Love, Love, Love

The sky has grown angry by the time you finally reach the (thankfully untouched) cabin.

Gloomy purple and eerie blue blotch out what little light is left from the afternoon, the wind picking up in intensity and carrying the scent of ozone and petrichor. 

Jack pushes the bike into the shed in the back, then joins your side as you stare up at the single-story building.

Dark logs. White windows, paint chipping off the weathered wood. A modest porch with a bench swing covered in leaves. Nothing but vibrant forest and boundless hills around you.

“It’s not much, I know,” Jack says after a while. “Should do for a few nights though.”

You roll your eyes at his modesty. “Are you kidding? I love it. Might have to move in permanently and realize my retirement plans after all.”

He chuckles. “I knew you were just after me for my real estate.”

“Hey!” You swat his arm. “I resent that statement — I happen to like your hair as well. Terrific genetic makeup.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Good to know you’ve thought about what I bring to the table.”

Foot, meet mouth.

Thankfully, he doesn’t dig any deeper, kicking at one of the stones that line the gravel path leading up to the cabin and revealing a ziplock bag with a key inside. Tossing it to you, he jabs a thumb in the direction of the shed. 

“I’ll go start up the generator and get the bags.”

“Do you need help?”

Jack waves you off. “What I need is for you to go inside and make yourself at home. Storm’s going to be here soon.”

He disappears behind the cabin again, giving you a moment of respite as you take the flight of steps up the porch to unlock the door. 

Dust and faint traces of woodsmoke linger in the stale air of the cabin. You move to open a few windows before taking in the rustic interior: the practical kitchen and the cozy living room are separated by a single island.

Most of the back wall is taken up by a fireplace, landscape pictures and carved figurines resting on the mantle. Checkered throw pillows sit on the spacious couch and the leather arm chair in the corner, the hardwood floor softened by a plush rug.

It’s homey— and intimate. Enough for you to panic a little. 

The fact that Jack is sharing this piece of himself with you is giving you false hope — which is something you’ve been desperately trying to avoid since this morning.

You don’t want to push him into a role he hasn’t asked for — it’s bad enough that he has to put up with you for an extended amount of time now. 

As if on cue, thunder rolls overhead.

You flinch, relieved to see Jack stepping inside soon after. Dropping the bags at the door, he casts a brief glance around the room. 

“Strange to be back here, like a memory from a different life.” He sighs. “I couldn’t convince Robby to make the trip. He wanted to stay in Pittsburgh and look for his ex-wife and stepson.”

You instinctively reach for his hand at his sad tone. “I’m sorry he didn’t make it, Jack. And that you were alone when you had to bury him.”

“He could be such a stubborn asshole. But Robby was like family — the annoying brother you can’t help but love.” A wistful smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “He’d be glad to know that we found each other, you know? Though he always told me that your talents were wasted on the night shift.”

“But I liked the night shift. We had the craziest cases. And your huddles — which I kinda miss, to be honest.”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Hoo-rah.”

“Hoo-rah,” you repeat quietly, squeezing his fingers.

The next minutes are spent in comfortable silence. You clean up months of dust from the furniture and Jack lights a few oil lanterns in addition to the tall floor lamp in the living room. 

“Generator should be good for tonight, but it made a lot of noise once I got it running. I’ll take a look tomorrow.” The former attending nods towards the hallway. “If you want, you can go ahead and take a shower though. The AWG looked fine from what I could tell.”

“A shower?” you squawk, unreasonably excited. 

“A warm shower,” he emphasizes, nearly stumbling back when you press an exuberant kiss to his scratchy cheek. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. “Let me get you a change of clothes. We should probably do some laundry while we’re here.”

The bathroom is small, but just as charming as the rest of the cabin. Rough stone and aged ceramic meld together perfectly, a copper sconce giving the space a rustic feel. You clutch the flannel and the boxers Jack had given you to your chest, fighting the urge to jump for joy.

The hot water hits your skin like a literal blessing, loosening every muscle, and steam soon starts to fog the shower door. Months of stress, simply gurgling down the drain — a far cry from having to bathe in rivers or puddles for a year.

Creature comforts are damn hard to come by in the apocalypse.

Your shoulders droop a little when you return to the living room, swimming in Jack’s clothes and smelling of the woodsy body wash he had stored in the caddy.

He’s rummaging around in the kitchen, a pot steaming heavily on the gas stove. 

“Tomato soup okay?” he asks absentmindedly, reaching for the spice rack. 

“Of course.” You lean your back against the counter. “I can take over, if you want. Give you a chance to shower too.”

Jack looks up and freezes, knuckles going white around the salt shaker he’s holding. His eyes rake down your body, lingering here and there until you start to squirm under his scrutiny.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he rasps, pushing away from the stove. “A shower sounds good. I’ll be right back. Left your stuff in the guest room, if you’re wondering.”

You nod, mildly confused by his hasty exit. Humming to yourself, you continue cooking, adding dried basil and a generous sprinkle of chili flakes to the pot.

When the soup is seasoned to your liking, you collect two bowls from one of the cabinets above the sink. The soft patpatpat of rain hitting the roof and the far-off thunder are almost soothing now. 

Enclosed in the bubble of peace that the cabin provides, the end of the world seems like nothing but a bad dream; an abstraction with no real meaning.

“Food ready?”

You turn to look at Jack, biting the inside of your cheek at the sight: flannel pants riding low on his hips, gray curls still dripping water onto his black shirt and appearing far more relaxed than he had a few minutes ago.

“Almost.”

You both eat at the counter, dipping crackers into your bowls and sipping tea with way too much honey stirred into it. 

“This was the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you declare through a final mouthful, sighing contentedly. 

“It’s just canned soup that has been sitting in the pantry for too long,” Jack snickers. “What I really miss is steak. A nice burger. And Dana’s homemade meatloaf.”

“That is such a typically male opinion,” you deadpan, placing the empty bowls in the sink. “I’m disappointed, Dr. Abbot.”

“Alright, smartass, what do you miss the most?”

“Chocolate,” you say after a bit of thinking. “Ice cream. Greasy pizza after a long shift.”

You pause briefly, voice wavering when you finally continue. “But what I miss the most is this. Not having to run or fight for the next day. Normalcy, I guess.”

Hands tight around the edge of the counter, you stare out into the dark forest and Jack moves closer, his chest a steady weight at your back as he draws nonsensical patterns over the folds of your shirt.

“Me too.” 

You close your eyes and let the fragile moment linger.

Lightning flashes across the dark ceiling of your room, followed by a crack of thunder, loud enough to sound like the sky is being split apart.

The howling wind rips through the forest like a destructive deity, droves of wet leaves hitting the window from time to time.

You can’t sleep. 

Not because of the storm. Not because you don’t like the bed. 

You love it, actually. The mattress is just right, the duvet plush and the pillow has the perfect height.

You’re warm, clean and your belly isn’t aching from hunger. 

And yet you still cannot drift off. Wakefulness scrapes at the inside of your head like a caged animal — too similar to how most of your nights have felt since the fall of humanity. 

The reason hovers at the forefront of your mind, waiting for you to wise up, but you refuse to engage with it.

Stop. Don’t make this harder on yourself.

Frustrated, you sit up and kick the blankets off.

The weathered floor boards creak under your bare feet as you stand and move to the door, quietly slipping into the hallway and back to the living room.

Jack had left the oil lamps burning and the dim glow casts flickering shadows on the walls. 

You observe the odd dance, sipping on a cold glass of water. You stare out the window, watching the eldritch shapes of the trees swaying in the storm. You wander over to the couch to sit, only to immediately stand back up. 

Even though it’s clear that sleep isn’t going to come tonight, you decide to give your bed another chance. 

Just as you reach for the doorknob, the room opposite of yours opens. 

Jack lingers at the threshold, reading glasses on his nose and wearing a tentative expression. 

His curls are messy, as if he’d been tearing at them.

Rooted to the spot, you try to swallow the sudden dryness in your throat. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Jack gives a small, tired smile that toes the edge of self-deprecating. “Can’t sleep either?”

“No,” you whisper. “I tried, but…”

Silence falls like a heavy curtain, leaving only the thunder and the rain and the sound of your breath.

Then, Jack steps to the side. 

A clear invitation, one that accelerates your pulse immediately. 

You watch him carefully, how the lamp on his nightstand illuminates his back, half of his face cast in twilight. 

There will be no going back after, you’re acutely aware of that. If you cross this final boundary — if you let yourself have this — you won’t ever be able to make it through another night without him. 

And despite all the reasons opposing it, the decision is laughably easy. 

Jack closes the door behind you, his expression unreadable, and the click echoes through the room.

The first thing you notice is the bed. It’s bigger than yours and much more inviting as well — mostly because of the knowledge that he had just gotten out of it.

The book he’d been reading is on the floor, probably tossed after an unsuccessful attempt at making sense of its contents.

“Questioning your choice in literature?” you ask meekly. 

“Please don’t talk right now.”

You whip around at the rough demand — and the all-consuming intensity in his gaze nearly knocks the wind out of you.

Jack wrests the glasses off and haphazardly discards them on the bookshelf behind him, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“...Why?” you breathe, heat unfurling low in your stomach. 

“Why?” he repeats through clenched teeth. “Because I’m trying to be respectful, that’s why. Because I’m too fucking consumed by you to think clearly. Does that answer your question?”

Oh. Oh.

“I don’t want you to be respectful.” Your admission is immediate.

Pleading. 

Jack shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for.”

“No. I’m responsible for your safety, your wellbeing. And I’m not going to weaponize your vulnerability for my own selfish needs.”

“Jack.” 

The muscles in his jaw twitch at the sound of his name and you step closer, raising both of your hands to settle them on the warm expanse of his chest. Adam’s apple bobbing, he stares at your lips, leaning in just a fraction.

“You’re not taking anything — I’m giving it to you.”

The promise turns his expression hopeful, one of his palms landing heavily on your waist. 

Melting into the touch, you continue: “Not because of some misplaced sense of obligation, but because I’ve wanted you for a long time. I realized that I had a hopeless crush on you in my second week with the night shift — and after a year it had turned into far more than that.”

His free hand winds into the fabric of your — no, his — shirt, dragging you closer, enough for him to lean down. Your noses brush, every shallow breath shared. 

“We shouldn’t,” he groans, closing his eyes. “God, sweetheart, we really shouldn’t.”

“Please.” You’re not above begging at this point, unshed tears sticking to your lashes. “Jack, please.”

The thread snaps.

Jack bridges the remaining distance with a fury, hands flying up to cup your jaw as he kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like it’s vital to his existence.

Nothing about the kiss is gentle. He licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue with single-minded focus and soon your head is spinning from the lack of oxygen.

Your back hits the bed only moments later and Jack pulls away just enough to attach his mouth to your neck, marking the skin. The scratch of his stubble mingles deliciously with the sensation, drawing a choked whimper from you.

“Do you have any idea” — he nips the sensitive spot right beneath your ear — “how badly I’ve wanted this? You, squirming in my bed?”

Arching against him, you try to look for an answer in the cotton-candy bliss suffusing your brain and come up woefully short.

Jack doesn’t seem to mind and shifts to kiss you again, incisors sinking into your bottom lip briefly before letting his darkened eyes trail down your slack body.

“Using my bodywash, wearing my goddamn clothes,” he growls. ”Fuck, baby, the things I thought about when you walked into the kitchen like this…”

The endearment makes you shiver, giving you away immediately. 

Jack toys with the buttons of your flannel, wearing a knowing half-smile. “Had to fuck my hand in the shower, baby. Needed to take the edge off, or I would have bent you over the counter and taken you right there.”

Your mouth, already kissed raw by him, parts at the filthy admission.

The small movement catches his attention and he reaches out to cup your chin, calloused thumb tracing your lips reverently. Drawing him into your mouth, you suck softly, the tip of your tongue following the shape of the digit.

Jack stills above you, pupils blown wide as he watches. His thumb presses down ever so slightly, pinning your tongue. You let him, sighing appreciatively. 

The boxers he had given you stick to the apex of your thighs, hips shifting just enough for him to take notice. 

“Fucking hell,” he bites out. “Need something, baby?”

It almost doesn’t occur to you that he’s actually expecting a response, but when the realization hits, the room tilts on its axis. 

Head dipping to the side, you hide your face in the bedding and the sound that rises in your chest is pained, forlorn.

“Jack…”

“Look at me.”

You do as he asks, inhaling sharply when his hands drift down to your thighs, mapping the trembling skin. 

“You have to tell me what you want.” Jack leans in for another heated kiss, as if to underline his demand. “Let me hear it, sweet girl. C’mon.”

You chase his lips, but he stays just out of reach, electing to nose your jawline instead. 

“I need you to touch me,” you gasp. 

“I am touching you.” He squeezes your thighs, the smile in his voice evident. 

“That’s not—“ A featherlight brush on the inside of your knee cuts you short, stealing the air from your lungs. 

“Higher?” Jack coos. 

“Please.” The plea is barely more than a whisper, but it’s enough for him to take pity on you. 

Or perhaps he’s just as overcome, because Jack doesn’t bother wasting any more time. His entire hand slides to the damp, warm space between your legs, cupping you roughly. 

A fractured groan tears from somewhere deep inside his chest and he presses his forehead to yours, staring at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had. 

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re making a mess.” He lets all four of his fingers sink between your folds, as much as the fabric allows. “Fucking soaked. Is that for me?”

You sob your assent, seeking for purchase in the sheets. “Yes, it’s for you—”

“Yeah?” Jack presses. “I make you this wet? Enough to ruin the clothes I put you in? Maybe I should take them off, hm?”

The second he finds the waistband of your boxers, you lift your hips and he wrenches them down your legs, immediately moving on to the flannel once they’re off your ankles. Buttons go flying and skitter across the bed, hitting the floor like a mimicry of the rain outside. 

Jack parts the fabric, letting it fall beside your ribs. Lightning flashes across your feverish skin, contrasting sharply with the soft glow of the lamp on his nightstand. 

Your first instinct is to cover yourself. 

The end of the world hasn’t been kind to anyone, but even with the frequent lack of food and water, your body had retained some of the flaws you couldn’t help but focus on every time you looked in a mirror:

Prominent hips dips.

A plush weight at your thighs that never quite went away. 

Stretch marks from your teenage growth spurts. 

Every blemish laid bare for him to see. It’d been difficult enough to mask your insecurities in previous relationships. Some you had left with entirely new ones. 

And it’s worse with Jack somehow. Because he’s older. Because he had already lived through two decades before you were even a concept in your parent’s minds — and you’re keenly aware that his preferences have been shaped by his experience.

Your forearms only make it a few inches of the bed before he pushes them back down. 

“No,” Jack croaks. “No. Don’t hide from me.”

The faintest band of hazel remains around his widened pupils, hungry and heavy as his gaze sweeps over your prone form.

When he notices your wary expression, he softens, leaning down to capture your mouth in a lingering kiss that deepens when your nipples brush against his shirt.

Jack’s hands climb the ladder of your ribs, closing around your breasts in a firm squeeze, thumbs circling the stiffened peaks.

“That feel good, baby?” he murmurs. “You gonna let me do more?”

“Anything,” you breathe. “Whatever you want.”

“Is that right?” Jack inches down, kissing along your collarbone. “So you’ll let me spread this beautiful body over every single surface in this cabin? You’ll let me taste you?”

You want to reply — to protest — but he closes his mouth over one of your nipples, suckling with a rumbling moan and effectively muting your thoughts. One of your hands comes up to tangle in the shorter curls at the back of his head, the salt-and-pepper your singular anchor.

Jack releases you with a soft pop, warm breath ghosting over the damp peak before switching to the other.

You’re a wreck by the time he’s had his fill: shaking all over, the wetness between your legs almost uncomfortable, nipples red and sensitive. 

Satisfied, Jack pushes himself to his knees and reaches behind him, dragging the collar of his shirt over his head. It hits the floor with a muffled thud and the golden lamplight finally coats his skin. 

Broad shoulders that taper into thick biceps. A dusting of hair on his equally imposing chest, continuing down a stomach that had softened somewhat with the years.

Every inch of him is covered in freckles and other marks that represent a lifetime of battles:

A long stitch right across his ribs. A healed burn on the ball of his left shoulder. A circular wound above his heart.

That one draws your attention the most, your index and pointer finger mapping the raised tissue tenderly. Jack catches your hand with his own, looking at you with a mix of barely restrained fondness and want. 

“You’re perfect,” he rasps. “Perfect and mine.”

Jack settles back in the cradle of your legs, lower this time, silver stubble scraping over your hipbones. The bright burn is delicious, lingering in the wake of his indulgent kisses. 

You’re well aware of his intention, but you still don’t expect it when his mouth descends upon your clit, tongue drawing a slow, experimental circle before sucking in earnest.

Spine arching off the mattress, you whine, already on the edge of shattering into a million pieces. Jack stretches his right arm over your stomach and hauls you back down, redoubling his efforts. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, starting an unyielding rhythm.

Slick sounds echo through the bedroom, mingling with your heavy breathing and Jack’s gratified moans.

When you whimper his name, he curls the digits to drag them along your clenching walls, once, twice—

Blood rushes in your ears and stardust bursts behind your eyelids, hips thrashing in Jack’s iron hold. He tongues your pussy, lapping at the wetness like a starving man. 

The pleasure mounts and falls, sweat coating your skin in a thin, glistening layer. Above you, the ceiling spins and wavers, the motion far away and very close at the same time.

Jack offers a brief moment of reprieve, then rolls his tongue back over your swollen clit, circling the sensitive nub. 

You frantically shake your head and fumble for his curls, nails scraping at the roots. 

“No. You can give me another,” he pants, eyes glazed and blackened.

“Jack-”

“Doing so well, baby. Such a good girl for me.”

Descending once more, he mouths at you, flicking and taking and taking. 

The words unravel you at the seams, a soundless cry rising in your throat as a rush of wetness spills between your legs. Jack drinks you down greedily, easing the pleasure with gentle thrusts and murmured praise. 

His stubble glistens with your release when your pulse returns to an acceptable baseline and he’s wearing a self-satisfied smirk that shouldn’t be as handsome as it is. 

“You okay there, champ?” he croons, moving to nuzzle your damp cheek.

Words and sense still feel a bit disconnected, so you lean in for a kiss and loop your arms around his neck. You can taste yourself on his tongue and the knowledge sends a fresh bolt of heat to your core, renewing the still very much present need to have him closer.

Jack hums, yielding to your embrace willingly — until your fingers run through the happy trail above the waistband of his pants. He freezes, grabbing your wrist to stop you from going further. 

Your expression falls and he immediately nudges your chin to keep your attention on him. 

“Baby, I want to,” he says quietly. “Trust me, I’d love nothing more. But I’m not exactly… prepared for this situation.”

It doesn’t take long for you to catch on, relief replacing the sting of confusion. Guiding his hand to your left bicep, you let him feel the matchstick-sized rod that sits beneath the skin. 

“I’m good for another two years,” you reveal, sliding a knee along his firm thigh. 

He searches your face, knuckles cracking in the bedding beside you as the implication starts to dawn on him.

Swallowing heavily, he releases your wrist and tangles his fingers in your hair instead, pulling just enough to coax a light mewl from you.

“Ask me then,” Jack urges, tone gravelly and laden with meaning. “Use your big girl words and tell me exactly what you need me to do to you.”

“I…” Shaken, you scrape your teeth over your puffy bottom lip. “I want you to fuck me.”

A coarse sound falls from him, jaw muscles locking tight. 

“Yeah?” Jack leans in, the heat of his breath fanning the delicate hairs at your temple. “You want me to fill up that drooling pussy of yours?”

Rolling his hips, he lets you feel the hard length of him, still concealed by a layer of time-worn flannel that quickly dampens with your arousal.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Want you close. Jack, I—"

The words disappear into the ether, leaving you with nothing but desperation and a famine that has nothing to do with actual sustenance. He presses his forehead to yours, grounding you both. 

“I know, baby. Need you too. So fucking badly, you understand?” 

Your mouths seal together again, limbs tangling in the saturated sheets. Jack blindly reaches for the waistband of his pants, yanking at the elastic until it gives, sliding to his brawny thighs. 

He’s thick — thicker and bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, that’s for sure. Curving slightly towards his stomach, his cock twitches, a bead of precome leaking from the flushed tip. 

Jack sucks in a harsh breath, circling the base with his fingers, squeezing lightly at the prominent veins wrapped around the shaft. He feels even heavier when you mirror his grip, the skin hot and silky.

He doesn’t let you explore very far, pinning your arms to the pillows when you thumb the slick head. 

“Another time,” he grates out. “Not what I need right now, sweetheart.”

Seizing the back of your knees, Jack hauls you closer, shifting his weight on the mattress. 

His prosthetic. 

You find his cheek, chasing the splinters of light catching in the gray scruff there. “What about your—”

“Don’t care,” Jack mutters, bracing himself above you. “It can wait until later.”

He takes a wrecking ball to the rest of your arguments with another kiss, the drag of his tongue filthy, messy and full of promise. You part only to fill your lungs, a shiny string of saliva stretching between you. 

The blunt head of his cock slides through your folds, wetness mingling and spreading everywhere, the lazy up-and-down motion torturous. His control is on the brink of snapping completely, a feverish glint in his eyes as he slowly guides himself into you.

Your head tips back at the stretch, but Jack snags your throat with his free hand, holding it loosely and framing your jaw with his fingers.

“Eyes on me,” he instructs, voice cutting. “I want to watch your pretty face while you take it.”

He feeds you another inch, the pace close to agonizing. You’re too wet for it to hurt, but you haven’t been with another person since your final year as an intern — and after starting your residency at the PTMC and the rapid evolution of your crush, it hadn’t even crossed your mind to seek out someone else. 

Jack draws his thumb over your clit, easing the next few rolls of his hips. Inch after inch, stretching you open for him until he’s bottomed out, your knees almost even with the mattress. 

“Oh, fuck—” He groans, the broad line of his shoulders trembling as he stares down to where you’re connected, at the ring of wetness gathering at the base of him. “So goddamn tight, baby, Christ—"

Pinned as you are, there’s no hiding from the pressure, from the shimmery bliss flooding every nerve. You say his name and the word comes out barely coherent, thoughts scattering when Jack shifts back, only to immediately push back in. 

“Good girl,” he growls. “Good fucking girl. Taking me so well, taking my cock like you were made for it.”

The rhythm he sets is steady but unrelenting. Jack refuses to let you move, arching both of your wrists above your head with one hand and forcing the burning pleasure into your body with each thrust. 

His free hand finds the softest part of your stomach and presses down, right above where he’s moving inside you. You jolt at the foreign sensation, sobbing into the kiss he steals from you, ankles locking behind his back. 

“That’s it, baby.” Jack pushes his face into your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Waited so long to have you. Thought I’d lost you after the Collapse, thought I’d never get to make you mine—"

A tear disappears into your hairline, but you hardly notice. At this point, you can’t tell where you begin and where Jack ends, sticky sweat fusing your chests together and a cadence of wet slaps echoing through the bedroom. 

Angling his hips, he adjusts the pace until he hits that spongy spot inside you, harder and harder, your walls clenching around his cock.

Letting go of your wrists, he slides one of his hands between the mattress and the small of your back, then lower and lower to cup your ass. Squeezing the pliant flesh, Jack mouths at your neck and grinds his pelvis into your clit, the friction merciless. 

Digging your nails into the corded muscles beneath his shoulder blades, you moan. “C-close— I’m gonna—”

A gutteral, throaty whine tears from him. “Do it, baby, come for me, I got you, I’m right here—"

You shake apart in his arms, color streaking across the ceiling as your pussy clamps around his cock and you carve red lines into his shoulders. Jack works you through it, ignoring the sting, but it doesn’t take long for the feeling to drag him over the edge, his body seizing above you. 

He spills into you with a strangled, broken sound — hot, thick, every pulse of your walls milking more from him. Pulling you into the disjointed rhythm, he fucks his come into you as far as possible and some of it overflows, dripping onto the messy sheets. 

Eventually, Jack slows, shuddering through his final thrusts before losing the fight against gravity, the weight of him collapsing onto you. Ragged exhales hit the curve of your jaw, followed by sluggish, open-mouthed kisses. 

You smooth the damp curls sticking to the back of his neck, Jack’s hammering heartbeat leading you back to the present. 

Outside, the storm is still raging, but neither of you pay it any mind. 

The breathless silence between you feels hallowed, earned. Too good to cut short.

It doesn’t take long for exhaustion to set in, your lashes fluttering shut. 

Consciousness retakes you the moment Jack lifts himself off, mindful of your sensitive pussy as he pulls out. His come leaks from you in a warm dribble, and he hums appreciatively at the sight. 

You squirm and gasp when he catches the trickle and pushes it back in.

“Keep that safe for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, languidly kissing your cheekbone before rolling off the mattress.

He leaves the room and you listen to him pat around the cabin, drowsy and comfortable in your post-orgasmic haze. Jack returns with a glass of water and a washcloth, and the thoughtful gesture makes your eyes sting.

Your limbs feel like molasses, but you sit up anyway. 

He passes the cool glass to you, cleaning your body carefully as you drink, dabbing at the sweat and the remaining stickiness between your thighs.

Affection wells up in you, all-consuming, and you crawl into Jack’s arms as soon as he’s done with removing his prosthetic and tossing the washcloth into the hamper by the door. 

Tucked safely under the covers, the two of you melt into each other again, your head resting on his shoulder — much like it had yesterday in the tent.

Jack brushes his lips over your forehead, sighing contentedly at your fingers running idly through his chest hair.

There’s no more residual restlessness when you finally succumb to sleep, comforted by the knowledge that you’ll wake up safe and sound, that he will be right there to keep the worst of dreams at bay. 

Jack’s arm tightens around your waist and you let yourself fall into oblivion with a smile.

a/n²: Is this very self-indulgent? Maybe. Did pictures of shirtless Shawn Hatosy help with the writing process? Also maybe 👀

The next chapter might take a little longer since I start working again next week, but I'll do my best to update as soon as possible. Toodles! 👋

There’s a strange sort of tension in the air when Jack stands to collect his bike, pushing it into the bay. He goes through the bags affixed to the saddle with rigid motions, shoulders taut in a way that makes you uneasy.  

You don’t move from your spot in the EMV, hands fidgeting with the threadbare hem of your shirt.

He pulls a creased piece of paper from one of the smaller bags, along with a pen. Prying the cap off with his teeth, Jack returns to your side and unfolds the paper on the floor of the ambulance.

It’s a map. 

Or rather, two maps. 

One shows the entire east coast, reaching all the way from Florida up to the New England states.

The second map is of Pittsburgh itself and covered in markings, abbreviations and symbols that probably make sense to Jack, but very little to you. 

“Reaching Maine will only take a few days,” he says gruffly, scribbling an ‘x’ over the northernmost border on the bigger map.

“But I want to avoid the main roads as much as possible. And with how dark the nights get now, driving after sunset is not an option. We’ll have to refuel at some point too.”

Sensible. Confident. It’s just like Jack to know exactly how to navigate the country at the end of the world and without the use of technology.

Probably a skill that he had retained from his time as a combat medic. You and your friend had prepared for the trip to the Crossing, but the plan had mostly consisted of ‘choose a road and hope for the best’.

Not that sustainable in the long run, you realize now. 

The former attending puts down a few more markings, then cranes his head to observe the sky and then the shadows on the pavement with narrowed eyes. 

“If we leave now, we should have enough daylight left to get out of the city and onto Route 209.”

“Okay,” you agree quietly, swallowing the persistent and biting anxiety that crawls up your throat when he doesn’t answer. 

Jack stows the map in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and steps away again to pick up the helmet he’d tossed. When he pushes it into your hands, your heart drops. 

“Wait, what about you?”

Swinging a leg over the bike’s saddle, Jack gives a dismissive grunt. “We’ll find another one eventually. Get on.”

“But-”

He cuts you off with a stony glare. “Do not argue with me right now. Get. On.”

You scramble to your feet to get your backpack before sliding the helmet over your head, stepping up to the bike with shaky limbs. 

You quickly realize that Robby’s refurbished Triumph seems more spacious than it actually is, even with the seat extending all the way to the back.

Your thighs bracket Jack’s, his body heat bleeding through his jeans and your brown cargos. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you tentatively settle them on his shoulders. 

He immediately reaches behind him, wordlessly dragging them down to his waist and around to his stomach. Squeezing your wrists once, Jack lets go and kickstarts the bike with a single decisive push. 

The two of you slowly roll out of the bay and towards the empty road, gaining more and more speed. When Jack turns a corner, you keep your gaze fixed on his neck and smother the overwhelming urge to look back one last time.

Instead, you shift closer to the firm body in front of you, leaving the ghosts of your past to the dust, the sun and their inevitable decay.

Jack weaves through pileups of abandoned cars and around crumbling buildings expertly, crossing the Rachel Carson bridge in less than fifteen minutes.

After that, you lose track of time. 

The daylight is turning a rich, warm gold when you finally dare to glance behind you, watching the city skyline shrink and shrink and shrink. Eventually, Pittsburgh is nothing but a blurry shape on the vivid horizon. 

Trees surround the deserted road stretching out in front of you, yellow and red leaves drifting in the mellow wind, joining their brothers and sisters sitting at the feet of their sturdy parents.

Beyond the colorful hills, the Allegheny cuts through the landscape like a band of liquid silver.

You’d almost forgotten how achingly beautiful the world can be. It’s a sobering realization, one that chips at the stubborn traces of sadness that remain in the space behind your ribs.

You almost want to point the picturesque scenery out to Jack, but you can tell that his temper hasn’t quite cooled yet. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road, not speaking a word.

Maybe you shouldn’t have told him about your plan after all, because you have no idea how to fix this.

You’ve never seen him so angry before — annoyed, yes — but never angry. The sudden distance between you is agonizing and enough to incite a whole new set of fears: 

Fear that he might leave. Fear that you’ve disappointed him. Fear that he might hate you.

So, you rack your brain for solutions until Jack pulls over, steering the bike into a rest area that connects to the main road. A few rusty signs hang above the rough gravel, the letters almost faded entirely.

Beyond the treeline, the sky has turned lavender, deepening the shadows of the surrounding forest. 

“Let’s stay here for tonight,” Jack mutters when you pull off the helmet and wipe at your sweaty temples. “There’s a small river nearby that we can use to clean up a bit. We should also refill our water supply while we’re here.”

You nod wordlessly and trail after him, down the narrow and winding path leading away from the rest area and further into the forest. Jack pushes the bike through the trees, glancing back once to make sure you’re still following.

You find yourself in a small clearing after a bit of walking, faint specks of fading sunlight dappling the roots and the mossy ground. 

“This is far enough.” Jack rests the bike against a large tree and kneels to untie the bags from the saddle. “You got a tent with you?”

“No,” you murmur. “My friend and I used to sleep in cars and abandoned houses.”

Jack throws you a piercing look over his shoulder. “What friend?”

“She used to be my neighbor. Her husband and her kids left for an out of state trip before… before the end. We decided to travel together when the raids in Pittsburgh started. I— I told her to go North without me and that I’d catch up.”

Helpless, you watch as Jack stands abruptly, wearing a grim expression, a rolled up canvas tarp tucked under his arm. 

“Go wash up,” he barks. “I’ll get a fire going.”

You flee from the clearing and towards the river with a pit in your stomach. 

The pleasant gurgle of the rushing stream should be calming, but instead you immediately feel like crying again. 

You messed up. You messed up and now he’s going to disappear—

Dropping your backpack, you sink down on one of the large boulders that sit at the muddy shore and slowly kick off your boots, every intake of breath uneven and far too strained. 

Undressing feels almost impossible in this state, but you manage it eventually, leaving every piece of clothing on the boulder.

The icy water laps at your ankles when you wade in, clutching what remains of your stockpiled lilac soap. You dip under the surface without hesitation, tearing at the tie holding your hair back to let it drift in the gentle current.

Rivulets of water mix with fresh tears when you come back up. 

A few lonely stars glint on the dimming horizon, the sight pulling a muffled sob from somewhere deep in your chest.

Foam burns your eyes when you start to knead soap into each tangled strand of hair, using the rest to lather every last inch of your body until your lips are blue from the cold.

Skin chilled and scrubbed raw, you pull an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts from your backpack.

The soft fabric feels oddly foreign and exposing, but the thought of getting back into your sweaty day clothes is even worse. Retying your hair sounds equally draining, so you comb the dripping strands over one shoulder instead.

Knowing that you’ll have to face Jack again, you linger by the riverbank to gather the fragile remains of what used to be a steadfast fountain of courage and determination. 

A small campfire crackles and spits in the center of the clearing when you finally make your way back, the tarp secured with a few thick branches a few feet away.

Jack doesn’t look up and pokes at the logs with a long metal hook, jacket and hunting knife discarded on the ground next to him.

You drop your things next to the bike and step closer to the fire, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Still nothing.

The tight press of your lips barely muffles the pained sound that claws past your vocal cords. 

Jack’s head snaps up in alarm, eyes going wide as he takes in your crumpled expression.

 “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head and dig your nails into your skin, leaving tiny bloody crescents. 

The tears come whether you want them to or not and Jack is on his feet in an instant, stepping closer, only to freeze when you hold up a hand.

“Will you ever stop being angry at me?” you croak. “Because I need to know if I should prepare myself.”

He stares, shock written all over his features before morphing into something deeply guilt-stricken.

“I’m not angry,” Jack says softly. “I promise.”

“Then why-”

“Because you scared me,” he blurts out. “When you told me what you had planned to do — it fucking terrified me, the thought of you making that decision for yourself. It still does.”

More tears make their way down your cheeks and drip from your chin, hitting the dry leaves beneath your feet. 

He’s by your side in a few long strides, calloused hands finding your waist to pull you into him. Pressing your nose into the collar of Jack’s shirt, you melt into the hug and wind your fingers into the fabric at his back.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have taken my fear out on you. It was unfair and cruel of me to somehow make you believe that you’re a villain for feeling helpless.”

Pulling back a little, he drags a thumb over your wet cheek. “Just… promise me that you’re not going to give up again, alright? Not without giving this life a proper shot."

Leaning into the touch, you close your eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” he mutters.

A pleasant shiver goes through you at his words, though Jack doesn’t seem to grasp the connection.

He gently pushes you towards the tent. 

“Why don’t you warm up and get some shuteye? I already set up your sleeping bag.”

You frown. “What about yours?”

“Tent’s not that big. I’ll sleep by the fire.” He gives you a lopsided smile. “It’s fine. I’ve slept in worse conditions, trust me.”

“Jack.” You hesitate for half a second before reaching for his hand. “I don’t mind sharing.”

He worldlessly holds your gaze, something heavy and aching passing over his face. “...You sure? I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’ll be more comfortable knowing you’re close,” you admit.

The revelation immediately softens Jack’s tense posture, a slow puff of breath leaving him. “Go lie down, sweetheart. I need a wash first.”

Letting you go with a gentle squeeze, he gathers up a change of clothes and watches as you crawl into the tent to roll out his sleeping bag, eyes already drooping. 

“Call me if you need me.”

You offer a drowsy smile. “Go bathe already, Dr. Abbot.”

“Bossy,” he rumbles fondly and walks off towards the river. 

Moving to the edge of the tent, you settle your head on your knees and watch the campfire and the trails of smoke drifting towards the sky. The call of an owl echoes through the night, dragging you a little closer to sleep.

You spend the next few minutes dozing intermittently and staring at the dancing flames.

The crunch of leaves and old branches signals Jack’s return and you lift your head to watch him approach. 

He’s changed into a comfortable looking pair of sweats and a well-worn shirt that clings to his freckled biceps in a way that feels entirely too inviting to your vulnerable mind right now.

He looks so cozy with his damp curls and tired expression — and you have to physically stop yourself from making grabby hands at him. 

Your eyes connect across the fire and he stops in his tracks, chuckling quietly.

“Thought you’d be asleep.”

“I wanted to wait for you.”

Jack drops onto his sleeping bag, stretching his right leg out in front of him with a pained groan. He lifts his sweats halfway up the prosthetic, then hesitates, searching your face.

“What?”

He gestures vaguely at the glinting aluminum and carbon. “You don’t mind if I…” 

“Of course not,” you protest. “Why would I?”

Jack shrugs a shoulder. “Sometimes people get uncomfortable.”

“Nothing about you makes me uncomfortable.”

It’s far too close to what you actually want to say to him, so you leave it at that, busying yourself by fidgeting with a few strands of hair while Jack removes his prosthetic and the liner. 

Rubbing the residual limb, he lets out a relieved sigh. “Fuck, that’s much better.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse days. After using it for twelve hours straight the pressure just gets persistent.”

“We should take more breaks tomorrow” you suggest, finding his hand again. “I don’t like the thought of you pushing through the pain for my sake.”

His thumb traces a slow arc over your knuckles. “...Thank you.”

A long yawn cuts off your answer and you rub at your heavy eyes until fluttery rings of static muddle your vision.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jack says decisively. “Time for bed. We still have a few long days ahead of us and I need you rested.”

“Yessir,” you slur drowsily, crawling further into the tent and into your sleeping bag. 

Jack follows suit and you immediately roll closer to tuck your head beneath his chin, one arm settling over the comfortable plane of his stomach. 

He goes deathly still, swallowing audibly.

“Sweetheart.” 

You nuzzle the warm space between his neck and shoulder, inhaling the pleasant traces of whatever spicy soap he had used and deciding at that moment that you’ll blame the exhaustion in the morning. 

“... Comfortable?” he asks, his voice just a touch strangled. 

You hum your assent and Jack curses under his breath before settling his palm at the base of your spine, mapping every individual vertebrae over your shirt.

The deliberate, tender rhythm lulls you further towards oblivion, anchoring you in the dim twilight of the tent.

The last thing you feel as you drift off is the gentle press of his mouth to the top of your head and the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.

Birdsong wakes you the next morning. 

Wind rustles through the trees outside, the sound mingling with the happy, melodic chirps and the distant rush of the river. 

You take stock of yourself — of the warmth that has somehow seeped all the way to your bones, of the contentment that floods your body in pleasant shivers every once in a while.

Lashes fluttering open, you sigh, shifting against blood-warm muscle until the arms still wrapped around you tighten.

Somehow, you had managed to kick your sleeping bag off in the night, your left leg tucked over Jack’s broad thigh. 

Your head is still on his shoulder and the hand that had rested on top of your shirt the previous evening has now slipped beneath, spanning the entirety of your lower back. 

It should scare you, how easily the two of you fit together. 

And yet it doesn’t.

Because for the first time in months, you had actually slept through the night. You hadn’t been woken by nightmares or visions of crumbling cities and incomprehensible violence. 

Jack had always been good at providing the steadfast foundation you’d chased half your life, at making you feel safe and seen. 

Independence goes from freeing to oppressive when it’s the only certain thing supporting your existence — and you’d grown tired of it a long time ago.

You shift in Jack’s arms, enough to be able to look at his face. 

He looks younger like this, unguarded. A stubborn gray lock has fallen over his forehead, giving him an almost boyish quality.

You smile a little at his soft snoring and tuck your hands against your chest to keep yourself from tracing the freckles decorating his storied skin. 

God, it’d be so easy to get used to this — so easy to just accept that you’re already halfway in love with him.

To believe that this isn’t temporary and that he might want to keep you. 

The rhythm of Jack’s breathing changes just a fraction, a small crease appearing between his brows.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.”

His voice is low and rough, still weighed down by sleep. 

He cracks one eye open, crow’s feet deepening when he takes in the flush sitting high on your cheeks.

“I wasn’t staring,” you grouse.

“Right,” he smirks. “Must have been my imagination.”

“Go back to sleep, old man.”

Jack pinches the softest part of your waist in reprimand. “Mind your manners, you little terror. I reserve the right to revoke cuddling privileges.”

You sputter and scramble to sit up. “That wasn’t— you could have said something. If you were uncomfortable—”

“Hey, no.” He catches your wrist to trace the spot where your pulse is fluttering like a frightened bird. “I wasn't. Uncomfortable, I mean. Just… wary. And surprised. Definitely flattered. But never uncomfortable.”

Silence settles in the tent, heavy with unspoken implications that the events of last night are bringing into the light of day. And you want to tell him — you really do. 

You want to lean down and press your lips to his and to tangle your hands in his gray hair until reality doesn’t seem so daunting anymore. 

But sharing a moment of comfort is one thing — romantic feelings are another. The two don’t always coincide.

You can learn to live with platonic affection.

You’ve always been good at compartmentalizing. 

The rumbling of your stomach saves you from having to answer and Jack is kind enough to drop the topic with a fond snort.

“Hungry?”

You nod, watching as he sits up as well, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, giving you a brief glimpse of his stomach that shouldn’t feel as illicit as it does.

Averting your eyes, you crawl after Jack and out of the tent.

“Let’s get some breakfast into you.”

Breakfast consists of your compiled rations: crackers, beef jerky and a few bruised apples, washed down with peppermint tea over the gleaming embers of the campfire. You’d kill for a coffee, but you’re glad to be full at least.

After, the two of you prepare for the road ahead and you can’t help but bask in the little moments of intimacy that make the early hours glide like silk. 

Shared smiles as you brush your teeth by the river.

Gentle touches to your waist when Jack walks past while you gather your things.

The way he watches as you braid your hair, making sure that every strand is tucked away before you secure the helmet under your chin.

Getting on the bike feels less daunting today and you don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around him this time.

Your days together are limited, with the Crossing marking the end. And you intend to soak up every last second until you have to let him go.

You ride for the rest of the morning, taking short breaks for Jack’s leg and to share a large bottle of water along with the rest of your cookies. 

The temperature is a lot more moderate than yesterday, but there are dark clouds billowing on the distant horizon and a humidity in the air that feels oppressive. Jack checks the sky periodically, pushing the bike to its limits when the roads allow for it.

You stop at an old gas station and you’re lucky enough to scrounge up a bit of fuel from one of the pumps. Glancing between the bike’s gauge and the clouds, the former attending purses his lips, then runs a hand over his stubbled jawline. 

“I don’t like this,” he mutters.

“Me neither,” you admit. “The last storm was bad enough to flood the streets for days. My friend and I had to leave a lot of our supplies behind to find shelter.”

Another unfortunate side effect that had arrived with the end of the world: changes in weather are unusually violent and tend to last long enough to make survival even more difficult. It’s not something you look forward to, especially with how terrifying your last experience had been.

Jack gives you a wary glance. “I have an idea. But it might prolong our trip, especially if the weather is going to make things difficult. We could try to reach New Hampshire today, though I’d rather not risk it.”

You tilt your head. “What’s your plan?”

“I own a cabin up in the Catskills. It’s equipped with a generator, a reliable water collector and I stocked up on non-perishables a few weeks before everything went to shit.”

He clears his throat, eyes fixed on a crack in the asphalt. “I’m hoping that it hasn’t been touched by looters, since it’s pretty secluded. We can keep going and try to find shelter along the way, but I thought—"

“Jack.” He looks up at your quiet interruption and you smile. “I’d rather not swim to the Crossing. A safe place to wait out the storm sounds perfect.”

“You sure?”

There’s something strange about how he asks the question, something weighty that you can’t quite decipher — but it sends a bolt of heat right to your core, breath growing a little shallow. 

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Jack holds your gaze for a moment that seems to stretch and stretch — then he wordlessly motions for the bike.  

You climb back on, wondering why your brain feels like it's about to melt when he secures your hands right over his heart.

a/n²: Haha. Oh no. Whatever shall they do with all that time they have to kill now? 🤔 Well, I'm sure they can come up with a few activities that definitely do not require them to take their clothes off... 🤗 Toodles! 👋

The world did not end with a bang.

It went quietly.

Like a rattling, shallow breath exhaled after a a long and arduous struggle — not unlike the more unfortunate people you used to encounter in your line of work.

Not that it mattered now.

Humanity’s numbers had been halved in a single brushstroke, reduced to small enclaves that now lived in constant terror of what might still come to pass.

The Collapse, the survivors called it.

A mundane name for something so devastating, for something that had literally wiped most populations from the face of the earth — but maybe that’s just what history does: remembering humanity and its follies as nothing but names and dates and anecdotes that are fated to be forgotten.

You stare at your scratched-up hands, scorching afternoon sunlight beating down on your neck. You wait until it starts to hurt - then you look up.

High walls and faded yellow-beige paint. Ambulances parked in the bay, back doors almost torn off the hinges. Scattered gurneys sitting close to the entrance, covered in a murky layer of dust and debris.

And old blood, splattered on the baking pavement.

There’s an unnatural stillness hanging over everything — as if time had decided to forget about this place. Even on slow days, the PTMC used to burst at the seams with people coming and going constantly. Doctors, nurses, EMTs, social workers, admins, clerks.

All gone now.

You swallow, an uncertain kind of dread coiling in your stomach.

You don’t even know why you had decided to come back here.

Pittsburgh has been abandoned for months. After the initial panic, a period of anarchy had followed, keeping its iron grip until every hospital, every store and every gas station had been looted — emptied — top to bottom.

Now, the city is nothing but a hollowed shell, carved out by fear and desperation.

There had been no real reason to return. Your friend had told you as much, scowling over a meager breakfast made of canned apricots and chewy, but ultimately tasteless oat cookies.

"I thought you wanted to go north. Find the other survivors."

"I do."

She shakes her head. "Then why?"

"For me. For… for closure. There are so many things I regret not doing. Like not saying goodbye, and — and we don’t even know how long we can go on like this."

It’s not the whole reason. But you have to smudge the truth a little, or else you’d be dragged along kicking and screaming.

"You know I can’t wait for you. My husband, my children..." Your friend trails off, wringing her hands.

You reach over, settling a palm on her shoulder. "I know. The Crossing is your best hope. Swear I’ll try to catch up."

You can tell that she wants to argue, but she knows better than to attempt talking you out of it. It has never worked, even before the end of the world.

The two of you had said goodbye the next morning, parting just beyond the city outskirts. You’d made the decision to walk, leaving the truck you had scavenged a few weeks ago in your friend's care.

You won’t need a car where you’re going.

Heaven. Hell. Beyond.

Not that you exactly know what that will look like. But it can’t be worse than this.

Eyes still fixed on the ambulance bay, you manage a wobbly smile.

Maybe being here for the end does make sense.

The Pitt is the only place where you’d ever truly felt at home. A single year spent in the emergency department — and despite the stress, the daily chaos and the emotional strain it had been one of the best years of your (admittedly) short life.

You had actually planned on applying for an attending position here after passing your boards.

After proving that you were worth keeping.

Belonging.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted. And you’d found it with the night shift — with the weirdest and wildest of them all. With Lena, John, Parker, Crus and Mateo.

With—

The roar of an engine cuts through the vast silence, ripping you back to the bleak reality.

A large dust cloud billows in the distance, following the sound like a smoke signal. You take a few wary steps back, into the half-shadows of the ambulance bay, hand flicking to the worn bat fixed to your equally patchy backpack.

It’s a motorcycle.

Vintage and black, speckled with dirt and mud and covered in scratches, some deeper than others. Its rider — a man from what you can tell at this distance — is more of the same: a dark helmet obscures his face, leather jacket and fingerless gloves well-worn.

He stops in front of the bay, killing the engine.

Then he simply… stares.

Just like you had.

Head tilted back to take in the massive building in all its empty, sad glory. There’s something strangely familiar about the way he sits, about his posture, back ramrod straight and broad shoulders squared.

Finally, his hands lift, thumbs dipping beneath the helmet to keep a steady grip as he pulls it off.

You can hear your breath hitching, heart going still and ice cold for just a second before restarting at double the pace.

It can’t be.

You must be hallucinating. Dreaming. Going mad like so many others had in the past months.

You take in every facet, every minute detail, frantically trying to make sense of what you're seeing.

Salt and pepper curls. Sharp features. Pensive hazel eyes. Thick silver stubble.

It's him. It's him and he's not gone and he's here-

"Jack?" you croak, taking an unsteady step towards him.

His gaze immediately snaps over to you, hand flying to the handle of the sizable hunting knife strapped to his denim clad thigh. Suspicion morphs into apprehension — then recognition.

He rasps your name and the familiar sound of his smoky voice rips something in your chest wide open. Tears well up in your eyes and blur your vision, relief hitting you so hard its nigh painful.

He tosses the helmet and scrambles off the bike, almost tripping over his scuffed boots in the process.

You drop your backpack with a resounding thud and start running.

Jack meets you halfway, catching you in his arms when you collide into him, stumbling back a few steps from the force of it.

We’ve never hugged before, you realize faintly.

You’d shaken hands on the day you met. Had shared the cramped space around coding patients. Had sat together in the break room on nights that felt like treading deep, dark waters with no safe shore in sight. Had laughed over drinks in a bar while ignoring your squabbling coworkers around the pool table.

But you’ve never hugged. Of course you had wanted to.

A hug, a smile, a word, a single sliver of attention; anything from Jack Abbot would have been enough in the face of everything that had argued against the futile feelings that blossomed within a week of meeting and working with him.

Age. Experience. Actual rules put in place to prevent the abuse of power.

Attending. Resident.

Titles that mean nothing now.

The world as you know it is over — and it can ever go back to the way it was before.

You clutch the faded fabric of Jack's shirt, face buried in the solid curve of his shoulder as you start to sob. Months of repressed emotions crash over you like a violent tidal wave and pull you under. Grief that you had never fully addressed — that you had refused to touch — overwhelms every cell in your body.

Months of believing you would never see him again, that you’d die all alone-

His arms are a fortress, one wrapped tight around your middle and the other sliding up to find the back of your head, fingers threading through the strands of your unkempt ponytail.

"I thought you were…"

He trails off, voice breaking at the edges, and you pull back a little to look at him, to really look. There are deep shadows under his eyes and he seems even more exhausted than he had a year ago.

But his expression is open and utterly relieved, crows feet deepening as he holds your gaze with a brittle smile.

He's devastatingly, beautifully alive, heart beating hard and fast right beneath your trembling palm.

"Me too," you say shakily, wiping at your damp cheeks, at the tears that won’t stop coming. "I’m sorry, I don’t know why—"

"No, no, sweetheart—"

The endearment only makes you cry harder and Jack immediately tugs you back to his chest, stubbled chin dragging along your temple as he hushes you.

"You’re okay," he murmurs. "I’m right here."

You tighten your grip on him and let yourself break.

You cling to each other in the burning sunlight for what feels like hours.

By the time he gently guides you towards an empty EMT, you’re exhausted and all cried out, face sticky with dried tears.

Above, the sky remains frighteningly blue, utterly indifferent to how the entire world seems to have changed in an instant once again.

The two of you sit, and you drop your head onto Jack's shoulder as he reaches for your hand, fingers intertwining tightly between your bodies.

Thirteen months ago, you wouldn’t have dared. You would have flushed at the very idea of this kind of proximity to the man who signed off on your charts.

But he’s also still the man who brings you coffee in the morning, already splashed with your favorite creamer. The man who makes sure that you eat during busy shifts; and the man who insists on driving you home during the colder months, for 'his own peace of mind'.

Either way, you couldn’t care less about past boundaries, your nervous system deciding that feeling safe and settled for the first time since the Collapse is far more important than some arbitrary rules from a society that is now on the brink of extinction.

Jack stills for half a second before settling his cheek on your hairline, relaxing into the unexpected closeness.

"Didn’t think I’d find anything when I decided to come back here," he says quietly. "Least of all you."

"Neither did I." You swallow, trying to find the right words for what you’re about to confess.

There’s no sugarcoating it, no hiding. He’d see right through you, and you’re not keen on prolonging the discomfort any longer than necessary.

"I came here to… to end it."

"What?"

When you don’t continue, Jack squeezes your hand, almost to the point of pain. "Sweetheart. Tell me you’re not serious. You can’t fucking mean that."

"Maybe not," you murmur. "I’m just so tired, Jack."

"I know. But I’m here," he repeats roughly. "Alright? We're both alive and I’m going to make damn sure it stays that way."

"That sounds like a lot of rotten work for you."

"It’s not. I don’t—" He pauses to take a deep, steadying breath. "Robby didn’t… he didn’t make it, you know?"

He doesn’t meet your eyes when you gasp and jerk up, somber hazel flicking between the desolate city skyline and the motorcycle, still parked in a stretch of sunlight a few feet away.

"Idiot got hurt three months in. Cut himself on a rusty wire while we were climbing a fence." Shaking his head, Jack scoffs, the sound bitter and vicious. "It wasn’t even that deep. But it was enough for it to get infected a day later. He told me to take his bike and keep going."

He finally turns to look at you again. Pain, anger and determination is written across his features in equal measure, the intensity almost too much to bear.

"I buried him in the backyard of his house. The man I considered to be my brother. And I refuse to bury anyone else, you hear me?"

You nod meekly.

For a moment, Jack simply observes you, jaw muscles twitching ever so slightly. Then he reaches up to grip your chin, thumb on one side and the rest of his calloused fingers on the other.

You open your mouth to say something and Jack shifts his thumb to your lips, pressing down and giving you a severe, warning look.

"Your next words better be in agreement, sweetheart."

"Yeah," you manage, fresh tears burning your eyes.

Not because he’s actually hurting you, but because he cares enough about you to force the matter if need be.

To force you to live.

You let out a shaky breath. "...Let's head North."

Tell me something, boy Aren't you tired trying to fill that void? Or do you need more? Ain't it hard keeping it so hardcore? - Shallow by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper

As days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, Lyra finds her footing.

The very last remnants of summer have long since faded, piles of wet leaves lining the curbs and fog hanging over the city skyline more often than not. 

She comes into work bundled in layers, rolling her eyes at the playful comments of her coworkers. 

Sarcasm.

It’s the super glue that holds The Pitt together and the oil that keeps its hinges moving. That; caffeine addictions that border on concerning; and a team of nurses that doesn’t get nearly enough credit for all the bullshit they have to endure on a day to day basis. 

Lyra has come to appreciate every strange and unexpected facet of this place - even the little jabs at her not being able to take the cold despite living in the North for most of her life. 

Today, the early morning chill comes with a sense of foreboding that shifts to definitely concerning halfway through Lyra’s commute.

Thick, white flakes drift from the sky and catch in the harsh wind, eventually settling on the ground in icy sheets.

The steps leading down to the entrance of the ED are now a potential hazard in and of themselves, especially in the mid November twilight that seems to set in earlier and earlier with every passing day. 

Lyra has never been more glad to arrive at the Pitt’s doors, breathing a sigh of relief when she ducks into the waiting room. It’s already packed, but she’s not surprised.

Emergency spikes during the colder months are common enough to be a problem for hospitals across the States each year.

Weather-related accidents and frequent virus outbreaks make for a terrible combination that has yet to be solved by the scientific community. 

Lupe waves at her when she walks by and she gives the ward clerk a smile before shouldering through the doors at the back of the waiting room, hands clutched around a large drink carrier.

Her eyes flick between the beverages and the hallway as she weaves around people and beds, reaching the lockers in record time. The narrow space is just as busy with the night shift clocking in and the day shift clocking out. 

Trinity and Dennis seem to be dead on their feet, clothes and hair akimbo. Mel and Frank are more of the same, but they seem happy enough to keep chatting with each other, voices hushed and eyes a little too focused. 

Robby, as usual, looks like a wandering billboard for sleep deprivation. Still, he gives Lyra a friendly nod before disappearing into the crowd like a veritable ghost. 

Setting the drinks down on an empty bed, the young woman swats a loose strand of hair from her cheek and pulls off her beanie, the thick wool damp and stiff with half-melted ice. 

“Please tell me that’s coffee.” 

Lyra grins and turns to face John, who is eagerly craning his upper half around his open locker door. 

“Who says it’s for you? Maybe I’m only sharing with Parker.” 

He gasps, one palm over his heart. “Now that’s just hurtful.”

With a roll of her eyes, Lyra peels off her coat. “I think you mean unrealistic. Only you could drink eight separate cups of coffee without dropping dead an hour later.”

“It’s a talent.”

“It’s concerning,” Parker chimes in, kicking her own locker shut with the heel of her foot. “Just like your obsession with Love Island.”

“Wow.” John shakes his head. “Is that how you talk to your attendings?”

“You’re barely an attending, man.” Parker takes the cup that Lyra is holding out to her. “And the day that I respect your authority is the day I die.”

The two of them keep bickering back and forth and Lyra knows she has lost any chance at having a normal conversation. Instead, she works her favorite soft pink sweater jacket over her scrubs, smiling fondly at their antics.

John Shen and Parker Ellis are two unapologetic oddballs that thrive in the singular atmosphere the night shift comes with.

Since her first day, they have made an effort to make her feel like she belongs here, like she has been their friend for years and not a measly few months. And Lyra loves the PTMC that much more because of them.

“Are they at it again?” Crus steps up behind her, watching the squabble with mild interest. 

"Business as usual,” she sighs, handing him another cup from the carrier. “If they weren’t bloody good doctors, we’d get nothing done around here.”

“It gets worse when they’re drunk, trust me. Speaking of which… You’re joining us for drinks tomorrow, right?”

Lyra nods eagerly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Nice. You’re going to love The Warren.” Crus salutes her with his coffee. “First beer on me, I promise.”

“Make it something sugary and strong instead and I’m sold. I can’t stand beer.”

“Fair enough.” Giving John and Parker a final once-over, the fourth-year resident lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Wanna leave these losers in the dirt? It’s almost time for our huddle.”

“Definitely.” Lyra collects the drink tray and her stethoscope, following Crus down the hallway. 

Seconds after they step into the heart of the Pitt, the frenetic energy in the air digs its claws in.

The evening shift change is rarely a quiet or clean affair and if she had to compare it to something, it’d be a struck beehive, ready to charge at potential intruders. 

For just a few minutes, the cogs that run behind the scenes start squeaking and grinding against each other, turning the carefully constructed system on its head.

Chiming pagers, wheels rolling against freshly cleaned linoleum, the swell of too many voices speaking at once - perfect pandemonium. 

Lyra breathes it in, happy to let her focus shift away from the clamoring chaos in her mind to the work ahead.

Soon, the hub comes into view, a small congregation already circling the west side, facing a single person at the center of it all.

Her steps falter briefly, both anxiousness and impatience twisting her previous relief into utter nonsense. Joining the huddle takes several steadying breaths on her part. 

Fixing her eyes on the maddeningly calm eye of the storm even more so. A shiver rushes down her spine and Lyra knows it has nothing to do with the temperatures outside or the perpetual and necessary chill suffusing the ED. 

No. It’s just him.

Doctor Jack Abbot. 

Back resting against the tall counter framing the hub, the senior attending observes his surroundings with something that could easily be mistaken as indifference, arms crossed tightly in front of his broad chest. 

Veins stretch over compact muscle, every free inch covered in freckles that seem more prominent under the fluorescent lights. They disappear into the short sleeves of his scrubs, charcoal fabric struggling to contain the imposing line of his shoulders.

Abbot lifts a hand to languidly run it along his chin and frowns a little before returning to his previous stance, probably realizing that he’d forgotten to shave.

The rich silver of his stubble is definitely a bit thicker today, accentuating every sharp feature and matching the rakish salt-and-pepper curls on his head. 

Dark hazel sweeps across the room, assessing with a perplexing blend of pensiveness and austerity. Finally, they land on her - and Lyra can physically feel the way her breath hitches behind her ribs, his open scrutiny kicking her pulse sky high. 

A lopsided, barely-there smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, two fingers lifting from his arm in a leisurely greeting. 

Lyra bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper, hoping - praying - that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

There it is. Her very own kryptonite.

Jack Abbot has turned what was supposed to be a breath of fresh air into a daily struggle for oxygen - and she hasn’t known a minute of peace since their introduction. Since he’d winked at her, after practically forcing his kindness upon her unsuspecting heart in the form of fucking protein bars. 

Which is probably the entire reason for this stupid, futile crush. If his looks were his only positive quality, she probably wouldn’t be as affected. As overcome.

A handsome man isn’t necessarily a good man, after all. 

Unfortunately for her, Jack Abbot is competence and kindness rolled into a single alluring package, topped with a little bow spun out of razor sharp wit. 

And the fact that he’s about twenty years older than her should have been a deterrent, but her brain apparently perceives this outrageous fact like catnip. 

Quite the cliché, you silly, fatherless girl.

Lyra trails the tips of her tongue over the small bitemark in her cheek and buries the sardonic thought deep. 

It’s going to be fine. She’s had crushes before and they’d all been replaced with less intense feelings and fizzled away into nothingness eventually.

Two months is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to pine after a good-looking man, even if said man is technically her boss. 

So. She really has nothing to worry about. 

The sound of Abbot clapping his hands together pulls Lyra from her pathetic attempt at self-persuasion. 

“Alright, everyone, time to get serious; day shift is just about done here and with how the weather’s coming along, we’ve got a rough night ahead of us.” 

There’s a noticeable change in the air, chatter dying down and focus reshifting to the man at the helm. They’re all listening intently and once again, Lyra wonders how he does it; commanding an entire room with a few simple words and his presence. 

Handover details have never been more interesting and it's honestly a bit scary how good he is at keeping her focus.

She’s almost disappointed when the huddle ends, a swarm of black scrubs dispersing throughout the ED. 

Crus and Parker head off to triage and John sidles up to her with a pleading look in his eyes. She can’t help but laugh, finally pushing an ice cold cup into his hands. 

“It’s not Dunkin, but it’ll do,” he sighs after a few sips. 

“Be thankful it’s not cafeteria dishwater.”

“Small mercies.” John’s eyes flick to a spot behind her and he smirks around his straw. “Well. Hope you have a good shift.”

Lyra doesn’t get a chance to reply to the weirdly ominous comment. John strolls off without another word, waving over Nazely and disappearing into one of the Central rooms. 

She startles when someone touches her arm, instinctively taking a step back and bumping into a solid wall of warmth. Two hands settle on Lyra’s hips to steady her, but disappear as quickly as they came. 

“Easy there.”

The low, familiar rasp almost sends her into a panicked spiral and she whips around, coming face to face with Abbot, who seems both taken aback and amused by her reaction.

“You good?” he asks, head tilted in that unnervingly attentive way of his. 

“No,” she says, frowning at him. “You almost gave me a damn heart attack.” 

Abbot chuckles. “No better place to have it, I’d say.”

“Oh, very funny.” 

“Hilarious, actually.” 

That gets a laugh out of her, surprised and bubbly, and much closer to a giggle than she would have liked. Lyra fights the urge to clap a palm over her mouth, but Abbot seems pleased by her mirth, crow’s feet deepening around his eyes. 

And there’s the second problem: they get along. Even worse, they get along well. 

Perhaps she should consider that a blessing. Being a doctor in the ED is hard enough without terrible superiors breathing down one's neck for twelve hours a day. Still, mutual dislike would definitely be much easier to distance herself from, emotionally and physically.

Lyra plucks one of the remaining cups from the drink carrier, offering it to him. “For you. Black, one packet of sugar.”

Okay, yes, she has his coffee order memorized. Sue her for being observant.

Their fingers brush for half a second, the faint touch lingering like a burn. She averts her eyes when he tips back his head to take a slow sip to minimize the risk of losing her metaphorical marbles entirely. 

“Thoughtful of you, Droplet.”

The silly nickname brings a fresh flush to Lyra’s cheeks. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not unless you finally start using that umbrella you claim to have,” Abbot deadpans. “I’ve yet to see you come in on a rainy day without looking like you’ve taken a quick dip in the Allegheny.”

Before she can say or do something about his relentless teasing, Lena speaks up from the other side of the counter.

“Guys, as much as I enjoy witnessing… whatever this is, we have a suspected overdose coming in. ETA six minutes.”

Abbot sighs, taking another generous sip before setting his cup down. “I knew this night would come out swinging. You ready?”

Lyra nods and stretches over the desk to shove the drink carrier into Lena’s hands with a little more force than strictly necessary.

She pointedly ignores the nurse’s quiet chortle as she snatches two pairs of gloves from a nearby dispenser and trails after Abbot towards the ambulance bay. 

Their overdose patient arrives only moments after they step outside, two EMTs rushing to unload the unconscious young man from the back, another keeping her hands on the ambu bag over his face.

Both doctors immediately flank each side of the gurney to help push it up the ramp and through the doors.

“What have we got, people?” Abbot asks as they walk, voice steady and his stride composed. 

“Twenty year old Oliver Benson. Was found by a friend on the floor in his college dorm shower, along with a few empty unlabeled pill bottles,” the EMTs with the ambu bag discloses. “Minor head trauma from his fall. Suspected overdose, pinpoint pupils and bradycardic at forty-seven. We administered four milligrams of naloxone at the scene and again en route, no response each time.”

They pass the hub and steer towards Trauma 2, where Lena and John are already waiting with a second nurse. They transfer Oliver to the patient bed and the EMTs move out of the way to make space for the doctors and nurses.

“Naloxone doses often have to be repeated up to three times,” Lyra muses, leaning over to check Oliver’s pupils again and to rub her knuckles over his sternum. “Pupils still at pinpoint, no response to pain. That’s a three on the GCS scale. FAST?”

“Fine for now. Negative on pericardial effusion and hemorrhaging in the belly,” Abbot continues from his side, eyes fixed on the monitors. “Lungs look good too. But his heart rate is at forty-seven, BP at eighty over fifty-five and dropping steadily. I’m thinking we should-”

“-push one more dose of Narcan, four milligrams. We’ll have to intubate if he doesn’t respond to it and if his BP keeps dropping though. I want him stable enough to get a CT and a comprehensive toxicology screen.”

John waits at the foot of the bed, looking between the two doctors with mild exasperation. “Why am I here, exactly? You two and your weird telepathy thing are clearly enough to handle this.”

Abbot’s pager chimes in and the senior attending takes a step back to peel off his gloves. “You’re taking over. It’s about to get hectic and I want to get ahead of the bedlam while we still can.”

The annoyance on his face melts away when he turns to Lyra, warm approval taking its place. “No notes, Droplet. Good job. Find me if something changes.”

She can’t help but bloom under his casual praise, smiling faintly as he leaves the room. When she shifts her attention back to Oliver, she briefly catches John’s and Lena’s expressions, both of them looking a little too pleased with themselves.

“Not a word,” she warns quietly, snatching the nasal spray from the tray that Lena holds out to her and renewing her focus with the determination of a woman that has had enough teasing for one day.

This is the third problem. The flow. 

Working with Abbot shouldn’t feel as natural as it does. In her experience, attendings can be a little peculiar with how they approach and practice their medicine. Back in Burlington she always had to make sure to not step on anyone’s toes. 

Avoid friction; speak only when spoken to; make sure to adapt to whoever is in charge.

Abbot isn’t like that. He values his team’s input and isn’t above exploring new avenues, wholly focused on whatever is best for the patient.

Which is why she feels so comfortable in the strange, intrinsic rhythm they’d established during her first week - but it’s also something their coworkers like to point out frequently enough for it to be embarrassing.

She’s learned to live with the ribbing. 

For the most part.

After stabilizing Oliver and leaving him in the care of the nurses for a while, the rest of the shift continues in the same consistently chaotic manner. Lyra moves on to other patients, going from North to South more times than she can count, feet aching by hour five. 

A teen with food poisoning. Three separate car crashes. Multiple people with a nasty strain of influenza. A man with an impaled shoulder (by an icicle of all things). 

Abbot accompanies her on some of the cases, but his responsibilities always demand his attention elsewhere. She almost prefers it that way, despite their effortless work dynamic. 

At some point, when her defenses are crumbling from the constant ebb and fall of adrenaline, thinking becomes harder with him in the same room. Especially because he tends to hover in that infuriatingly calm demeanor, leaning over her with his hands clasped behind his back. 

By the time seven am rolls around, she can practically hear colours and taste sounds, packing her belongings while yawning intermittently. 

“We’re still on for today, right?” Parker asks from her locker, one earbud already in and chewing around a bite of a turkey stick. 

Lyra gives her a tired thumbs up. "Swear I haven’t forgotten; The Warren, eight pm. I just need to sleep off this shift first.”

With a final wave goodbye, the young woman makes for the exit, high-fiving Dana and Princess as they pass - and completely unaware of the curious hazel eyes following every weary step until she’s swallowed by the pale gold morning light.

Pittsburgh has been entirely consumed by crystalline white when she gets out of bed in the afternoon. 

Lyra sleepily observes the snowfall, wiggling her toes in her thick socks and warming her hands around a steaming cup of sweet raspberry tea. North snoozes on his fluffy hammock by the windowsill, occasionally purring and kneading his paws like he’s late for work at the kitty bakery.

Lyra can’t remember the last time she’s had two days off in a row. Truthfully, she barely knows what to do with herself, still reeling from the past week and trying to decide whether or not she’s actually enjoying the unfamiliar peace. 

Her phone rings and she flinches at the sudden noise, scrambling to fish it out of the pocket of her well-worn bathrobe. 

One glance at the screen and Lyra’s heart drops, a vicious chill crawling down her spine, cold enough to rival the winter wonderland outside. 

A faint tremble grips her hand when she raises the phone to her ear. 

“Mom.” 

“Finally. Dear, I’ve been trying to call you all morning, what in the world have you been doing?”

“...Sleeping,” Lyra bites out, hating the way her patience is already teetering on an edge that is growing thinner by the minute. “You know I work the night shift.”

“Oh.”

Yes. Oh.

Nothing but a single syllable, no apology, no acknowledgement of how many things her mother forgets or outright avoids. It’s a never-ending story she’d rather rewrite or recontextualize, but there have been very few points in her life during which she had felt like the all-knowing author instead of the helpless observer. 

“What do you want?”

“...I just - Your sister misses you.”

Her heart lurches painfully at the mention of Willow. She’s never been this far away, has never gone more than a day without talking to her before moving out here. But the distance is necessary and long overdue at this point - for all of them.

“I’ll call her tomorrow. I have to get going soon.” Lyra hesitates, then presses on. “You should spend more time together right now. Take her shopping for college supplies or something.”

A pause at the other end of the phone. “Yes, perhaps. I’ll ask her later.”

No, you won’t, Lyra thinks resignedly and closes her eyes to stall the emotions threatening to claw their way up her throat.

“Right. Well. Talk to you later.”

She hangs up before her voice can get too choked up, tossing the phone onto the couch and staring at it in the deafening silence that follows.

Guilt and frustration churn in the yawning pit of her stomach, overpowering the fragile hope that had settled there in the past few months. 

Suddenly, the walls of her apartment feel too narrow and too wide at the same time. Fingers flying up to the pendant around her neck, Lyra steadies her breathing. 

Slow. In and out. Count. 

Five things you can see. 

Four things you can feel. 

Three things you can hear. 

Two things you can smell. 

One thing you can taste.

Don’t look back.

There is an indent in her thumb when she’s finally able to drop her shoulders. North is watching her from his hammock, blinking slowly. Lyra furiously wipes at her burning eyes, managing a wobbly smile. 

“Yeah. I know. Love you too, boy.”

She stumbles out of the room, feet unsteady in a way they haven’t been in a long time. It’s not fair that she has to remember today of all days and the injustice eats at her, mean and persistent and aggravating. Today is supposed to be about having fun - and she’s not letting this get to her. Not again. She’s just not.

Lyra readies herself for her night out with a fury. 

Smokey eyeshadow. Bold lip gloss. Faint touches of glitter on her cheekbones and lashes. A snug maroon turtleneck dress. Tights with a pretty floral pattern. A pair of boots with golden accents that she hasn’t worn before.

After putting on her favorite earrings, Lyra observes herself in the mirror, hands smoothing over the pleats of her dress. 

“There you are,” she breathes. “I recognize you.”

Not a sad little girl with a grief so loud that she can’t hear herself think. Not an anxious teenager with a mountain of responsibilities that shouldn’t be hers to carry. 

Just a woman in need of a goddamn drink.

“Holy smokeshow.” Parker lets out a low whistle, eyeing Lyra from her spot in the leather booth. “You clean up well, my friend.”

Multiple voices chime in in tipsy agreement and the young woman sheepishly waves them off as she slips into the empty seat next to Mateo, who lifts his beer bottle in greeting. 

“Enough already. You can’t shower me with compliments when I’m still sober.”

From across the table, Astrid Erikkson gives her an easy grin as she leans into John’s side. “Just enjoy the attention, honey. It’s good practice for them. The nightcrawlers don’t get out much.”

Lyra tilts her head. “Is that why you switched to days?”

Astrid shrugs. “I switched because I have six siblings that need constant supervision, or else I would come home to utter chaos.” Reaching up, she gives John’s hair a little tug. “And because I couldn’t possibly date this guy if I see him twelve hours a day. Gotta keep the balance, y’know?” 

John’s expression goes a little slack and Lyra hides her snicker in the palm of one hand.

She’s always liked Astrid, even though they only ever see each other during handoffs. It’s an open secret that her and John have recently become an item - and the entire ED is already placing bets on how long it’ll take the man to propose. 

Parker makes a face. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.” 

Crus pushes himself out of his seat, looking expectantly around the table. “Aight, I’m getting more drinks. What do y’all want?”

As the group rattles off their orders, Lyra takes the opportunity to look around the bar. The Warren is a moody little spot, the dark wood panelling and fun art on every free wall space strangely cohesive.

Lived-in.

Every seat at the bar is taken, animated chatter and the sound of clinking glasses mixing with the music coming from the overhead speakers. 

Yeah, she loves this place.

A few minutes later, Crus sets a chilled glass down in front of her, the baby pink liquid inside sloshing invitingly. An equally colorful paper umbrella and a juicy orange slice on the rim complete the picture of a perfect cocktail.

“A Cosmo? Really?” 

Lyra sticks her tongue out at John. “Leave me and my effeminate drink choices alone.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Carrie Bradshaw.”

Astrid digs her elbow into John’s ribs and gives him a reprimanding look. “Don’t be mean now. I want her to actually come out with us again.”

“Oh, she will.” Parker bares her teeth around her glass. “Especially now that we have a new bargaining chip.”

Lyra’s brows knit into a confused frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What, you’re actually telling me you didn’t notice him the moment you walked in?”

Oh no.

“Notice who?”

Astrid reaches over, gripping Lyra’s chin and angling her head towards the direction of the bar. 

It takes her mere seconds to spot him, sitting at the far end and facing their booth. 

Salt-and-pepper curls. Silver stubble. A white shirt that clings to bulky biceps and shoulders in a way that should not be accessible to the general public. A lowball glass dangling from his fingers as he swirls it lazily. 

Jack Abbot.

God dammit. 

Lyra flings back around to hiss at her friends. “Why is he here?”

“We don’t know,” Mateo says, his tone a touch too gleeful. “He came in fifteen minutes after we did. In all the years I’ve worked with him, Abbot’s never been in here. I think he usually frequents a different bar.”

“He probably needs more time to ogle,” Parker adds derisively. “Twelve hours can’t possibly be enough when it comes to his favorite new resident.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lyra shakes her head. “He must have overheard us talking about this place and wanted to check it out himself.”

A collective groan passes around the table and Mateo pats her arm with a placating smile. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Thankfully, the teasing eases to an acceptable baseline after that and her friends move on to different topics.

She’s trying her damndest to join in, to let herself get distracted from the way the room’s center of gravity seems to have shifted. 

Lyra chances another look at the bar, almost knocking over her second Cosmo when her gaze connects with Abbot’s. His mouth twitches, then he returns his attention to the TV screen on the wall and the baseball game running on it. 

The young resident stares down at her nails, wondering if walking into traffic right now would put a damper on the mood. 

Astrid drops into one of the empty chairs next to the table, making her flinch. “What was that?”

“Nothing?” Lyra offers meekly, knowing full well that she isn’t making a very convincing case for herself.

“Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad.” The other doctor waggles her brows and lowers her voice. “I get it though. Abbot is kind of intense - and annoyingly charming. I suppose it also helps that he’s got the whole silver fox thing going for himself.”

Lyra hesitates for a brief moment, then quite literally deflates against the booth, clutching her drink like a lifeline. “It’s so stupid. Every time he enters a room I feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears.” 

Astrid’s expression swims between sympathetic and deeply entertained. “Sounds painful.”

“It is,” Lyra says emphatically. “Have you seen his arms? It should be illegal for a man to look like that and to also be disgustingly competent to boot.”

“Think he knows you feel that strongly about him?”

The young resident blanches. “God, I hope not. He’s my boss - the fact that I’m even thinking about these things is problematic.”

Astrid makes a dismissive sound. “It’s not unheard of, you know. Especially between doctors. High stakes environments make a perfect breeding ground for… illicit attractions.”

Lyra downs the rest of her Cosmo, glancing over to Abbot again. He’s still nursing his own beverage, blissfully unaware of how distracting he is.

Her head swims slightly, the pleasant buzz from the alcohol quickly dismantling reason and common sense. 

“I’m getting another drink,” she declares, getting to her feet and walking towards the bar before Astrid can say something to stall the sudden, alcohol-induced recklessness.

She could squeeze between the obnoxious group of college kids crowding the center to place her order. And she probably should. 

Her legs and the floaty sensation at the back of her skull decide differently. They decide that right next to Jack Abbot is far better.

Lyra can see him pause mid-swallow in her periphery when she leans onto the wooden surface to wave at the bartender. 

“I’ll have another Cosmo.”

“You can put that on my tab,” Abbot smoothly cuts in. “And I’ll have another Macallan. Neat.” 

Lyra turns to find him already looking at her, quirking a single brow. 

“...What?”

She grins. “Fancy seeing you here. Even fancier that you’re paying for my drink.”

The attending observes her for a moment, then laughs under his breath. “Fancy? Droplet, are you drunk already?”

“I’m tipsy,” she asserts. “There’s a difference. This is my third Cosmo.”

“... Jesus, you’re a lightweight.”

“Hey. I take offense to that.” Lyra points a finger at him. “Also, you don’t get to tease me when I’m off shift.”

“...But I get to when we’re on shift?” Abbot gives her a faint smirk. “Good to know.”

Lyra sputters, infinitely grateful when the bartender sets their drinks down. Taking a long sip, she decides that not answering at all is probably in her best interest. Thankfully, Abbot lets it go and gestures at the pink concoction in front of her.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to drink Cosmopolitans.” 

“I contain multitudes, Doctor Abbot,” she says primly.

The attending chuckles. “Yeah. Startin’ to see that.”

After taking a swig of whiskey, he pauses, the press of his lips thoughtful. 

“Jack is fine, by the way.”

Lyra stares at him, wide-eyed. “Come again?” 

“My name?” he clarifies wryly. 

“I know that’s your name.”

“Good. So use it. Maybe not in front of patients, but no one from the night shift calls me ‘Doctor Abbot’ in private. Except maybe the interns. I feel like a goddamn despot every time you do.”

Condensation clings to Lyra’s fingertips as she fidgets with her glass, a beat of silence passing between them before she finally musters up the courage to speak again. “Alright. Jack.”

The shape and taste of his name lingers on her tongue, oddly visceral and yet - right. Something severe passes over his face, gone as quickly as it came, and she wonders whether it had been there in the first place.

Just another thing to add to the ‘Jack Abbot’ folder, marked with bold and bright letters and tucked into a carefully sectioned corner in her mind.

Angling his body on the chair, he shifts the heel of his right boot against the scuffed, sticky floor and the dark-washed denim of his jeans rides up, carbon fiber and aluminum glinting in the dim light. 

Jack glances down when she does, scoffing a little.

“Gruesome, huh?” He’s smiling again, but there’s a self-deprecating edge to it this time. 

“...Actually, I think it’s kind of badass."

Her answer seems to catch him off guard. Jack stares Lyra down, as if trying to gauge whether she’s being serious or not. For once, she doesn’t squirm under the weight of it, feeling strangely bereft when he finally looks away to down the rest of his drink. 

Clearing his throat, the older doctor pushes off the chair to fish out his wallet, sliding a fifty dollar bill under his now empty glass. Tendrils of mild panic stir in Lyra’s gut as she watches him pull on the thick jacket he’d tossed over the back. 

God, she shouldn’t have said anything, he’s probably weirded out  - 

Jack’s heavy palm lands on her shoulder, cutting through her derailing thoughts, fingers squeezing once as he leans in just a fraction. 

“Have a good night, Droplet.”

He walks away before she can get a single syllable out, still clutching her Cosmopolitan. Lyra watches him go, trying not to feel disappointed when he doesn’t look back even once, disappearing into the dark like some sort of figment of her overactive imagination.

Suddenly, she’s stone cold sober. Her friends are still at the booth, laughing and chatting away, and the prospect of joining them appears daunting in light of what had just transpired: 

Somehow, she’d managed to repulse the most attractive and even-tempered man in all of Pittsbugh. To the point where he had to literally escape her company.

Lyra drops her head into her hands, letting out a quiet groan. 

Way to go, foolish girl.

a/n²: We have a nickname! 💧 Also, prepare for constant misunderstandings and emotional whiplash. These two may be intelligent, but they rolled very low on wisdom 🧙 (get it?)

The lovely Astrid Erikkson belongs to the friend who got me into The Pitt (and has witnessed my descent into madness over Shawn Hatosy firsthand). She loves Jack, but she's also a big Shen-enjoyer. Here's to you, babes 💖

I think I'll take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three You're too sweet for me You're too sweet for me - Too Sweet by Hozier

Jack stares at the screen above the hub like it has personally offended him.

And in a way, it kind of has - because he’s not even supposed to be fucking in today. 

It’s his day off and he’d made plans. 

Give his sore leg an actual break. Order a ridiculous amount of takeout. Binge a few extremely boring documentaries about sharks or something. 

At 3PM the persistent beeping from his pager had woken him from a very pleasant afternoon nap in front of the TV. Robby had called only minutes later, apologetic, but insistent that they needed all hands on deck.

A mass casualty close to Lawrenceville, involving a drunk driver who’d swerved her car into a crowded shopping street. She had died on impact when she t-boned a food truck, leaving behind a trail of utter destruction.

The aftermath is this: five lost; eight with injuries bad enough to warrant a few hours of observation; and about eleven more critically injured and barely stabilized.

Many of the latter should have been in surgery hours ago, but Walsh had told them after the third wave of people being rushed in that they’d have to make do for a while.

He hates MCIs. He fucking hates that phrase. Make do. He doesn’t want to make do, he wants to send people home to their loved ones. Preferably alive. 

Jack takes a slow slip from his nondescript cafeteria cup, shivering in disgust at the lingering taste of cold coffee as Dana and Lena chatter away at their desks. 

Too busy thinking of plausible strategies for the next few hours, he only half listens to the conversation, catching bits and pieces here and there.

"Ya got any of that, cowboy?"

Jack hums distractedly, barely registering the words. A few beats of silence - then a balled up piece of paper hits him squarely in the forehead, pulling him back to the present.

He frowns over at Dana. "…Really?"

"That’s what you get for pissin’ me off this close to the end of my shift," she retorts with a roll of her eyes. "You need to lock in, Robby and I will be outta here in a few minutes and we still haven’t cleaned up this mess."

"I’m well aware, trust me." Jack downs the rest of his drink, chucking the empty cup into a trash bin. "Any ideas, Lena?"

The night shift charge nurse keeps her focus on the tablet in her hands. "Pray and hope for the best?"

"Not the answer I wanted to hear."

Lena shrugs. "It's the best you’re gonna get at this point. We need the entire team here to come up with a plan or this night is going to go downhill fast.”

“You mean more than it already has?” Jack braces one arm on the tall desk to lean forward and cast a glance around the mostly empty hub. “Speaking of the team, where the fuck are they?”

“Doing damage control,” a familiar voice cuts in. They all turn to look at Robby, who seems to have aged about a decade in the past few hours as he walks up from the south side rooms.

“Damage control,” the attending repeats, dropping into an empty chair with a tired groan and rubbing at his temples. “Ellis and Henderson are trying to get things moving upstairs and Shen is contacting families. Most of the day-shift is getting ready to finally leave. And I’m this close to committing a murder.”

Dana clicks her tongue. “Gloria?” 

“No comment,” Robby says with a grim shake of his head and swivels the chair around to face his friend. “You good to take over, brother?”

Jack waves him off with a lazy gesture. “Yeah, I got it. Can’t get any worse at this point.” 

“Well, you’re getting backup, so probably not.”

“Backup?” Jack repeats, confused. “What backup?”

“Lena and I were talkin’ about that earlier - which you would know if you hadn’t been busy gapin’ at the board,” Dana explains, eyeing him impatiently over the rim of her glasses. “You’re getting a new resident, since Astrid is switching to day shift. Third year transfer from Vermont. She sent in three separate letters of recommendation - and she specifically requested the night shift for the foreseeable future.” 

Odd. 

More often than not, even PGY-3 and PGY-4 residents have to be strong-armed into taking the night float rotations. They’re one of the most intimidating parts of residency, coming with a whole set of new rules and strategies that are a world apart from how hospitals operate during the day. 

Some break under the unfamiliar pressure, some learn to love and embrace it. 

And despite everything he’s seen and done during his career, despite the blood and sweat and tears he has poured into this job, Jack still counts himself among the latter. 

Before he can ask any more questions, his eyes snag on something - someone -  across the room, just beyond the hub, cutting off his ability to speak with a finality that borders on violence.

The others follow Jack’s fixed gaze and Dana chuckles. “Well. Speak of the devil.”

His brain doesn’t even register the comment, too busy idling in a state of complete and utter stupor.

She’s drenched. 

There are damp spots on her washed-out jeans, leather boots leaving faint tracks as she weaves through the ED chaos unhurriedly, a worn backpack slung over one equally wet shoulder. 

She must have gotten caught in the storm that had been brewing outside for a few days - and yet she doesn’t look put off at all. 

There’s a single small furrow between her brows as she wrings rainwater from her blonde hair, tied into a high ponytail at the back of her head. A few loose strands frame her cheekbones, flushed from the cold. 

Jack can’t tear his eyes away, rooted to his spot by the desk as he frantically takes in every inch of the young woman - as if that could somehow throttle the ridiculous speed of his racing pulse.

With every step that she's coming closer, he can make out more and more minute details that definitely should not matter to him. 

The way her fingers pick at the soft cream fleece of her jacket, nails painted in an endearing shade of lavender. The way her lashes flutter as she glances up into the harsh fluorescent lights. The way her tongue runs along her pink lips to catch the residue wetness that is trickling from her hairline. 

He can’t tell if it has been seconds or hours when she finally reaches them, glancing apprehensively between the two doctors and the two nurses. 

The color of her eyes swims between soft blue and light green - vibrant and oddly familiar, like standing on an ocean shore and watching the rippling waves on a warm summer day.

And when her gaze meets Jack’s, everything screeches to a halt momentarily. 

No beeping machines, no whirring fans, no thoughts, no space in his head aside from-

Dana kicks Jack’s good leg, forcing a low grunt of pain from his throat. 

It does the job of dragging him back to reality, but a disconcerting sensation remains somewhere behind his ribcage that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“Hi,” the young woman says, offering a diminutive smile. “The nice lady at the front let me in - Lupe, I believe? She told me to come here. I’m Lyra Beaumont; I’m supposed to start with the night shift today.” 

There is a barely audible lilt in her voice, something pleasantly crisp and decidedly non-american. 

“Oh, we were just talkin’ about you, buttercup,” Dana coos, motioning for her to join them behind the desk. “Looks like you didn’t check the weather report, you poor thing.”

Lyra’s smile grows bashful, one of her hands coming up to fidget with a delicate, golden pendant around her neck. “To be honest, I completely forgot to take an umbrella. I only arrived in the city yesterday and my new apartment is currently a very confusing labyrinth of boxes.”

The rest of the team introduce themselves to her one by one and when it’s Jack’s turn, he offers her a handshake and is more than a little relieved to see that his fingers remain steady.

“Jack Abbot,” he says, expression schooled into one of friendly nonchalance. “I’m the senior attending in charge of the night shift. Good to have you with us.”

“Happy to be here,” she retorts softly, moving a bit closer to take his hand. 

Their palms connect first and his fingers close around hers second. Warmth meeting cold, callouses chafing against soft skin.

Jack follows the urgent need to reclaim a bit of distance after, taking half a step back. Robby shoots him a discerning look, but thankfully keeps his mouth shut.

“Let me show ya where you can put your stuff and get a pair of scrubs, I gotta head out anyway. Lena can give you your badge once you’re settled.” 

Dana pats Jack’s arm as she moves past him, gently dragging Lyra along and striking up a quiet conversation. The two women soon disappear around the corner, leaving their coworkers in a weighty, damn near judgemental silence.

Robby is the first to crack, barely contained laughter shaking his shoulders. “What the hell, man?”

Jack stares him down, arms crossing over his chest defensively. “Got no idea what you mean, brother.”

“Right,” Lena deadpans. “You still have a bit of drool on your mouth, by the way. Might wanna clean that up before she comes back. And keep the intense eye contact to a minimum while she shadows you for the rest of the week.”

God.

Sweat sticks to the hand he threads through his curls, head tipping back defeatedly with the agitated motion. Robby muffles a snort in the collar of his jacket. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

As always, Jack’s instinct doesn’t fail him. Not that it ever has, but maybe he would have liked to be wrong this time.

When she returns, Lyra is wearing a pair of fresh scrubs and her stethoscope over what looks to be a ribbed turtleneck.

But that is not what solidifies the sobering conclusion that he’s completely done for. It’s the anticipatory, eager glint in her eyes as she adjusts the form-fitting sleeves and takes her badge from Lena.

“I hear I’m supposed to keep close to you for a while,” she remarks, clipping the plastic rectangle to the pocket at her waist before tilting her head at him. 

It’s entirely innocent - sincere even - and yet the worst and best thing to happen to him in a long time. 

You’re on the threshold of your fifties, for fucks sake. Get it together.

“Just for this week,” he clarifies, glaring briefly at Robby who is still lounging in his damned chair, watching them like a hawk and apparently having the time of his life with his friend’s budding predicament. 

“You’re a third year, yeah?” Jack asks, returning his attention to Lyra, who seems oblivious to the wordless exchange between the two men. “I promise I won’t overdo it with the hand-holding. We’re just makin’ sure your transition is a smooth ride and not a clusterfuck that has you running for the hills.” 

He tips his chin towards the central patient rooms. “Let’s start with rounds. Most of the nightcrawlers are busy mopping up the daylight chaos, so they’ll join us later.”

“Nightcrawlers?” 

Jack chuckles. “We like to separate ourselves from the common folk around here.” 

He ignores Robby’s affronted scoff and steps out of the hub with Lyra trailing close behind, keeping pace with the resident as they make their way through the busy ED. 

Silence unfolds between them and Jack wants to fill it with something, anything.

There are so many questions he would like to ask, but curiosity has famously killed many cats. And he doesn’t plan on ending up dead anytime soon, even if his pulse is currently far too close to becoming tachy. 

They take their time with rounds, making the most of the early (and very much deceptive) lull that always sets in right after the chaos of shift change. Jack gets her acquainted with every conscious patient, leading the interactions, but allowing Lyra to perform the actual checkups.

She’s attentive in her examinations, noting down changes in condition with a perceptiveness he generally expects from fellow attendings.

But there’s no clinical edge to the way she moves and speaks - Lyra carries herself with a disarming sweetness that instantaneously breaks the ice with patients. Especially with those that seem to have lost faith in the system and every single professional involved in it.

An attitude that is going to be good for the team as well.

Ellis, Henderson and even Shen are a little too used to walking with the shadows that stretch the ED corridors at night, always performing like well oiled machines and occasionally forgetting that they are human themselves. They care - but they care through austerity. 

Jack knows his own track record isn’t fully clean in this regard either. His reliance on humor and cynicism is a thin bandaid on a fatal gunshot wound and despite him trying his damndest, he knows that he can never change that about himself.

When they finally return to the hub to greet the rest of the night shift, he’s lost count at how many points he had to keep himself from staring at the young woman.

He feels like a damn creep and it’s messing with his head, especially after how this shift had started. 

Like a livewire hooked to his nervous system, slowly burning away at the frayed remnants of his patience. 

Jack lets the others flock around their new coworker before giving the usual speech, staunchly avoiding any and all eye contact. The small crowd disperses right after and Lyra bounces over to him, radiant, and god, he’s so fucked-

“That was exciting,” she laughs. “Very rallying. I can’t believe you do that every night.”

“Yeah, well. Keeps the morale up,” Jack grunts, leaning back against the counter and stretching the aching length of his bad leg.

It comes out much more curt than intended and he immediately hates himself for the way her cheerful expression falters a fraction at his tone.

She falls silent and he’s already scrambling for a way to salvage the situation when -

-her stomach grumbles. Loudly.

A faint flush creeps onto Lyra’s cheeks and she draws her shoulders up in a preemptive show of defensiveness.

Christ, she’s cute.

“Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to eat yet. Y’know, because of the move I only had time to feed my cat this morning -”

His disapproving frown cuts her nervous rambling short. “Please don’t tell me you haven’t eaten all day.”

“...I had a cup of coffee,” she reveals lamely. 

“Coffee isn’t food.” 

“Well, technically-”

“Stop, I don’t even want to hear it.” Jack drags a palm along his jawline and sighs. “Come on.”

The attending leads her to the northern side of the ED, past the nurses station and pushes into the break room. Thankfully, it’s empty. No witnesses, no evidence. 

Jack clears his throat and steps up to the cabinet closest to the fridge. “You allergic to anything?” 

“Uh, no.”

He hums and pries open the door, shoving a bag of Shen’s favorite pretzels to the left.

After a bit of searching, he finds what he’s looking for at the very back: a tupperware box, stuffed with an assortment of protein bars. He tosses Lyra a handful, making sure to select the ones with the densest calorie counts. 

Jack leaves the box on the counter and folds his arms across his chest as he watches the young woman stare mutely at the colorful packaging, almost as if the concept of chocolate and whole grains is entirely foreign to her. 

“I’ve got a meeting in ten. When I come back, I expect those- ” he points at the bars. “- to be gone. I can’t have you keeling over on your first shift, alright?”

She looks up to nod at him with wide eyes and Jack forces the primal delight at her reaction into the farthest, darkest reaches of his mind. 

“Good. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He’s almost at the door when her soft voice briefly slows him in his tracks. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” 

Sweet. Almost timid. 

Every cell in his body is screaming at him to stop right there, to take her gratitude and go, but he can’t help it.

Jack’s never been good at leaving well enough alone.

He lazily rocks back on his feet and gives her a sly wink over his shoulder.

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

Then he strolls out of the room, fighting a smile all the way to the elevator.

Now you got that funny feeling Will you make it out alive? It might take another minute, but it's alright

- Blue Hour by Anna Graves

Time feels hazy when sleep finally decides to release its hold on her.

Lyra blinks sluggishly into the dim light filtering in through the windows, gray sky and billowing clouds barely visible through the dirt-speckled glass.

It takes a few seconds for her to realize that she’s not in her childhood bedroom looking out on an endless sea of trees, that she can’t hear her sister bustling around the house, can’t make out the faint sounds of her mother making breakfast in the kitchen.

Instead, there’s the unmistakable rush of the afternoon traffic outside. Cars honking impatiently, bikes ringing, tires rolling over damp pavement.

For a brief moment, her heart aches and lurches at the unfamiliarity - then the pain recedes, the traitorous organ continuing its rhythm as though the feeling had never been there in the first place.

Pittsburgh, she reminds herself. New apartment. New city. New state.

At the foot of the bed, North starts to purr, fluffy tail swishing back and forth lazily on the crumpled blankets.

Lyra sits, reaching over to run a hand through his thick fur, laughing a little when he opens one green eye to peek up at her with something akin to disdain.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” she says, apologetic. “Trust me, I’d love to stay in bed with you, but I have to get going soon. Big day.”

The cat purrs louder and rolls onto his side, pointedly ignoring Lyra’s explanation and kneading his paws into her calves.

“Fair. Still, I think we both need to eat. And if you want to keep getting churus, I’ll have to go and save some lives.”

At the mention of treats, North swiftly abandons his plans of cuddling forever and leaps off the mattress with an excited chirp.

He rounds a few of the cardboard boxes scattered throughout the room, meows increasing in volume with his growing impatience.

“You’re spoiled, you know that? And it’s entirely my fault.” Lyra collects her phone from the nightstand, carefully avoiding the spots where white paint is flaking off the wood. She checks the time, relieved to see that she didn’t sleep through her alarm.

Not that she ever had. Lyra despised being late with every fiber of her being - and being late to a new job? The stuff of nightmares.

She shivers when her bare feet touch the floor, weathered boards creaking softly as she follows North into the kitchen, still stripped of everything but the necessities. Namely, a few paper plates, three of her favorite mugs and a new coffee machine - an expensive thing with a million settings she hasn’t quite figured out yet. A reward she had gotten herself for landing the spot at the PTMC.

Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center - also called ‘The Pitt’. A hospital that keeps making headlines in newspapers across the country, for better or (more often than not) for worse. Many of her attendings at UVMMC had advised her to reconsider the transfer.

Being a third year resident is hard enough, they had said. Don’t add to the stress by choosing a hospital doomed to crash and burn.

Lyra scoffs quietly as she pushes the one button she knows will at least provide her with some sort of caffeine. She watches the steady dripdripdrip of dark liquid before opening the fridge to search for her favorite hazelnut coffee creamer.

None of her coworkers could have suspected that a job at a hospital like PTMC is exactly what she’s wanted her whole life.

Practicing medicine against futile odds.

Actually making a difference in healthcare.

And now that she finally could, nothing was going to keep her from that. Especially not the arrogance of people who had chosen the medical field for the size of their paychecks.

North sweeps around her ankles, pulling the young woman from her thoughts with a pitiful meow.

“Starving, huh? Me too, buddy.”

Feeding her cat turns out to be a difficult task with most of her stuff still hidden away in boxes and suitcases. By the time Lyra finally pulls North’s bowl and kibble from the depths of a box labeled ‘kitchen and kitty’ (tucked into a corner of the bedroom of all places), she’s way behind her planned schedule.

Food would have to wait until her first break.

“Should’ve unpacked when I got here,” she mutters, giving the pizza she’d left on the counter yesterday a mournful glance before rushing into the bathroom instead, half empty coffee sloshing precariously against chipped ceramic.

The pipes moan and rattle in the walls when she turns the shower on and Lyra eyes the faucet warily until steam finally starts to fog up the old, garish mirror that had been left by previous occupants.

The hot water is almost uncomfortable on her skin, but she’s too relieved to wash the previous day down the gurgling, rusty drain.

After a grueling ten hour bus ride from Burlington to Pittsburgh she’d been too exhausted to even consider showering and had spent the rest of her fleeting energy cleaning the dusty floors and setting up furniture around the tiny apartment.

Home sweet home.

South Side isn’t exactly a reputable district, but it sure as hell is cheap enough for a third year resident with a crappy salary - especially after having to pay for an interstate moving company and ordering a ridiculous amount of decorations from IKEA and Home Depot.

Apparently, throw pillows and fairy lights have somehow maneuvered themselves into the category of luxury goods in the big 2026.

She’d have to budget for the next few weeks, but it'll be worth it in the end - it has to.

Lyra blinks water and foam from her eyes, staunchly ignoring the sudden tears that follow and the painful, stifling feeling at the back of her throat.

Breathe, she thinks.

Breathe and don’t look back.

a/n²: Lyra is my child and I love her very much.