, you're here!"
"I am," she laughs.
"How? What? When?" you pull back, but grab her hands immediately.
She laughs. "Jack called me. Paid for my ticket, too."
Your head snaps to the living room, where Jack stands with a beer bottle, watching the entire scene unfold with quiet amusement. "He did?" you ask, still looking at him.
Jack shrugs one shoulder, like flying your best friend into town isn't a big deal.
Olivia squeezes your hands. Because she knows better than you what's going through your head. You have nowhere to put the feeling, so you squeeze back hard.
"Oh no," she says playfully. "You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because then I’ll cry too."
"I'm not," you reassure her, sniffling a little.
"Mm," she huffs, smiling at you.
You laugh shakily and pull her into another hug. "I'm just so happy you're here."
"I’m really proud of you," she whispers in your ear. "Now, enough of the mushy stuff," she says, pulling back and quickly wiping her eyes. "Let’s get wasted!"
After introductions have been made and you've thanked Jack once again, Olivia pulls you out on the terrace. It's a little quieter outside, music humming faintly through the half-open door and laughter drifting out every few minutes.
Someone—likely Jack—has strung warm lights along the fence, casting a gentle glow around the edges of the yard. A few people linger in the far corner, drinks in hand, deeply engaged in conversation. They smile at you but don’t pay much attention otherwise.
As you sink into the lounger, it creaks softly beneath you, and a wave of exhaustion washes over you now that no one is tugging at your attention. The weight of the last few weeks—filled with the adrenaline and stress of the exam, along with all the emotions you’ve been avoiding—settles heavily in your bones.
Olivia sits down beside you, curling one leg beneath her. For a while, you both sit in silence, taking in the pink and gold sky above. You hadn't realised how badly you needed her here until she was.
She nudges your knee with hers. "You good?"
The automatic answer almost comes out. Yeah. Fine. Tired. But since it’s Liv asking, you look down at your drink instead and reply, "…Maybe."
Inside, silhouettes move through the house, and you catch a glimpse of Shen animatedly telling a story, Parker wearing a disbelieving frown nearby. And then there’s Jack—he’s half-listening to someone while refilling bowls and checking if the fridge is stocked. He laughs, his gaze drifting until he finally spots you outside. Something in his shoulders eases when he does.
As his gaze shifts back to whoever he’s talking to, Olivia watches you quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
You turn to her again. "That depends."
A tiny smile flickers across her face. "Are you actually sure," she asks carefully, "that the two of you are having the same conversation?"
You frown at her.
She shrugs. "I know what you said, but from where I'm standing…" Her eyes flick briefly to the window again. "…he doesn't exactly look emotionally detached."
You sigh, fingers tightening around your cup. "That's just Jack."
"He flew me across the country." She bumps her shoulder into yours as she leans back. "He called me, like… three? Maybe four weeks ago?"
"Really?"
"Mm," she hums. "Told me he was planning a surprise and that he wanted me there. He thought it wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t."
Something warm and painful settles low in your chest.
"And," she adds, "he made Robby pick me up because he said if he left to get me, there was too high a chance that you'd notice something weird."
You blink.
"I'm just saying," she says, "that's a lot of effort."
"He likes taking care of people," you reply with a forced shrug.
"Sure. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the house. "This feels a little above average."
You fall silent.
"You didn't hear the conversation," you say quietly instead. Heat creeps into your face. You hate it when she says things like that. Because you can't help but wonder if she's on to something.
Olivia’s expression softens. "Okay. But from where I’m sitting?" Her gaze drifts back to Jack, who’s already checking the window again. "That man doesn’t look like someone trying to leave."
Your chest tightens, and your head spins, caught at a crossroads. You want to believe her so badly. You really do. But hope is what led you here in the first place.
"Just..." she nudges your knee again. "Don't make permanent decisions based on assumptions."
The party grows louder as the night settles in. Music drifts through the house beneath the constant hum of overlapping conversations. Empty bottles and half-finished drinks crowd the coffee table and kitchen counters.
You’re standing near the kitchen island with Olivia, laughing at something Robby has just said, when the sharp clink of glass cuts through the chatter. Conversations begin to fade one by one.
Jack stands by the dining table, a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other, looking somewhat embarrassed by the sudden focus on him.
"Oh no," you murmur immediately.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!" the crowd chants in unison.
"Don’t encourage him," you warn, shooting them all a firm look.
Jack rolls his eyes, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he glances around the room. Public speaking has never bothered him—he can run the Pitt without blinking—but this is different. This is personal.
His gaze finds yours and softens. The room quiets completely.
Jack clears his throat, "Okay. I wanna say a few words about my incredible wife."
Your breath catches a little at how easily he says those words.
The room collectively lets out an exaggerated chorus of 'awws'.
"Shut up, "Jack retorts flatly, though a smile breaks through. "She took her written boards today—which, for the record, I know she passed." He blinks at you, ignoring your head shake, and speaks directly to you. "You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met," he says quietly, "—and the most stubborn."
"You can't say that in a toast," you protest, laughing.
"I absolutely can," he replies confidently. "I’ve watched you spend years becoming the doctor people trust on their worst days." His mouth curves slightly. "I've also seen you survive residency fuelled by caffeine, spite and terrifying levels of determination."
Laughter erupts around the room.
"You care more than anyone I know,” Jack continues once it settles down. "About your patients. About your coworkers. About doing things right. The Pitt is better with you in it." He pauses, looking around the room. People eagerly lift their glasses, cheering their approval.
Jack shifts his weight, turning back to you. "And now it looks like I have to work with you as an attending."
"Don't say it like it's a burden," you call out.
"It is," he says dryly. "Because you're gonna show us all up."
"Damn right she is," Parker shouts, and the room cheers, prompting a soft laugh from Jack.
"I can’t wait for you to join nights again," he says, directing a pointed look at Robby, "—where you belong—"
You laugh at the grimace on Robby's face.
Jack continues, "—even if you're gonna steal all my favourite nurses."
"They already like me better," you say automatically, letting the alcohol drown any thoughts of Lily.
"See?" he tells the room, "Nightmare coworker."
Laughter fills the space again, but his eyes remain locked on yours. Then, speaking more softly, he says, "I’m really proud of you." He exhales quietly. "I know today was tough. I’m aware of the pressure you put on yourself. But I need you to understand," —his voice drops lower— "you earned this. You’re an amazing doctor."
The tears you had managed to hold back threaten to spill over. Liv subtly hands you a napkin. Your fingers find the moon pendant at your throat without thinking.
Jack's expression softens when he sees your face. And then he says the words he won't ever say in private. "I love you." His eyes don't leave yours. Something in his expression shifts—softer, almost wary.
The room melts around you. You wish, just for a second, that you could believe him. Maybe you would have—if this had been private. If he hadn’t said it with people watching. If it hadn’t come wrapped inside a toast and soft laughter, and the role you've trapped him inside.
He's your husband. Of course, he says I love you. What else is he supposed to say?
Jack looks at you for a second longer before clearing his throat roughly and turning back to everyone else. He lifts his bottle into the air. "To Trouble!"
The room echoes his sentiment. You manage a shaky smile through teary eyes, feeling Liv squeeze your hand.
"Okay, enough of the sappy stuff," he announces. "There’s cake in the kitchen and more drinks in the fridge. Have fun!"
He stops to add, "Oh—and if anybody starts discussing actual medicine tonight, I'm kicking you out!"
The room instantly bursts into noise and movement. You catch Jack’s arm as he walks past you.
"Thank you," you murmur, then step back, reaching for another drink. Jack catches your hand, like he wants to stop you from walking away.
Then he drops your hand again.
A little while later, you've been sent to the kitchen for more drinks by Parker and Trinity. Mel asked you more nicely.
Jack is already there, half inside the fridge, shifting bottles around. "What do you need?" he asks, without turning around.
"Two seltzers and two beers."
"All out of seltzers," he says without looking at you. "I'll go get some more." He shuts the fridge with his shoulder.
You don’t move right away. Neither does he. It stretches for a second too long before he nods toward the door. "You coming?"
You pretend to think about it, grinning slightly. "Do I have to?"
"No," he says, shrugging like it doesn't mean anything to him.
You follow him out anyway and pretend not to notice the smile on his face when you do.
Jack flips the garage light on and steps inside first. There are cases stacked against the wall, a half-open box of cups, and some random folding chairs shoved into the corner. It's cluttered in a lived-in way.
You reach for a case at the same time he does, your fingers brushing against each other.
"I’ve got it," he says, pulling away slowly. He adjusts his grip on the case, then shifts slightly so you can reach the cups.
"Thanks." You grab a sleeve, and when you straighten up, he’s already holding the door open for you. You pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost catches his chest.
Later in the evening, you find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your head resting against the cushion as you half-listen to the radiologist whom Lily has been seeing. He'd brought a sweet card from her, giving you her apologies for having to work. Parker's vetted him earlier, and after about five minutes of questioning, you also deem him acceptable. He’s nice, sporting a bright smile that rivals Lily's in its brilliance, and he’s funny too—though maybe that’s just the alcohol coursing through your veins. As he recounts a story about misreading a scan, you chuckle into your cup.
"Hey, can I steal you for a second?" Jack’s voice cuts through your laughter, low and tense. His hand lands on your shoulder and slides down to grasp your hand, and before you can respond, he pulls you up and away. Your drink sloshes against your palm.
You glance back at the radiologist, whose name escapes you, offering an apologetic smile, but he waves you off with a smile.
As Jack pulls you through people toward his room, you twist your arm. "What's going on?"
He doesn't answer. He pushes the door open and pulls you inside, shutting it with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stands there with his back to you, breathing heavily.
You wipe your hand on your pants and set the drink down on the dresser. "Jack?"
He turns around, his attempt at restraint already unravelling. His eyes are stormy, darker than usual. "You having fun?"
"Yeah?"
"It looked that way."
You frown at him.
"I know you've already decided how this ends—" he says, voice low and tense, "But don't do that in front of me."
Your brows shoot up. "Do what?"
"Least of all in my house," he continues, taking a step forward.
"What are you talking about?"
He exhales sharply, clearly struggling to rein in his emotions. "You know."
Irritation flares in your chest. "No? Because from where I was standing, I was having a normal conversation until you dragged me in here like I did something wrong."
His voice rises, filled with frustration. "You were all over him."
You step forward defiantly. "I was talking to him."
"You were laughing with him," Jack says, stepping closer. "For forty-five minutes."
"That's how conversations work, Jack. And it wasn’t even that long."
He scoffs, crossing his arms. "You could at least show some decency."
Your brows furrow, incredulous. You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Decency? You're lecturing me about decency? That's rich."
His expression hardens. He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer and cake on his breath. "I don't understand what your problem is. You know what you're doing."
"My problem?" You take another step forward, refusing to back down. "My problem is you pulling me in here like I did something wrong while you’ve been flirting in front of me for weeks."
He blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? I haven't flirted with anyone."
You stare at him, crossing your arms. "Right. So, I've just been imagining things?"
He stares back at you, searching your face, then his nostrils flare. "Are you just trying to change the subject?"
"Are you?" you retort. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, mere inches apart now.
His breath hitches, and his eyes flicker down for a moment. "Jesus, what don't you get? You know I lo—"
Then the doorknob rattles
Your eyes widen as panic rushes across both your faces—the thought of someone walking in would be disastrous. Questions, rumours, explanations that neither of you can manage right now.
But beneath that panic lies something else: the way he stands too close, the jealousy lacing his voice, the realisation that for one fleeting moment, he sounded like he cared. Like he was hurt.
Without thinking, you react.
It's not gentle. Nothing about it is careful. It's frustration, anger, and heat colliding in a motion too fast to stop.
Jack freezes for half a heartbeat, maybe less, as if he can’t believe this is happening. Then something in him gives way. His hand wraps around your waist firmly, pulling you closer, while the other winds into your hair, tilting your head back as he kisses you deeply.
He turns you without breaking the kiss, and you feel your back hit the dresser. Woods digs into your hips, but you don't care. You try to swallow a moan as he licks into your mouth, but it still comes out broken.
Jack groans at the sound.
The door opens behind you—
"Oh shit—sorry!" a voice giggles, and then the door shuts again.
You move to pull back, but Jack simply follows. He crowds you closer, one hand gliding down your thigh and lifting you in one smooth move onto the edge of the dresser. You don't even register it properly—just the shift, the heat, the closeness of him. Your legs part to make room for him.
The kiss is still intense, angry, loaded with everything neither of you has said aloud for weeks. The anger burns hot at first. Weeks of hurt. Silences. Jealousy. Frustration.
It tastes sharp.
But somewhere between one breath and the next, it changes. Not softer. Like neither of you wants to stop long enough to remember why you should.
You let it go on longer than you should have, fingers gliding through the hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against the slight stubble on his cheeks, and then trailing down to his chest again. You soak in the sounds he makes, the softness of his lips, and the faint taste of beer lingering on him.
He mutters against your lips, "Please don’t make this harder—" but the rest fades away as reality crashes back in. You break the kiss, barely pulling away, your breath uneven, your foreheads nearly touching.
"Jack…" you murmur. "We…We shouldn't." You force yourself to resist the urge to lean in again, reminding yourself he’s drunk, and this isn’t what he truly wants.
Jack stills immediately. The air between you, once heated, cools instantly. He pulls back, looking at you with blown pupils, and whatever he sees there makes him falter.
He nods and retreats quickly, like he’s been burned. The sudden gap between you feels worse than if he had stayed angry. "No, you’re right."
"I—" you say as you watch the gap between you grow back again, heart pounding painfully behind your ribs. "Jack—"
"Hey, can I come in?" Olivia's voice floats through the door, slightly muffled and slurred. "I've got beer all over me—I need a shower before I start fermenting."
Jack watches you silently, like he's begging you not to answer.
You wet your lips, forcing your voice to work. "…Yeah."
The door swings open, and she halts mid-step, taking in the scene before her. Her eyes dart from you to Jack. "Should I—" she begins, stepping back.
"I'll go," Jack interrupts and brushes past her.
She stares down the hallway for a moment before closing the door behind her and locking it. "What was that about?"
You gaze at the floor, shrugging awkwardly. "…We kissed."
Her expression shifts immediately. "What?" she asks sharply.
Your stomach twists. "It—" you swallow, trying to push the ache down. "I don't know—" Your voice cracks at the end despite your best effort to remain steady.
"Oh, honey," she says, crossing the room to sit beside you on the dresser without hesitation, pulling you into her non-beer-soaked side. "Hey, hey—look at me."
At first, you can’t. She nudges you gently, then pinches your side until you meet her gaze.
"Everything's fucked," you tell her with a wet laugh.
She doesn’t respond, nor does she try to convince you otherwise. Instead, she pulls you closer, letting you cry it out.
Once your breathing slows, she leans her head against yours. "Did he kiss you back?"
You laugh wetly. "That’s not exactly the problem."
Olivia studies you. “Okay. We’re unpacking this tomorrow when you're not drunk."
For a while, neither of you says anything. Then Olivia heads into the bathroom. The shower runs softly while you shift to sit on the edge of the bed. Laughter and music drift faintly through the door.
Your chest aches in that dull, exhausted way heartbreak settles after it's done tearing through you. You don’t know what tonight meant, what the kiss signified, or what he meant by, “please don’t make it harder…”
You wipe at your face roughly, feeling humiliated.
Olivia peeks out from behind the shower curtain, her face partially visible through the cracked door.
"...Okay," she says cautiously. "I have gossip."
You blink. "What?"
Her mouth twitches. "Important gossip."
Despite yourself, a tired laugh escapes. "Liv, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything," she says quickly. "Someone else did something."
"…Who?"
She's silent.
"No way."
She tries very hard to maintain her composure and fails immediately, breaking into a grin. "He spilt his beer on me and then—"
"You kissed Robby?" you gasp in disbelief.
Her grin only widens. "Don’t be mad."
You blink at her in disbelief, once, twice. "Oh my god," you laugh. "I can’t believe you."
"Are you mad?" she asks, biting her lip nervously.
"No!" you immediately reassure her. You're really not. "I just...didn't realise that was a thing."
"Well, to be fair," she laughs, stepping back under the water. "Neither did I until about half an hour ago."
The party thins out a little after midnight. Jack and you cross paths a few times, but he doesn't really look at you, no matter how hard you're trying to catch his eye. You didn't realise how much you'd depended on it before.
For the last few hours, you’ve been drifting through the evening, going through the motions without really being present. You smile through well-wishes, laugh at the appropriate moments without any real feeling, and hum along to the music without actually listening. Even through the blur of everything with Jack, you catch the few lingering looks from Robby in Olivia’s direction, like something has shifted slightly.
It's the only good thing you have to hold on to right now,
You guide a very drunk Olivia into your bed while Jack and Robby are busy clearing bottles off the terrace after saying goodbye to the last few guests. As you head to the kitchen for a glass of water, your steps slow when you hear their voices coming from the hallway. You find yourself pausing near the counter, unable to help it.
"You good?" Robby asks.
There’s a pause—a long one for such a simple question.
"Yeah," Jack finally answers. "I'm fine."
"That's not what it looks like," Robby says.
You hear Jack exhale. "It’s nothing," he says. "I just… I should’ve handled things differently."
You hear the jingle of keys. Robby doesn't respond right away, letting the silence prompt Jack to continue.
"I thought I had more control over it. That I could keep it contained."
"But you can’t," Robby states, not posing it as a question.
Jack emits a broken laugh. "No. I should’ve never agreed to this."
You bite your lip harshly.
"Brother," Robby says, shifting slightly, "That's not true—"
"It's gone too far now and I—"
You hold your breath. A chill spreads through your chest at his words. Gone too far. Deep down, you knew he regretted this. Now, you have it in plain words.
You don’t wait for him to finish. You step back before your body even catches up with the words, pulse roaring in your ears. Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, it feels like everything is about to break open.
But it doesn’t.
Whatever was building just… stalls out. You blink once, then again, waiting for the tears to catch up. They don’t. There's just a dull pressure behind your eyes that never quite turns into anything.
next part
a/n: don't hate me too much! i know you're all gonna scream at me for this ending but the angst is almost over!! promise <333 and thank you everyone who sent in ideas for jack's gift to trouble! i already had the stethoscope idea planned and i'm very happy so many of you agreed!!
𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses, drinking, hangover
word count: 6.6k
a/n: wooo another chapter done and over 100k words written!! this is actually sooo insane to me. when i started this fic i never imagined that it would go on for this long🤭 thank you for being here <333 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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Jack's been counting down to this day all week—his first day off in a little over a week. It's slightly pathetic just how much he's built it up in his head, but it's the truth.
Every day feels like an exercise in restraint. Every morning, he wakes up after barely sleeping, stares at the drawer where his police scanner is hidden and has to look away before temptation wins.
He made a promise to himself the day you moved in, and he's gonna keep it—he won't touch it while you're still in the house. Even if his entire body is screaming for it. For the radio in that drawer. For the SWAT uniform hanging in his closet. For anything that'll dull the restlessness.
Jack's a man of his word, even as it gets harder with each passing day. Even as the lack of sleep hollows him out enough for people to notice. Even when you notice.
He can still feel the touch of your fingers under his eyes from two nights ago, soft against the dark circles as you frowned up at him. Asking him if it was because of his leg and telling him you bought him more of that cream and that he could use your heating pad. He'd nodded because telling the truth wasn't an option—and besides, his leg had been giving him hell that day.
But it wasn't the reason for him not sleeping, not that he could ever tell you that. He couldn't tell you that it was the thought of you drifting away from him, of you leaving, that kept him awake. That only seeing your face for a handful of minutes each day was driving him insane. That every day brought the end closer, and he could feel the countdown in his bones.
Tonight, however, he finally gets a semblance of relief. No work. No interruptions. Just an entire evening with you. An evening where he'll watch whatever you want to without complaining if it means he gets to sit next to you, listening to your laugh and teasing you.
He just wants your company.
It's around half past seven when the front door cracks open. Jack had offered to come pick you up, but you insisted that it was too nice not to walk, and so he'd relented. He didn't want to start the evening out on the wrong foot.
"Hey," you greet him, sending him a quick smile as you move towards your room. "I'm gonna shower real quick."
He sends you a smile back from his position on the couch and grabs his phone. He has it all planned out: takeaway, a bad movie, and if he's lucky, you'll fall asleep on his shoulder.
He opens the app, finds that place around the corner that you'd mentioned before and scrolls through their menu. He hears the shower turn off, then the sound of you rummaging through the closet and by the time you come into the living room, he's halfway through speaking, "I was thinking we could order in toni—"
And then he looks up.
His smile fades as he sees you standing in the doorway, bag slung over your shoulder and a confused look on your face. It dissolves into an apologetic one as you step further into the room, "Shoot," you say. "I forgot to tell you—I'm going out with Parker and some of the other girls tonight." You bite your lip, adding, "She's been asking me for days..." as if it's some sort of consolation.
For a second, he just stares at you, the air leaving his lungs so fast it almost hurts. Tries to process the fact that this was a night he'd been waiting for all week, and to you it's just another night.
"Oh," he says. "Okay." He stands, forcing his expression into something neutral as he follows you into the hallway. "That sounds fun," he adds, the words stiff in his mouth.
"Yeah," you reply as you shrug on a jacket. "We're going to that club near the park."
Jack folds his arms and leans against the doorway, trying to breathe through the sting in his chest. "Okay," he says. "Be safe. I'll come pick you up when you're done."
You look up from the shoes you're slipping on and shake your head. "You don't need to wait up for me. I'll just call an Uber."
He frowns. "I'm gonna be up anyway," he says. He won't be able to sleep until he knows you're home safe. He adds in a softer tone, "I don't mind. Call me."
For a brief second, your hand loosens on the bag strap as your eyes flicker over his face. Can you see the hurt and disappointment he's trying to contain? Your mouth parts like you're about to say something. Something like: Maybe I can stay. Maybe I can reschedule.
The words hover on the edge of your lips, so close Jack can almost taste them. And for one stupid second, he thinks you might actually say them because he sees how your shoulders soften and your weight shifts, like you're reconsidering leaving.
Then the moment passes. Your fingers tighten around the strap again, and your feet turn to the door. "I'll see you later," you say and disappear out the door faster than he can respond. He stares at the shut door.
He notices you never actually agreed, and before he can second-guess it, he pulls up Ellis’ contact.
>> Text me when you're ready to leave. I'll drop you and the others off, too.
He hesitates for a second. Then adds:
>> Trouble wants to pay for an Uber. But I won't be asleep, so call whenever.
He gets a reply seconds later.
<< Sure thing, boss
He stares at the screen for a second before locking it and sinking back onto the couch. He flicks on a random sports channel, though he knows he won’t take in a second of it. He curses Robby's name one more time in his head, despite having talked it out. Still, he can't help but put some of the blame on him; it lessens the blame he can put on himself.
You sit cross-legged on Parker's bedroom floor, your makeup bag spilt open around you in a mess of brushes, palettes, and lip gloss tubes. The room smells faintly like vanilla body spray and the citrus candle Parker lit twenty minutes ago. Music hums low from the speaker on her dresser, some playlist she made in your first year of residency.
You sweep a glittery brush across your lid, tilting your head for a better angle. Behind you, Parker's bathroom door is open, steam still curling out from her shower. You can see half of her face in the bathroom mirror as she expertly draws a sharp wing. For a while, the only sounds are the music, the rustle of brushes, and Parker humming under her breath.
Then she says, casual as anything, "So, you gonna tell me what's up with you and Abbot?"
Your hand stills mid-swipe. The brush hovers near your eyelid as your shoulders tense, but you force yourself to relax, lowering the brush to the palette in your lap.
"Nothing’s going on," you say, aiming for light and dismissive.
Parker lets out a short laugh from the bathroom. "Sure," she says.
You glance toward the doorway and catch her raised eyebrow in the mirror. "Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in days?"
You stare down at the eyeshadow palette, pretending to inspect the colours even though your mind goes completely blank. "Uh…"
Does she know? Does she see the same things you do? For an overwhelming second, the urge to spill everything to her fills your chest. You suppress it. You can't betray Jack like that.
Parker snorts softly, caps her eyeliner, and steps into the doorway. She leans one shoulder against the frame, mascara wand in hand, watching you with the kind of knowing look that makes lying feel impossible. "You know, if you both sleep that badly without each other," she says, "maybe you should consider coming back to nights."
You blink at her and let out a quiet breath of relief. Her assumption wasn't even close, or well, it was right, but she hadn't figured out the reason for the distance. You're even more glad you kept your thoughts to yourself now.
"It’s only a week until I’m back," you say, dipping your brush into the eyeshadow again. You can deal with another week. Robby had already offered to move things around and get you back on nights early, but you'd refused before he could finish the sentence. You're not ready to see Jack and Lily interacting just yet. Not sure that you would be able to hide your heartbreak well enough.
Parker disappears back into the bathroom, and you hear drawers opening. "I’ll cover half your patients if you come back early," she calls out.
You laugh, shaking your head as you blend the shadow into your crease. "You literally cannot do that."
She reappears with a lipstick tube in hand, shrugging, "Fine. Shen will buy you coffee before every shift."
That makes you laugh harder. "Every shift?"
"Mm. And after!"
You reach for your mascara, twisting the tube open. "You're resorting to bribery now?"
She shrugs. "Whatever works."
You lean closer to the mirror, carefully brushing mascara onto your lashes. "Parker," you say, smiling, "I’m not coming back early. So you can drop it."
She groans dramatically.
"I don’t mind day shift," you continue. "And it’s just temporary." You cap the mascara and toss it back into your bag, then look up at her through the mirror. "So, can we please have one night where we don’t talk about work?"
Parker presses her lips together, considering, then she sighs heavily—the theatrical kind meant to show she's only giving in under protest. "Fine," she says.
You grin. "Good. Because you have to help me figure out what to wear."
"Ooh," she says, dropping onto the edge of her bed. "Okay, show me everything."
By the time you and Parker join the other girls, you’re feeling that pleasant buzz of tipsiness. And after just another half hour with Trinity pushing drinks into your hands, you're drunk.
The place is packed—shoulders brushing past in every direction, voices layered over the pulse of the bass, the air warm with the smell of liquor and perfume and too many people in one room. Coloured lights flash across the dance floor as you move in between the throngs of people. It's nice, letting go of all your worries and just having fun.
It even makes the guilt of leaving Jack alone at home subside. You hadn't anticipated that he would look that sad—you'd actually expected the opposite. It was the whole reason why you agreed to go out tonight, to give him the house to himself.
Limiting the time you spend alone with him is the safest. Working days has been hell, besides the obvious, but having him find you the second he enters the Pitt, the smile he gives you as he kisses your cheek, and the way his shoulder keeps brushing yours during rounds, it's enough to make your resolve wobble.
It's enough to make you doubt if you really do have it right—until you see him talk to Lily, and then the confidence surges again. Not even Olivia’s increasingly exasperated insistence that you're reading it all wrong could shake that certainty.
Since the argument at the lockers, Jack hasn’t pushed back on the shift change. He still checks if you’ve eaten, still keeps a protein bar in his pocket if you haven't, still brings you tea at the start of his shift—but he hasn’t fought for more, and somehow that hurts worse than when he did.
So instead of being curled up beside him on the couch, you’re here—pressed into a cracked vinyl booth with a drink in your hand and Parker half draped across the seat beside you.
"Pleeease," Parker whines, dragging the word out as she collapses dramatically against the backrest. Her margarita sloshes dangerously in her hand. "Come back to nights."
Across the table, Trinity snorts into her drink as Princess mocks her.
You laugh, shaking your head. "Parker, no. You promised no work talk."
Parker presses a hand to her chest like you’ve mortally wounded her. "So that’s it? You’re abandoning us? Leaving us in the clutches of hell when salvation is right there?"
You stare at her flatly. "Wow. Since when did you become so poetic?"
Parker lifts her glass solemnly. "Since Abbot started nitpicking my charting. Trauma changes people."
Lily bursts out laughing beside her, the sound bright enough to cut through the music. The bruising around her throat has faded into mottled yellow and green now, and her voice has almost completely recovered. Her scans had come back clean, no concussion, no lasting damage, and she’d been one of the first people demanding a night out the second she was cleared.
"No, seriously," Parker says. "He told me to fix my chart because I wrote 'patient states pain is better' instead of 'the patient’s pain is improved'."
"That sounds fair," Trinity says, her head tilting as a small smirk plays on her lips.
Parker glares at her. You laugh, louder this time.
Parker swivels toward you. "He was never this bad when you were on nights."
You shrug, "Maybe your charting got worse."
She narrows her eyes at you.
Trinity leans in over the table, "I, for one, hope you won't ever go back." She lifts her glass. "To day shift, where I hope Trouble stays forever."
Parker groans but lifts her glass anyway. "To Trouble, who abandoned us to die." Lily nods emphatically.
You roll your eyes and clink your glass against theirs.
"No, but seriously," Parker says, nudging Lily with her elbow, "Tell her she needs to come back. Abbot is terrifying right now, right?"
Lily shrugs. "He’s just tense."
Parker scoffs. "That's because he likes you. He’s less scary with you."
Lily laughs and shakes her head. "No, he isn’t."
"He is," Parker insists. "You’re the only person he hasn’t snapped at all week."
Lily rolls her eyes. "That’s because I’m still on light duty."
She says it casually, thoughtlessly, but the words hit somewhere tender. Because, of course. Of course, he’s gentler with her. Of course, people notice. You'd noticed.
You stare down into your drink, the ice shifting softly when you tilt the glass. You force a smile. "That’s nice of him."
Lily nods. "I'm back on normal duty Monday, and I cannot wait." She leans in, adding with a little grin, "I might also have a date with a radiologist..."
Parker's eyes widen, "What?"
Your eyes widen. "When did that happen?" you ask. Does Jack know?
"When I went for that scan the other day," Lily grins.
"Damn girl," Parker laughs.
"Hey, at least something good came out of it," Lily says. "I think we're going to that place nearby. Momo's or something—"
You lift your drink and take another swallow, eyes drifting to the dance floor while the conversation moves on around you. If Jack loses his chance with Lily because he was doing this with you, would he forgive you?
A new song blasts through the speakers, bass vibrating through the floor beneath your feet.
"Oooh, I love this song!" you hear from your left as Parker rushes out to the dance floor.
Lily laughs from beside you and reaches for your hand. "Come on."
You hesitate for half a second, but let her pull you up. Because, despite everything, you still like Lily. She’s warm and funny and kind. None of this is her fault. You can’t blame her for the ache that opens in your chest every time you look at her and think about Jack. So you let her lead you into the crowd.
And for the next half hour, the night becomes loud and stupid in the best possible way, and for a little while, you let yourself disappear into it.
You try not to picture Jack at home. Maybe stretched out on the couch. Maybe reading with those stupidly adorable glasses on. Maybe glancing at his phone every now and then, waiting for it to ring because he told you to call.
That thought should make warmth bloom in your chest. Instead, it hurts. Because even now, while you’re pulling away for his sake, he’s still there. Still showing up. Still making space for you. Still offering in a way he never should have to.
So you drink. Shot after shot. Trying to soften the ache. Trying to drown the guilt. Trying not to think about the fact that if it weren’t for you, he could probably be moving on with his life instead of waiting around for your call.
By the time you stumble back toward the booth, your head is pleasantly foggy, your limbs loose and warm.
Parker drops beside you, breathless from dancing. "You good?" she asks.
You nod, then immediately regret the motion when the room tilts. "Yep."
She gives you a sceptical look. "You are not getting any more drinks."
"I’m fine," you insist, reaching for her cocktail on the table.
Parker snatches it first. "Nope."
You glare at her. "Parker."
She folds her arms around the drink protectively. "You're wasted."
"I'm not."
She shoots you a disbelieving look. "I'm gonna call Jack," she says, pulling out her phone.
"No!" you say, grabbing her hand quickly.
She blinks at you, surprised.
You try to soften it, "I'll just get an Uber once I sober up a bit. I don’t want him coming out at one in the morning because I had too much to drink."
Parker studies you for a second, then nods hesitantly. A few minutes later, Trinity drags Parker back onto the dance floor when another song comes on, and you stay in the booth, sipping water, trying to steady the spinning in your head. Lily joins you after a moment, giggling at something on her phone.
You’re staring blankly out into the crowd when something shifts. Even through the music and the blur in your head, you feel it. That strange awareness that has nothing to do with sight. Your body notices him before your mind does, gaze lifting automatically toward the entrance.
And there he is.
Jack stands just inside the bar, arms folded behind his back as he scans the room. The second his eyes land on you, your breath catches. Every ounce of drunken warmth drains out of you. "What the fuck?" you mutter.
You whip around to Parker, who has just returned to the table, suddenly looking guilty.
She winces. "Sorry."
Your stare hardens. "You called him?"
"You were too drunk to get home alone."
"I told you not to."
Trinity appears behind her shoulder, adding with no remorse. "Abbot said he’d drive all of us home."
You stare at them in disbelief. "I see," you say flatly. So much for not disturbing him. But then again, you should've thought about it—Lily's here, of course, he'd come.
Before you can say anything else, Jack reaches the table.
"Hey, girls," he says, warm and easy, that small familiar smile on his face. "Looks like you’re having fun."
"Oh yeah," Parker says brightly, then points at you. "This one had way too many shots."
Jack’s gaze moves to yours, and the smile softens. "I can see that."
You're leaning against the back, staring hazily at him. He steps closer and gently brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. Your body leans into it before you can stop yourself, then you remember Lily is sitting right there.
You straighten immediately.
"I’m fine," you say. You stand to prove it. The room lurches violently.
Before you can stumble, Jack’s arm is around your waist, steady and immediate. "Mm-hm," he murmurs. "Sure you are."
He's warm, a scorching heat that sends fire through your veins. You hate how natural it feels to lean into him. Hate how easy it is to stay there. You’re too tired—and too drunk—to pretend you don’t want the support. Even if Lily is looking. She'll get to have him forever; you only have a short time—she'll have to forgive you.
Jack glances at the others. "Come on," he says. "Let’s get everyone home."
The girls pile into the car, laughing and arguing over seats as Jack opens the passenger door for you. You slide in without looking at him. He sets a bottle of water in your lap, then reaches over to buckle your seatbelt.
You stare out the window while quiet music plays through the speakers. One by one, he drops everyone off. Parker is last, leaning through the window with a drunken grin.
"Love you," she sings.
You glare at her. She laughs and shuts the door. Then it’s just you and Jack. The silence in the car feels enormous. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel while the other taps lightly against his thigh.
"You have fun?" he asks after a minute.
"Yeah," you murmur.
"That’s good."
Silence settles again.
"Day shift treating you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." You can feel the heat of his gaze on the side of your face, but you don't look at him.
"Good," he nods.
"Mm."
He’s quiet for a second before speaking again, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. "I miss having you around."
You grip the hem of your shirt and almost turn toward him. Almost say I miss you too. But Lily’s words echo in your head. He’s been checking in a lot.
You stare harder out the window. "I’m coming back soon," you say instead.
"Right." He nods once.
Normally, you’d say something, anything, to fill the silence. But tonight you can’t. You don't know what to say that won't make things awkward.
You lean against the window pane instead, listening to the soft murmur of the radio, and tell yourself you’re just resting your eyes. Just for a second. Sometime between one red light and the next turn, sleep pulls you under.
Jack turns into the driveway slowly, careful not to take the corner too sharply. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, looking at you in the dim glow of the moonlight.
"Hey," he says softly. You don't stir. He leans over and brushes a hand over your shoulder. "Hey, we’re home."
You hum lightly and turn your head onto the headrest, brows pulling together faintly, but your eyes stay shut.
He exhales a quiet laugh. "Alright."
Jack gets out, walks around the car and opens your door. "Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, reaching for your hand. "Can you stand?"
You blink slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused. "M'awake," you mumble.
"Mm," he breathes.
You try to stand up, but the second your feet hit the ground, your knees buckle. Jack catches you instantly.
"Okay," he says gently, one arm steady around your waist. "That answers that." You mumble something incoherent into his shoulder. Then, before you can protest or he can overthink it, he slides one arm under your knees and lifts you.
You let out a sleepy noise of surprise, one hand grabbing weakly at the front of his shirt. "Jack—"
"I’ve got you," he murmurs into your hair as he walks up to the door. Your head drops against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to argue.
He sets you down just long enough to unlock the door, then lifts you again and carries you inside. He nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and carries you straight to the bathroom.
"Alright," he says softly, setting you carefully on the sink, one hand still holding your waist. He grabs your toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it. "Here."
You stare at him and obediently open your mouth. He lets out a short huff of laughter.
"Honey, no. Here." He places the toothbrush in your hand. "Brush your teeth."
"Oh." You begin brushing with slow, clumsy movements, squinting at yourself in the mirror.
Jack leans against the counter beside you, arms at each side of your legs, making sure you stay upright. When you finish, you spit, rinse, and immediately wobble. His hand catches your elbow.
"Come on. Let’s get you to bed." He helps you down from the counter and guides you toward the bedroom. But instead of heading for your room, you stop in front of his bed and tug weakly at your shirt.
Jack freezes. "Wait—"
You frown at him. "Need t'sleep."
"I know, but—"
You’re already trying to pull your top over your head and failing miserably. Jack turns around so fast it would almost be funny if he weren't so flustered. You let out a tired little huff as you wrestle with your clothes. There’s the sound of fabric hitting the floor. Then silence.
Jack glances back over his shoulder just long enough to see you standing there in only your panties. He catches a glimpse of the curve of your ass before his gaze jerks away immediately.
"Hang on." He pulls one of his T-shirts from the dresser and holds it out without looking directly at you. "Here."
You take it, and stumble into his eye line while pulling it on. He catches your arm without thinking. "Okay?"
"Mm," you hum. He expects you to walk past him, but you don't—you crawl straight into his bed instead. He almost can't remember the last time that happened, but you don't notice how he stares, already curled onto your side with your eyes shut.
He debates whether or not to tell you that you're in the wrong bed, when he wants nothing more than to just slip in beside you and not say anything. But he can't—not when he knows that's the last you want.
So, he says, "This isn't your bed, sweetheart."
You blink sleepily up at him. "Wanna stay here." The words are slurred and soft and so completely unguarded that his chest tightens.
"You sure?"
You make a sleepy little sound and scoot further into the bed, like that settles it.
Jack stands there for a long moment. Every instinct tells him this is a terrible idea. Not because he doesn't want this—god, he wants it too badly—but because you're drunk, and things between you are already fragile. One wrong move could break whatever trust still exists between you.
So he keeps his distance, decides that he'd better sleep on the couch tonight. He pulls the blanket higher over your shoulder, then he reaches to move the hair away from your face. Indulging himself for a moment.
You catch his wrist with barely open eyes. "Stay." The word is so quiet he almost misses it.
He should say no. He knows he should. But the word won’t come. He looks at you for a second, then nods once. "Okay."
He's not that strong.
He walks around to the other side of the bed, takes off his prosthetic and lies down, leaving space between you. For a minute, everything is quiet. Then, half asleep, you roll toward him. Your hand finds the front of his shirt, curling there lightly as your head nestles into the space between his shoulder and neck. You breathe in deeply and sigh contentedly.
Jack closes his eyes.
A few seconds later, your breathing evens out again. Jack stares up at the ceiling in the dark, every nerve painfully aware of how close you are. He wants to wrap an arm around you, but he stays still.
After a long moment, he carefully pulls the blanket over both of you and lies awake beside you, trying to memorise this—your weight against him, the sound of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo. This might be the last time he ever gets this. He'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of it.
He falls asleep faster than he intends to.
You wake up slowly, dragged out of sleep by the dull ache behind your eyes and the heaviness of a hangover settling into your body. For a moment, you stay still, half buried in warmth, then awareness catches up.
The blankets are softer than yours. The pillow smells like clean laundry and something familiar, and beneath your cheek, it rises softly with each breath.
Your eyes snap open.
Morning light spills pale through the curtains, washing the room in soft gold, and the second you register the shape of the dresser, the angle of the chair in the corner, the familiar navy comforter—
Your stomach drops.
Jack’s room. Jack’s bed.
Heat floods your face instantly. You vaguely remember the night before, fragments flicker back—the bar, the car, him carrying you inside. Flashes of his hands on your waist, the brightness of the bathroom light, stripping in front of him (oh god) and then crawling into his bed. Asking him to stay.
A groan builds in your throat, and you swallow it down. Oh god. Slowly, carefully, you glance beside you.
Jack is asleep on his back, one arm tucked under his neck, the other around your waist, hair rumpled, face slack with sleep. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful for someone who had to deal with your drunk ass the night before.
You stare for a second too long. In sleep, all the tension leaves his face. This is the version of him that always weakens your resolve. It would be so easy to forget the distance you’ve been trying to create, to stay here in his arms.
You force yourself to move. Cautiously, you slide toward the edge of the bed, lifting the blanket inch by inch.
The mattress shifts under your weight. Jack stirs. You freeze. Then his breathing evens again. You exhale silently, then you slip out of bed and stand, clutching the hem of his shirt. Fuck. You won't drink ever again.
You make your way into the bathroom as quietly as you can. The second the door closes, you lean against it. Drag both hands over your face as you whisper: "Fuck."
You turn the shower on and step under it as soon as the steam rises. Water runs down your face, hot enough to sting. You scrub your body harshly, trying to wash away the shame clinging to you. Trying not to think about what it felt like waking up there and how badly a selfish part of you wanted to stay. Trying to dismiss the voices that whisper that maybe this meant something—that Jack deciding to stay wasn't a thoughtless decision.
You shake your head, wrap a towel around yourself and stare at your reflection in the fogged mirror. "Act normal," you mutter to yourself.
Jack's awake when you open the door again, sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still tousled from sleep. His head lifts the second the door opens.
For one second, neither of you says anything. You’re standing there in a towel, droplets dripping down your shoulders, too panicked earlier to remember to bring clothes with you. A decision you regret very much right now.
His gaze flicks over your body before returning to your face. The glance is brief, but your pulse jumps anyway as heat floods your body.
"Hi," you say, managing to sound normal at least.
Jack gives you a small smile. "Hi."
Silence stretches. The air feels heavier than it should.
You tighten your grip on the edge of the towel. "I’m sorry about last night."
Jack’s brows pull together slightly. "For what?"
You stare at him. "For Parker calling you. For being drunk. For… this?" you say, motioning vaguely toward the bed.
Jack glances behind him, then back at you, confused. "You sleeping here?"
You nod.
"You’ve slept here before," he says, like it means nothing.
"I know, but—"
Jack tilts his head, watching you carefully. "But what?"
You shrug. "I don’t know..." It's not like you can tell him how, despite the hangover, this is the best you've felt in days—that you haven't slept more than two hours unbroken ever since moving from his bed to your own.
"I'm gonna—" You point vaguely toward the closet, grab some clothes, and hurry back into the bathroom.
From the other side of the door, Jack says after a moment, "I’m gonna go get breakfast. You want your usual?"
"Yeah, thanks!" you answer, head buried in your hands. Fuck.
Later that day, when the hangover has almost slipped its grasp on you, you begin studying. Hunched over the dining table, surrounded by colour-coded notes, flashcards and three different review books, you answer old exam questions.
After two hours, your neck aches, your eyes burn, and the words begin to blur into meaningless strings of letters.
You stare at a question about differential diagnoses for metabolic acidosis and realise you’ve spent five minutes on it without making any progress. With a groan, you rub both hands over your face and lean back in the chair.
Across the house, the television murmurs quietly in the living room where Jack has been stretched out on the couch for the last hour, giving you space while you study. You hear the soft click of the TV being turned off, and a moment later, he appears next to the table.
"You okay?"
You let out a tired laugh, too tired to even pretend. "No."
Jack glances down at the table, then steps behind your chair, scanning the questions. You can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you have to force yourself to not lean back. You flip your pen between your fingers and stare down at the question in front of you.
"You want help?"
You hesitate, unsure if this crosses any lines. But he’s still your attending, and this—this could just be work, so you agree, "Yeah, thank you."
"No problem," he says and pulls out the chair beside you.
You shift your notes aside to make room. He picks up your review book, skims the page, then glances over at you. "Walk me through what you’re stuck on."
You hesitate, then start explaining the question. At first, your voice feels stiff, your answers clipped. But Jack listens the same way he always does—calmly and patiently. When you get something wrong, he doesn’t correct you immediately. He asks another question instead, nudging you toward the answer.
Within fifteen minutes, the panic in your chest has eased. Within thirty, you’re actually remembering the material.
And somewhere in the middle of him explaining anion gap calculations on the back of a notepad, you forget to be careful. You laugh when he teases you for overcomplicating the answer. You roll your eyes when he smirks at you for getting something right. You blush when he praises you. For a little while, it feels easy and familiar, like nothing between you has changed at all.
Eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale. "Okay, I'm beat," you admit. "But that really helped."
Jack’s mouth lifts at one corner. "You know these things. You just have to trust yourself."
You huff but smile at him. "That's easy enough to say."
He doesn't answer that, just leans back in his chair and looks at you.
You shake your head, smiling faintly, then your gaze drops back to the books spread across the table. Soon you’ll be an attending. The thought should feel exciting. Instead, your stomach tightens. Because once residency ends, so does this. Your smile fades.
Jack notices immediately. "What?"
You tap the edge of the flashcard against the table. "Nothing."
He waits.
You stare at your notes for another second before saying quietly, "I was just thinking... this is the last big hurdle."
"The boards?"
You nod. "I'm gonna be an attending after residency ends," you say quietly.
"That's how it works usually," he teases.
You twist the flashcard in your hands. "And after that, everything changes."
Jack drops his grin and studies you for a second. "Meaning?"
"Meaning once I’m an attending..." You force yourself to keep your tone even. "We won’t need to stay married. We can get a divorce"
The room goes very still. Jack doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you, then he sets the pen down slowly. "I see."
You keep talking because silence feels unbearable. "This whole arrangement was about residency. About making it through—"
He says your name softly, but you push ahead.
"—once I'm done, there's no reason to keep pretending."
You can't bear to look at his face, to see the relief that you'd brought it up, so he didn't have to, so you stare at the table instead.
Jack's hands flex once on the table before stilling. "We can’t," he says.
You blink and look up too quickly, hope flaring so suddenly it almost hurts. "What?"
He folds his arms loosely. "If we separate right after you become an attending, people are going to notice." He continues, voice calm and practical. "They’ll put it together. HR might even call us back in."
You nod slowly. "Oh... Right." He was just worried about appearances. It wasn’t the divorce that bothered him—just the timing.
"There’d need to be some time in between," he says. "Otherwise, it looks suspicious."
You force your expression to stay neutral and nod, "That makes sense."
Jack watches you, waiting.
You nod once more. "Okay."
Then, because you need to say something to prove you’re being reasonable, you add, "I’ll start looking for a new place after boards." You try smiling, but it feels more like a grimace.
His expression shifts. "What?"
You keep your eyes on the flashcard in your hands. "It might take me a bit. So the sooner I start, the sooner I can get out of your hair."
Jack lets out a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. The silence that follows feels sharp. Slowly, you look up.
His face is unreadable. But something in it has changed. His jaw is tight. His shoulders have gone still. And for just a second, there’s something in his expression that looks almost like hurt. The sight catches you off guard. His mouth parts slightly, then closes like he was about to speak and swallowed it back down instead.
You frown slightly. "I just—you've been very kind in letting me stay, but I don't wanna overstep." You’re not sure why you’re explaining yourself, only that the sudden overwhelming gap between you makes you want to fix it.
Jack looks away for a moment, like he needs a second before answering. "You're not overstepping." Then he adds in a quieter voice, "But fine, if that’s what you want."
Something twists uneasily in your stomach. You try to smooth it over, "I just mean... I don’t want to make things harder for you."
Jack gives a short nod. "Right."
You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. The warmth that had settled between you while studying is gone now.
You glance down at your notes, then back at him. "Jack—"
He stands before you can finish. "You should get back to studying." He gathers the notepad he was using and sets it beside your books. "Let me know if you need help with the rest."
Then he turns and walks back toward the living room. You watch him go, unsettled. The plan has always been temporary. He knows that. You know that. So why did the room feel like it cracked open the second you said it out loud?
You stare down at the notes in front of you, but the words blur uselessly on the page. Your chest feels tight, your thoughts louder than they were a minute ago. Right now, leaving doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. Though you suspect it won't ever—not truly. Not when it's not what you want.
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𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐕𝐈 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses
word count: 9.8k
a/n: surprise—you get it one day earlier!! thank you all for still keeping up with this series and interacting!! your comments are the best part of my day <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.
Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.
"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.
"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.
You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."
"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."
A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."
"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."
"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."
The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.
"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."
"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"
"Because I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."
Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."
"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.
"I know it."
"You do not know that," she counters firmly.
"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."
"What did you actually see?" she presses.
"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"
Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.
"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."
"And that means he’s in love with her?"
"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."
You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."
"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."
"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "
You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"
"...No."
"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"
"...No."
"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"
"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."
"Honey—"
"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."
"No, you don't—"
"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."
"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.
Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"
She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."
You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."
"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."
Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," you reply. "I do."
"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."
Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.
"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."
"Honey—"
Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."
Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.
"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."
"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"
You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.
"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."
You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."
"Promise me."
You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."
"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."
You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."
"Love you more," she says.
The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.
You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.
Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.
And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Home. With you.
Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.
You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.
He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.
A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.
The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.
Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.
So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.
The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.
And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.
That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.
Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.
He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.
But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.
He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.
He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.
He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.
No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.
Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.
He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.
The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.
He's never been good at words.
Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.
He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.
He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.
You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.
"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.
You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"
Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.
"You didn’t have to do that," you say.
He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.
You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."
Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."
You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."
The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.
"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."
You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"
"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."
You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."
The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.
For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.
He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.
That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."
"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."
You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.
Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.
Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."
"Sweetheart—"
Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows. "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."
The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.
Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."
You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."
But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.
So instead, he nods once. "Okay."
You don’t answer.
He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."
"I will."
You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.
So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.
But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.
Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.
Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.
He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.
You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.
When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.
Jack smiles. "Thank you."
You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.
You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.
You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."
"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.
"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.
Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."
Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."
"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"
"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.
You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"
"And—nothing?"
"Nothing?"
"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.
"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."
Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.
He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"
You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.
You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."
He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure."
And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.
By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.
"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."
Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."
Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."
Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.
"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.
But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.
His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.
Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"
Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."
Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"
Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."
Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."
"It’s temporary—"
"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.
Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."
Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"
"It was the easiest fix—"
"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"
Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"
"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."
Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."
"So take Ellis."
Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."
"Then Crus."
"Jack—"
"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.
Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."
"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."
Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."
Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."
"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.
The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"
Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."
Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"
Robby’s silence says enough.
Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."
"Jack, listen—"
"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."
"I didn’t think—"
"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."
Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.
"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."
Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"
Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.
"She’ll still be here," Robby says.
"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.
Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.
"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.
Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.
Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."
Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?
"Take someone else," he tries again.
Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."
He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.
He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.
You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.
You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.
He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.
But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.
It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.
Jack liked Lily. That was it.
You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.
You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"
"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.
You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"
Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"
"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"
Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."
"What?"
"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"
Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.
"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."
His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"
Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"
You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"
His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."
The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.
"It’s just a temporary shift change."
"That’s not the point."
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"
Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."
"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.
He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."
"They are, but you're being a dick again."
He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"
It is. But it shouldn't be to him.
Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.
You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.
Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.
"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."
You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."
"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.
But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."
Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"
You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."
His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.
"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.
As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."
Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—
No.
You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.
So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."
He doesn't follow you when you step out.
Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.
Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.
Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.
You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.
So you don’t.
You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.
"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.
You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"
She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."
Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.
You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."
Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."
You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."
"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"
You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."
"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."
You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."
She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.
She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"
"Yes."
She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."
"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.
She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"
The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.
And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.
So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."
Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."
She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"
"What about Smith?"
Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."
Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"
"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."
You stare at her. "What?"
Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."
You let out a startled laugh. "No way."
"I swear."
"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"
Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."
You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."
"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."
"That's insane."
Princess laughs. "I know."
"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"
Princess straightens, smiling brightly. "Working hard. Obviously"
Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.
Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—
"So..."
You don’t look up. "No."
Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."
"You’re going to."
He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."
You tap through another chart. "Then no."
He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"
You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."
Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."
You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."
He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."
You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."
He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."
You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."
Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."
You look back down at the tablet.
Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."
The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.
You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."
Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"
That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"
You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.
Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.
You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.
You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.
The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.
It doesn't work.
Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.
"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.
Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.
It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"
Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"
Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"
"She switched to days."
Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."
Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."
Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."
"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.
She nods resignedly.
"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."
"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."
The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.
"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."
Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."
"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.
"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.
"No," Parker murmurs.
"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.
Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."
Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."
"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.
"You're on."
Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.
And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.
By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"
Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."
Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"
Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."
Parker winces. "Oh."
Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"
Lena shrugs.
Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.
Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.
Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."
Jack doesn't answer.
Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."
Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him
Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."
"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.
"Bullshit."
Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.
Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."
Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"
Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."
The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"
Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"
Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."
Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."
Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.
"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."
Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"
Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."
Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."
Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.
"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"
Jack looks away again. "Yes."
Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."
Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."
"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."
Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.
Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."
Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."
Robby blinks. "No?"
Jack shakes his head once. "No."
Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"
Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."
Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."
Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."
Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."
"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."
Jack glances over.
Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."
Jack looks away again.
Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."
Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."
Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."
Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."
Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.
Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.
He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.
You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.
And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.
Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.
And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.
Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.
So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.
But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.
Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.
And maybe you didn’t like it.
Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.
And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.
A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.
And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.
You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.
You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.
Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.
Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.
As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.
Pretend that this doesn't have to end.
Next part
𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝? 𝐗𝐕 ⚕ 𝐉.𝐀.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, angst
word count: 6.2k
a/n: sorry for taking ages!! and don't hate me too much :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist
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Even after the unimaginable has happened, life doesn't stop. It just keeps moving like it always has. Death is just another part of the cycle of life—inevitable and natural, no matter how cruel it seems.
The tear in your heart doesn't close all at once, but it slowly mends itself together, thread by thread—day by day. The faces of those you'd lost aren't forgotten—will never be—, but they find rest in your mind. They stop haunting you when you close your eyes, their expressions softening, no longer filled with accusation.
Jack helps more than you ever thought possible. He makes the process smoother, less jagged than it used to be. He makes it easier to carry.
That night, coming home after the shift, you tried to be strong. One breakdown should be enough—you were tougher than that. So you showered, changed and then climbed into your own bed. Listened to Jack shower through the cracked door, stared at the ceiling, counted your breaths and willed sleep to come. Eventually, the shower stopped. The house grew silent, but sleep didn't come.
After a while, you gave in. Crept out of bed, padded silently down the hallway that felt longer than usual, knocked on the door quieter than you'd meant to. Jack was sitting against the headboard, lights still on, with that distant look in his eyes that mirrored yours. It was like he'd been waiting for you to come back. You didn't even have to say anything before he lifted the covers in a silent invitation, and that was that. And when a few tears slipped from your eyes unwittingly, he didn't say anything about it; he just pulled you closer.
Since then, you repeat that routine after every shift. Pretend to go to bed, wait in your room, and then drift down the hall to his room. The wait grows shorter over time—thirty minutes becomes ten, ten becomes five. Jack never comments on it, just lifts the covers and waits to turn off the light until you're beside him.
He's there when you wake up crying. You're there when he does.
The days blur together as you bury yourself in studying and working, waiting for time to dull the hurt. You know it'll never disappear—not fully—but past experiences have taught you that the sharp edges eventually soften. That the weight becomes bearable.
One day, you realise you'd stopped waking up in tears. Still, you cross the hallway every night. And every night, he makes room for you without a word.
"Fuck, it's already disgusting outside," Trinity complains as she steps up the board. She swipes at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and tugs at her collar. "I walked here, and I regret every life choice that led me to that decision." She leans against the counter, looking miserable.
"First heatwave of the year," Lena says as she gathers her things. "It hit us early this year, and it's only gonna get hotter. Good luck today!" She says, patting your shoulder on her way out.
"Yay us!" Trinity grumbles, resting her head on her arms. She lifts her gaze to you. "It's like people get dumber when it's hot."
You huff quietly from the other side as you sign off on your last patient. "You say that about the patients, no matter the season."
"Because every season it’s true! But when it's hot, it's even worse," she shoots back, cracking open her water bottle. "And, you—" she gestures lazily in your direction, "—get to sleep through the worst of it."
"Night shift perks,” you shrug in response.
She takes a sip. "Still no chance of you coming back to days?"
You make a face. "Sorry."
"Boo," she says.
"Where's your other half?" you ask as you log off the computer.
"Off being a farmer boy or whatever it is that he does on his days off."
"Huh?" you murmur, brows furrowed, but you're too tired to ask what that even means. "Okay, well, I'll see you later."
You're only a few steps away from her when she calls out again. "Oh! I sent you the photos from the other day. There are some really cute ones."
"Thank you," you blow her a kiss, before you turn around, walking towards the ambulance bay where Jack's waiting for you. "Have fun melting," you call over your shoulder.
You vaguely hear her grumble before the doors shut behind you.
It's blisteringly hot inside the house when you come home. Thick, heavy heat clinging to your skin. It's even worse than outside, with all that warmth trapped and unmoving.
You'd expected it, what with the power outage that struck the area during the night. Because while PTMC had backup generators, Jack's house needs to be reset manually, and so the house is unbearable.
Jack disappears almost immediately to deal with it, tugging at his shirt, muttering something under his breath about breakers.
You don’t wait around. You take a quick cold shower, and then you plant yourself outside on a recliner. In less clothing than you usually wear, you stretch out, letting the faint breeze dry the last of the water on your skin.
Trinity's sent you thirty photos. There's the usual chaos: Trinity and Lily up on the bar, Shen mid-shot, clearly destroying that frat guy at pool, a couple blurry ones of all of you dancing, the lights smeared into vibrant streaks.
Then one of you and Jack. You pause. It’s not even a particularly interesting photo—just the two of you standing close, both smiling hazily at each other. Still, the butterflies in your belly flutter at the sight.
Another image pops up, this time of you facing the camera, grinning wide, with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist.
Then—
An image of Jack and Lily. Lily’s flashing a peace sign at the camera while Jack smiles at her. You zoom in on his face. He looks happy.
There’s something about it. Something that sits wrong. Not sharp, not painful—just… off. A small, quiet drop in your stomach. You stare at it longer than you should.
"Do you want an ice cream?" Jack calls out through the open terrace door.
"Yes, please," you answer, scrolling past the photo and shaking off the odd feeling. Setting your phone down beside you, you lean back, letting the sun hit your skin. By the time Jack steps outside again, you’ve already decided to forget it.
He looks like sin, sweat dripping down his forehead, and the collar of his shirt soaked. "AC's up and running again. The house should be cool in about—" His voice trails off as he walks around the back of the recliner.
"What?" you say, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. You tilt your head slightly, following his gaze. Oh. You don’t shift to cover up. If anything, you stretch a little more into the recliner, one leg bending lazily, your pink bikini glowing against your skin.
Jack clears his throat, glancing deliberately away. "Uh," he stammers, still avoiding eye contact as he steps closer, ice cream in hand. "Soon. The house will cool off soon."
"Great," you sigh, shifting in your seat. He nods, still not looking. You watch him for a second, then let a small smile curl at the corner of your mouth. "Wanna join me?"
He hesitates; you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens just a little. He sneaks a glance at you despite himself, and this time his gaze doesn’t snap away just as fast.
"I—uh... I have to check—" he begins, stepping back toward the door. He doesn't even finish his sentence before he vanishes inside again. Your eyes flick down, catching the way his hand shifts, conveniently covering his crotch.
You bite back a grin.
Jack can't remember the last time he put on a suit, much less a tie. He's faced down trauma bays and multiple mass casualties—but a strip of silk has him beat. He loosens it again, trying to remember the steps. Over, under, pull—no, that isn't right. It still sits crooked against his collar, mocking him. He exhales sharply through his nose and drags it loose, starting over.
The hospital is hosting a fundraiser tonight, and with Robby currently stuck dealing with some administrative problem, he'd all but forced Jack to take his place. It was a good chance to sweet-talk a few higher-ups into directing some of the proceeds their way—and while Jack despised these events, he felt obliged, given Robby was keeping a secret that could ruin all of your careers.
"Jack?" you call out, heels clacking as you step out into the living room. "Will you zip me up?"
At least he wasn't going alone.
He steps back from the hallway mirror, leaving his tie be. He turns toward you—and forgets entirely what he was doing. The late afternoon light catches you just right, emerald green glinting richly. The fabric skims your body like it was made for you, every line, every curve. For a moment, all he can do is look.
Say something, he tells himself. Anything.
"Yeah," he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.
You don't notice, though, already turning around. The bare line of your spine is exposed, the zipper dipping lower than he'd expected. His hands hover for a second before he brushes the soft skin of your back as he reaches for the zipper. He swallows, dragging it up slowly—slower than necessary. When it reaches the top, his hand lingers for just a second longer than it should have before he forces himself to step back.
"There," he says, clearing his throat.
You turn, offering him an easy smile. "Thank you."
You glance over his outfit, your attention drawn to his tie. "You clean up well," you say as your fingers reach out, loosening his tie. He catches the faint warmth of your perfume as you step in. You knot it deftly, smoothing it into place. "There you go."
"Thank you, sweetheart," he gruffs out. "You don't look too bad yourself."
It is the understatement of the year, but Jack's speechless, dizzy with the scent of your perfume swirling around him.
You grin, stepping back and giving him a small spin. "I don't think I've worn a gown since prom."
Jack huffs out something that might be a laugh, one hand coming up to adjust his cuff—anything to keep his hands busy. "Yeah?" he asks. His eyes flick over you again. "Well," he adds, "if you looked the way you look now, whoever went with you was a lucky guy."
You smile shyly and puff his shoulder softly. "We should go," you say, reaching for your bag.
"Yeah," he answers—but he doesn’t move right away.
You’re halfway to the door before you notice, turning back. "Jack? You coming?"
He blinks. "Yes," he mutters, clearing his throat. His gaze drags over you one more time before his feet move.
The fundraiser is being held in the grand ballroom of one of the upscale hotels near the hospital—one of those places with crystal chandeliers dripping from impossibly high ceilings and polished marble floors so glossy they reflect the candlelight.
Gold-trimmed tables are arranged beneath soft amber lighting, each one dressed with ivory linens, delicate floral centrepieces, and place cards embossed in elegant script. Waiters weave through the room with silver trays balanced effortlessly in one hand, offering champagne in slender crystal flutes and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres that almost look too pretty to eat.
It’s lavish in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Because while the hospital pleads budget constraints every time staffing shortages come up, apparently, there’s plenty of money for imported roses, a live string quartet, and whatever this venue costs per hour. You can only hope tonight raises enough money to justify it.
Your hand tightens around Jack’s arm as he guides you farther into the ballroom, heels clacking gently on the floor. "I've got major imposter syndrome," you murmur, leaning in close so only he can hear. All around you, there are women in gorgeous gowns and glimmering jewellery, while you're in a rented one, your necklace borrowed from Samira, and your most expensive earrings (they cost $50 and you got them at half price).
Jack glances down at you. "Everyone's pretending they belong," he says. "With their fancy dresses and fancy words. It's why I don't like coming to these events."
You huff out a quiet laugh at the discontent in his voice.
He steers the two of you toward your table near the centre of the room—close enough to the stage that someone clearly thought he was important enough to be seen. You stay standing behind your chair, smoothing down your dress while guests continue to pour in around you.
The room fills with the hum of conversation—light laughter, clinking glasses, and friendly greetings. Here and there, guests approach Jack to shake his hand, and by extension, yours, exchanging a few words before moving on. In just five minutes, you’ve encountered more influential figures than you ever have at work.
In between, the two of you lean into whispered commentary, trading observations about the guests filtering in. Jack knows far more than you expect—department heads, donors, board members, surgeons with inflated egos and hospital administrators with reputations for scandal. Every time someone passes, he has some dry little piece of gossip ready, and it’s entertaining enough that you almost forget how out of place you feel.
A loud gasp breaks the moment.
"Is that you, Jack?"
Jack turns, revealing a woman approaching him who seems to belong here in a way you never will. With her blonde hair elegantly pinned up, champagne-colored silk hugging her figure, and diamonds glimmering at her ears, she exudes confidence as she reaches for his shoulder, leaning in for a hug with an air of familiarity.
"Dr. Warren," Jack says politely, his smile brief and courteous. You notice how he steps back as soon as he can, subtly reclaiming the space between them without drawing attention to it.
She laughs softly. “Oh, come on! I thought we were past all that doctor formality. Call me Anna.”
Jack nods but makes no attempt to mirror her familiarity. Instead, he gently places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward and into the conversation.
"This is Dr. Anna Warren," he says, looking your way. "She’s one of the attendings in the ER at Presby."
Anna’s eyes shift to you, her smile unwavering. "Oh," she says lightly, as though mildly surprised. Her eyes glide over your body in a slow and unhurried way, ready to judge but finding your outfit satisfactory—all Jack's doing since he was the one who paid for it. "I didn’t realise you had company."
The words are perfectly pleasant and somehow still feel pointed.
You smile and offer your hand, introducing yourself. "It’s nice to meet you."
She shakes your hand firmly. "I didn't know nurses were allowed here," she ponders with a slight smile, looking over at Jack.
"She’s finishing her R4 this month," Jack says, ignoring the clear jab, then turns to you with a warm smile. "Joining us as an attending afterwards."
"Oh?" Anna says, bringing his attention back to her. "What’s her speciality?"
"Emergency medicine," you respond with a bright smile, reentering the conversation.
Her brows rise slightly. "Really?" she says, looking you over. "You look very young."
"She’s one of the best residents we have," Jack says.
Anna smiles, though it's noticeably sharper. "Well, that’s impressive."
"She’s already outperforming half the attendings," Jack adds with a smile. "Best procedural numbers in the department."
Warmth blooms in your chest from the praise. You have to fight back a beam.
Anna lets out a soft laugh. "Well, it's good to know who our competitors are." The comment is framed as a joke, but the underlying implication is unmistakable.
Her focus shifts back to Jack instantly. "You know, I never thought I’d see you at one of these events again."
"Robby couldn’t make it," Jack replies with a shrug.
Anna’s expression softens. "A shame." Then, she says with a small laugh, "Though, I can’t pretend I’m not glad he forced you to come instead."
"Oh, Robby didn't make me. My wife did," he nods towards you. It's said casually, but the effect is immediate.
Anna’s smile falters for the briefest moment. "Oh," she says.
You have to fight back a smile at her face and at the fact that he just lied to her. You didn't make him come; if anything, he convinced you to come.
"We got married a few months ago," Jack says easily.
Anna recovers fast, her smile settling back into place. "Congratulations," she says.
You smile sweetly, leaning further into Jack. "Thank you."
She nods, but there’s the faintest stiffness to it now. Jack’s body remains angled toward you, his hand steady at your waist, attention on you even while she’s standing there.
Anna glances between the two of you. "Well," she says smoothly, "it sounds like things are going very well for you."
Jack nods, smiling at you. His fingers squeeze your waist briefly. "They are."
She offers one last smile. Her hand lifts to squeeze his arm in goodbye, but falls down when you place your hand on his chest. "It was nice to see you again."
"You too, Dr. Warren," Jack says. Not Anna.
Her smile flickers for half a second before she turns away.
The second she’s gone, you let out the breath you were holding, a laugh escaping with it.
Jack glances down at you. "What?" He pretends to be confused, but his mouth curls slightly.
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. There's a light whine as the mic gets turned on and the host begins presenting the evening. Jack pulls out your chair, his arm settling on the back. He keeps it there for most of the evening.
By the time the evening begins winding down, the whole ballroom has softened around the edges. The speeches are over, the auction items have all been claimed, and the rigid polish of the fundraiser has finally started to melt into something looser and more relaxing. Jackets have been abandoned over the backs of chairs, heels have been kicked off under tables, and the low hum of conversation has grown louder beneath the music.
The dance floor has opened near the front of the room, where the tables give way to a polished stretch of marble lit gold beneath the chandeliers. A few couples sway lazily beneath the lights while the band plays something slow and smooth.
You stand beside Jack near the bar, cradling the last of your wine, watching the dancers. The nerves from earlier are gone, replaced by the warm buzz of wine and the even warmer satisfaction of having Jack at your side through all of it—his hand at your waist when people stopped to talk, the way his eyes always found yours, the quiet certainty of his attention even with more accomplished women vying for it.
“Wanna dance?”
You turn to him, startled just enough to laugh.
Jack is holding out his hand. There’s a crooked smile on his face, one brow raised slightly.
You stare at him for a second before taking his hand. "I thought you didn’t dance."
His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, and he starts guiding you toward the floor. "I don’t."
You laugh softly as you follow him.
He glances back over his shoulder, smiling. "But I’ll make an exception for you."
He leads you onto the dance floor and turns to face you beneath the chandelier light. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then his hands settle on your waist—slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to step away, even though you both know you won’t.
You slide your arms around his shoulders, and soon the two of you find a natural rhythm, swaying gently to the music.
Jack was telling the truth. He doesn’t really dance. There’s no elegance to it, no polished rhythm—just the simple shifting of his weight with yours, his hands warm where they hold you, his body close enough that the rest of the room starts to blur. Somehow that makes it better. There’s nothing performative about this; no pretence.
It’s just the two of you.
"You know," you say, "for someone who doesn’t dance, you’re doing alright."
Jack lets out a quiet huff, glancing down at his feet. "I’m just swaying."
You lift one shoulder, grinning. "That still counts."
He looks a bit sceptical, so you smile and inch a little closer. His hands shift naturally, resting more securely on your waist.
The room moves around you in a blur of candlelight and dark suits and glittering dresses, but standing there with him feels oddly private, like the two of you are alone.
Jack glances down at you again. There’s something in his expression that makes it hard to hold his gaze for too long—not because it’s intense, exactly, but because it’s warm.
"You alright?" he asks. It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it conveys something deeper.
You nod. "Yeah."
He studies your face for a second, then gives a small nod of his own, satisfied. "Good. Thanks for coming with me."
You hum. "Of course, I am your wife after all. Couldn't let you fend off the wolves all by yourself," you tease with a grin.
"Ha," he grumbles, his hand adjusting at your waist as you both turn in a slow half-circle to pass another couple. "What would I do without you?"
"Better not to wonder," you say.
Your hands shift a bit higher on his shoulders, fingers grazing the back of his neck. He exhales softly, letting his gaze drift to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
He hums.
You should probably tease him again, say something light, break whatever this is before it feels too real. But you don’t want to.
Because wanting him doesn’t feel sharp anymore. Jack’s mouth tilts faintly at one corner, and you can't help but smile back.
Feeling lighter than you have in days, you clock in for yet another night shift. Patient after patient, everything runs smoothly as it can in the Pitt.
Just as you step out of an exam room, rubbing sanitiser between your hands, you catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. A spike of movement. Too fast. Too sharp. You turn, and your stomach drops.
A patient has Lily in a tight headlock.
"Shit," you mutter, taking off at once. You barely hear your own voice calling out 'Code Hula Hoop' through the rush of blood in your ears. The door swings open under your hand as you rush in, too caught up in the moment to wait for security.
"Let go!" You reach for the patient’s arm, twisting it to break his grip.
Within seconds, Bridget arrives, trying to control the patient's other arm, her voice firm yet strained. "Sir—let go—"
The patient jerks, his grip loosening just enough for Lily to gasp, but before you can fully process, he swings toward you instead. The blow comes out of nowhere. But someone else sees it. A hand catches your arm—hard—and yanks you sideways. You hit something solid.
Jack.
You barely dodge the punch that flies through the air where your face just was, close enough to feel the whoosh of it. All at once, the room floods with security, staff, and bodies. Voices overlap, hands take over where yours were.
You step back, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through you.
"What the hell happened?" Jack asks, spinning you around. His tone is sharp. "Are you—"
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Lily gasps, and just like that, his focus shifts. You catch a glimpse of him, swallowed instantly by the frenzy in the room. Fragments come at you—a shift in his shoulders, someone shouting, the clear command of his voice cutting through the chaos.
You stand still for a moment, trying to breathe through your chest tightening. You follow as Lily is moved over to the wall.
"Are you okay?" you ask, your hands steady despite the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, holding her upright.
She coughs, fingers brushing over the angry red marks forming around her throat. "I’m fine." Her voice is rough, affected by the pressure that was put on her vocal cords.
You gently tilt her chin up, examining the bruising and the way her voice catches. "You’re not fine."
Before you can say more, Jack is there, his hands replacing yours before you’ve stepped back. "Look at me," he instructs Lily, his voice a different tone now—softer. "Any dizziness? Trouble swallowing?"
She shakes her head slightly, still trying to catch her breath.
"We’re getting a CT scan," he says, steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. His thumb brushes lightly along her jaw as he checks for tenderness. "Just to be safe."
She nods.
For a brief moment, all you can see is the tightness in his shoulders, the underlying tension beneath his calm exterior. His attention lingers just a moment longer before he steps back.
That weird feeling from the other day returns, but you push it away. This isn’t the right time.
"Ellis, do a neuro assessment and order a CT," he instructs before turning to you, his voice strained. "A word." Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides out.
You hesitate just long enough for Lily to catch your hand and give it a quick squeeze. You return the gesture softly before following him.
He stops abruptly in the hallway, turning so suddenly you nearly run into him. He crosses his arms and stares at you in silence, weighing his words. "Do you have anything to say?" he finally asks.
You cross your arms, mirroring him. "No?"
His exhale is sharp, and he runs a hand over his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts. "You cannot—" he stops, his jaw tightening. "You can’t just run into a violent situation without backup."
You let out a disbelieving breath. "Are you serious right now?"
"I’m dead serious," he replies. "You put yourself in direct danger—"
"Did you not see what I did?" you shoot back.
"I did," he counters firmly. "It was irresponsible. You made that situation worse. You don’t think. You just jump in without thinking about the consequences."
"Oh, fuck off," you retort, your words coming out more sharply than you intended—but you don’t take them back. "You would’ve done the same."
He blinks, thrown for half a second. "I've had training. You haven't."
"So I’m just supposed to stand by while she’s being choked?" you respond, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You saw the whole thing," you continue, your anger flaring up, fueled by adrenaline—and something else you don't want to place. You don't even care that you're having this conversation in front of everyone. "And you’re lecturing me about following protocol?"
"Yes," he replies, his tone unwavering as he steps closer. "Because protocol exists to keep you safe."
You let out a dry laugh, but there’s no humour in it. "That’s ridiculous."
"You call a code, maintain a distance, and wait for security," he insists, his voice still even while yours has risen in volume.
"And what if something goes wrong in that time?"
"You could have been grabbed, hit—" he continues, dodging your question.
"I wasn’t," you interrupt sharply.
"That’s not the point."
"It kind of is," you reply, shaking your head. "This is bullshit, and you know it."
His frustration begins to bubble to the surface, breaking through his usual control. "You don’t get to decide what's right."
"And you do?" you shoot back.
"I’m still your attending," he retorts instantly. "So yes—" He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his face before letting it drop. In a low murmur, he adds, "You just can’t help but cause trouble."
The weight of the word hangs between you, heavy and charged.
Your expression hardens instantly. "Right. I'm trouble because I won't let our patients assault our nurses."
"That’s not what I meant," he says, though the tension still lingers in his voice. "You don’t think things through in these situations—"
"Abbot. MVC incoming," Lena calls from down the hall, cutting him off.
Jack briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "We’re not finished with this," he says as he grabs a pair of gloves.
Then, he’s off again—jumping back into the chaos as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn't just prodded at a deep and painful bruise. You grab your own gloves and turn away, the weight of his words still sitting spikily under your skin as you head toward your next patient.
Each step sends the spines in deeper.
"I'll be back with your results soon," you say as you close the door behind you. A slow breath escapes your lips as you make your way to the hub. The argument from earlier still weighs heavily on your mind, but you haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. You'd barely even had time to check on Lily, who, despite all your protests, has decided to keep working.
You should probably find Jack, apologise for being headstrong, but also let him know that you'd do it again. That potentially getting hit is worth it if you can save someone else.
You only make it three steps before a sight stops you cold, anchoring you to the spot. Jack and Lily stand at the hub, shoulder to shoulder.
He's leaning over her to look at what she's pointing to on the screen. There's nothing inappropriate about it—nothing that would raise any suspicions—but for you, it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.
Because combined with everything else, it all suddenly makes sense.
Embarrassment flares as realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach drops so sharply it feels like your body forgot how to hold itself upright. You try to breathe in, but nothing fully comes through. Your lungs feel too small to contain this sudden truth.
Oh.
That thought comes first, followed closely by:
Right.
It settles fast. Because it fits.
The way he watches her when he’s focused. The softness in his voice when he speaks to her. Earlier, when he replaced your hands without a second thought. Everything aligns with a sickening clarity.
Jack doesn't like you.
The realisation isn’t sharp. It’s heavy. Final, in a way you don’t argue with, because there’s nothing to argue against. Just… evidence you’re suddenly noticing all at once.
You weren’t the one he was scared for. Wasn't the one he was smiling at like that in the photos. He hadn't been affected by you on the recliner earlier; he probably left because he felt awkward that you couldn’t take a hint. He definitely hadn't wanted to kiss you at the fundraiser.
And worst of all. He had never asked you to stay every night, yet you kept showing up. An intruder who didn't realise how she'd overstepped.
Your throat tightens involuntarily.
Lily makes sense in a way you don’t. She's kind, warm, and gentle—everything that you’re not. You're combative and impulsive—you're trouble.
That reality echoes in your head now, twisted and strange—not as irritation, not as a warning, but as something else entirely.
A conclusion.
And it's not that you think that Lily is trying to steal him, but she'd be good for him. At least when this ends, she can be there for him. Wake him when he's having nightmares, rub his leg when it hurts, and make him breakfast on days when he can't do anything but lie. You'll give her your blessing even if it's with a bleeding heart.
Swallowing hard, you muster the strength to slip past them, pushing through the ambulance bay doors. You miss the way his gaze shifts toward you as you pass. Once outside, you lean against the cool wall, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes as the warmth of the night wraps around you.
Get it together.
Your chest still feels wrong, so you press your nails into your palms until the sensation shifts to that. A more manageable pain.
A few minutes later, the doors swing open again.
You hear him before he says anything. The familiar sound of his footsteps signals his approach. "Hey," Jack says quietly. "You okay?" His voice carries a hint of concern.
You swallow, stifling the weight of everything pressing down inside you—a skill you’ve perfected over the years. A wry smile tugs at your lips, masking the turmoil beneath. "Yeah," you reply, your voice steady, even though your heart is crumbling beneath the surface. He doesn’t believe you; you can feel it, but he doesn’t press. Not when the argument from earlier still lingers in the air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he begins. "I was just—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I was scared. That could’ve gone really bad. Still, I shouldn’t have said it like that."
You nod. "I understand. I'm sorry, too." Sorry for being a distraction when he was worried about Lily. Sorry for getting in the way.
Jack's mouth opens to speak again, but an ambulance pulls in before he can say more. You give his arm a gentle pat as you move forward. You don't linger like you normally would. "No harm done. We’re good."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something else, but ultimately lets it go. "You sure?"
"Yeah, it was just the heat of the moment."
He frowns at you, still slightly unsure, but you turn your attention forward again. "What have we got?"
"Michelle Waters, 36 years old—"
The shift drags on, but somehow you manage to keep going. You have to; there’s no other choice. But every time Jack appears, a tightness seizes your lungs, as though they’ve forgotten how to expand—only remembering a second too late.
You’re surviving on stolen breaths when the clock finally strikes seven.
Robby catches you just as you’re logging out of the computer, looking like he’s already dealing with five different problems despite only being here for ten minutes. "Hey, do you have a second?"
"Sure," you reply with a sigh, standing up. "But let me just say, I did it to protect Lily, and I didn’t even get hit, so I don’t get why it’s such a big deal."
"What?" Robby asks, bewildered. He rubs his face harshly. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."
"Oh. Great," you say. "What’s on your mind then?"
"Okay, just hear me out," he starts, shifting his weight. "Heather wants to switch to night shift for a few weeks before she leaves, and you already know how day shift works—"
"So, you want me to cover for her," you conclude flatly.
"Yes," he admits, wincing. "It’s only temporary—just a few weeks. You’ll still have your days off before boards. It would really help us if you—"
"I’ll do it." Before this shift, you would have hesitated. Now, it's an almost instant answer that leaves your mouth.
Robby's still trying to plead, "Just think about—" he stops. "What?"
You shrug once. "I’ll do it."
He blinks at you like he’s waiting for the second part of the sentence that doesn’t come. "You don’t want to think about it? Or discuss it with Jack?"
You glance past him without meaning to. Jack stands across the hub, tablet in hand, deep in conversation. He’s nowhere near finished, tied up helping the day shift. The tightness in your chest returns.
You turn back to Robby. "No," you shake your head. "Why should I? It’s not like we’re really—" you shrug, voice lowering, but Robby understands what isn't said. You're not really married. Jack doesn't have a say in what you do. Just like you don't have a say in what he does.
You don’t need to be the thing that makes his job harder. Switching to the day shift for a few weeks might be good. It might give him the space you've been denying him.
Robby hesitates, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Because—" he starts, then catches himself. With a sigh, he gives up. "You know what, never mind."
He studies you for a second longer, then gives a slow nod like he’s decided not to touch whatever this is. "Alright," he says. "I’ll let Heather know."
"Good." You turn away before he can say anything else. Your shoulders stay rigid as you place a soft kiss on Jack's cheek, lighter than usual, whispering that you'll see him at home. Doing your best to act normal—like nothing has changed, even while everything has.
"Hey—I'm still sorry about earlier," he says, catching your hand.
"Don't worry about it," you smile at him, the best you can, squeezing his hand. He believes it this time.
"Okay. Text me when you get home," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You nod, then slip out the doors before the tears you’ve been holding back all shift can spill over in front of everyone.
You really should've known better.
Next part

