wcmextrashot

The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

This is not what you had in mind for your Friday night.

Sid had given you four tickets for the game and you couldn’t have been more excited to go with your friends. Brendon was working, so it was a total girls night. You had your favorite penguins jacket on, and even put effort into your hair and makeup. You were sitting in the club seats, enjoying the unlimited food and drinks, taking plenty of selfies with your friends, when he went down. There was a collective gasp amongst the crowd.

You didn’t even flinch at first.

Your brother had played hockey your entire life. You have watched him go down on the ice more times than you could count. If you had a dollar for every time it happened, you would never have to work again.

What made you flinch was when he didn’t get up. And what made you stand up from your seat and go down to the locker room was when they came onto the ice to carry him off.

Your parents weren’t here, your sister wasn’t here, it was just you. So you knew you had to be with him. You told your friends to stay and enjoy the perks, as you collected your things to go.

The entire walk down felt heavy, your anxiety was seeping into your bones, you could feel every step radiate through you, your entire body felt like a weight. When you finally pushed through the door, Sid sat perched on a stretcher with a grimace.

“I’m fine,” he said the second his eyes met yours.

“He is definitely not fine,” the medic standing next to him said, already exhausted with Sid’s stubbornness. “Besides your knee, it looks like a concussion, and you know the protocol for that.”

You would have laughed if you weren’t so concerned.

“He did in fact, not pass the concussion test. We’re gonna take him to Presby,” the medic started, looking down at his iPad.

“That is absolutely not needed,” Sid said.

“Can you take him to PTMC?” You asked, ignoring Sid completely.

The medic looked up at you confused, “Presby is closer.”

Sid laughed, answering before you could, “she knows some people at PTMC.”

You rolled your eyes, “I have some pull there… and since he’s obviously fine, he can handle the longer drive,” you teased.

The medic shook his head, “that’s fine with me Crosby siblings.”

The drive was relatively silent, you sat in the back of the ambulance, far too squished besides the stretcher. Sid’s knee was wrapped in ice and slightly elevated. His eyes were squeezed shut, you would assume from the headache he was lying about.

“You okay?” You asked quietly.

Sid nodded, slowly opening his eyes to look at you. When he did, you could see the disappointment all over his face.

“You didn’t let anyone down, no one is mad at you,” you added, reaching your hand out to squeeze his briefly.

“How’d you know I was thinking that?” He asked.

You shrugged, “guess I’ve known you a while or something.”

He smiled at that.

The ambulance came to a gentle stop before the back doors swung open. You stepped out first, then they pulled Sid out and started wheeling him in.

A blonde nurse approached the second you went through the doors.

“Mr. Crosby, we got a room for you right over there, Santos, trauma 3 and make sure you close the blinds and the door,” she smiled at him before walking away in a hurry.

You checked your phone again, still nothing from Brendon. You had texted him the second you had left the arena, knowing he was somewhere in the depths of PTMC.

You sat in the shitty chair in the corner of the room.

A tall older man walked in almost immediately, “hi Mr. Crosby, I’m Dr. Robby, chief of the emergency deparatment.”

He smiled politely and looked down at the chart. Robby. You knew the name from Brendon, except you really only heard complaints from him when it came to his ED coworkers. You knew his direct surgeon friends, but he tended to be private, so you really didn’t know anyone from beyond the OR.

“We have you in line for a CT scan, and we paged ortho for your knee,” he placed the chart down and looked at you both, “anything I can get you guys?”

Sidney shook his head no, but you immediately spoke, “some water, if he’s allowed,” you glanced at Sid who gave you a glare, “and do you know who’s coming from ortho?”

Robby looked confused, “um no, not yet, but you’re VIP so I’m sure it will be the attending on staff. Do you know someone up there?”

You shook your head, “not important, just wondering.” Attending, good. That’s exactly who you needed.

He gave you a tight lipped smile, although he was definitely still confused, “I’ll have someone bring you some water.”

He turned and left.

“Why can’t you just say it?” Sid asked the second the door closed.

”Because I know he’s private at work and I don’t want to be the one to start that rumor. From what I hear they move pretty fast around here,” you said, gesturing vaguely.

“It’s not really a rumor if it’s true,” he quipped back.

You simply rolled your eyes in response. A few seconds of silence passed when there was a soft knock on the door.

A dark haired man with stunning blue eyes pushed the door open, “Mr. Crosby, your water.”

“Sidney is fine,” Sid said quietly.

The man brought the water over and stood awkwardly by Sid’s side.

“Listen, I’m sorry to do this right now, but um, you’re like my hero,” he said nervously.

You snorted, still finding it funny when people gawked at your brother, because to you he was always just that.

Sid glared at you out of the corner of his eye before sticking his hand out, “thank you,” he paused waiting for a name.

“Frank,” the man said.

“Thanks, Frank,” Sid said casually.

Frank, you looked at his badge, Langdon. Oh. Last time you saw Yolanda she said her situationship in the ER got him in trouble for drugs. It was nice to put faces to the names of all the gossip you received from her.

As Frank nearly drooled over your brother, another knock sounded at the door. All three of you looked at it and he finally walked in.

When Brendon looked up from the chart his eyes widened.

“What are you both doing here?” He asked frantically, coming to meet you. You stood from the chair, trying to give him a smile, but you knew once you saw him the emotions of tonight would overwhelm you, he was your safe space.

“Hi Bren, I tried to text you,” you said as he pulled you into a quick hug.

He pulled away and turned to Sid, “sorry, they said VIP, but they didn’t give me a name or anything or i would have been faster.”

Yolanda stepped in beside Frank, “Langdon get out of here,” she said firmly.

He flinched at her firm tone, but left the room without putting up a fight.

“Are you three done with the family reunion yet?” She asked sarcastically.

You laughed and Brendon put his arm around your shoulders. You leaned into his touch.

“Yola, this is my big brother, Sidney, Sid, this is Yolanda Garcia, the best surgical resident Pittsburgh has to offer,” they shook hands politely.

Sidney turned to Brendon, “what’s the score?”

Brendon laughed, taking his phone out of his pocket and handing the game to Sid.

”Thank god,” he whispered as he took it from him like a child being granted screen time.

Robby piled in the room with the same blonde nurse as before.

“Park. Garcia.” They both nodded at him. His eyes lingered on where Brendon’s arm held you close, but he chose to ignore it. The blonde nurse on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to hide her smirk.

“Have you done an assessment yet?” He asked, looking at Brendon.

Brendon shook his head, “this one is all Garcia,” he flicked his eyes to Garcia, who was snapping gloves on and removing the wrap from Sidney’s knee meticulously.

Robby furrowed his brows, looking at Park for an explanation.

“Can’t treat family,” Park said simply.

The comment only made Robby’s confusion amplify, but the nurse behind him looked borderline evil with her smirk.

“He’s my brother in law,” Brendon said simply.

Robby’s jaw dropped, “you’re married?”

You giggled quietly, fiddling with your wedding band that was hidden behind Brendon’s back.

He nodded, “yes.”

And you knew that was all the information he was going to spare at this time.

“And Sidney Crosby is your brother in law?” Robby asked, dumbfounded.

He nodded again, “yes.”

Sidney laughed lowly at the interaction, but didn’t bother looking up from the game. You said your name followed by Crosby-Park, and stretched your hand out. Robby took it slowly and tentatively, like his brain still hadn’t caught up.

“CT is ready for him and you shouldn’t be looking at screens mister,” the nurse said, “I’m Dana by the way,” she said kindly.

Sid smiled politely at her, in that Canadian way that came so easy to him.

“Garcia, you done?” She asked, getting ready to transport him.

Garcia nodded, “yeah, let’s order an MRI for the knee, X-rays they took at the arena aren’t too helpful.”

Robby mumbled in agreement, “so, I take it this is Garcia’s case and you will be overseeing it?”

Brendon nodded, “correct.”

They all began to file out of the room, Sidney with them, he handed Brendon his phone back as he left.

”Dana, can you get that Frank guy? I think he’d be willing to keep me updated on the game,” he asked kindly.

She laughed, “oh I bet he will.”

“I’ll be right here!” You shouted to your brother.

He threw you a thumbs up in response. Finally, the door closed behind him and it was just you and Brendon. You took a deep breath and faced him. His hands found your waist on instinct. Your entire body relaxed.

”You okay?” He asked, his tough ortho demeanor slipping immediately as you stood in front of him.

You nodded your head, swallowing, “I’ve never seen him go down that hard. At first I thought it was nothing, but when he didn’t get up,” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. He pulled you into a hug, kissing your forehead.

“He’s okay,” he said, bringing his hand up to the back of your head to hold you closely.

You nodded against him, letting the few tears fall that were mostly anxiety related.

After a few moments, he pulled away and you craned your neck up to face him, wanting to stay as close to him as possible.

“So, secrets out,” you said with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes, “you were never a secret, I just don’t like these people.”

You laughed at that, a real smile forming. He brought his hand up to your cheek, wiping the stray tears away. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lips. You held onto his biceps like they were a lifeline. You closed your eyes and let yourself feel his hands on your waist and his lips against yours. Just as your anxiety was slipping away, the door swung open. He tensed immediately.

“AH!,” you both turned around, but his grip on your waist only tightened, “oh-uh-um Dr. Park?”

The young brunette looked utterly confused. Her eyes moved frantically, from your left hand, to his on your waist, to each of your faces.

“What, Santos?” He asked, annoyed. Santos - Yolanda’s situationship, okay got it. You bit back the smirk at the information you were holding.

She began stuttering, “I came to bring the patient to um- CT, but-“

“Dana got him, do any of you communicate? Or do your jobs?” He asked, his ortho surgeon demeanor coming out again, but still holding you.

She looked between you both, now somehow even more confused, “right, um sorry.”

She swiftly closed the door and left you two. He turned back to you, holding your gaze.

But outside the door you heard it, “Whitaker! I just saw Park kissing someone! AND she had a wedding ring on!”

You heard the residents and nurses getting closer to to the room whispering.

“No! I’m not lying, Princess. I saw her! She was way too pretty to be kissing Park!” Santos added.

Brendon sighed, “okay, I guess you’re right, secrets out.”

You laughed as you pulled him towards you into another kiss.

When you pulled apart he smiled at you, “I’m done upstairs for the most part, so I’ll stay with you both and then take you guys home when they let him go,” he moved a stray hair from your face.

You smiled up at him, “you don’t have to do that, Bren. We might be here a while.”

He shrugged, “I want to stay with you, okay?”

You nodded, knowing not to press further.

“Want me to call your parents?” He asked, knowing that wasn’t something you had gotten to yet, because he simply knew all your attention was on Sidney.

“More like call them back,” you pulled your phone out, noting the missed calls from them, “but yeah, that would be helpful. I don’t have the capacity for it right now.”

He took your phone, "I know.” He didn’t mean it maliciously, he just knew you, and he knew your anxiety in a situation like this exhausted you and made you want to shut down. He always tried to take some of those things away, to make everything easier. He separated from you and took the call.

When he hung up the phone he handed it back to you, “they’ll be here in the morning.”

You nodded, knowing that was going to be the result.

“I’m off tomorrow,” he said with a small smile, knowing that would cheer you up, “and it’s a Saturday.” He added, because that meant you were off too, and those were always extra special days.

You smiled up at him, “we can sleep in.”

“Or we can go to the gym,” he countered.

“Or you can stay in bed with your wife and take a day off from bulking,” you said teasingly.

He smiled down at you softly, a smile that was reserved specifically for you, “sleep in it is.”

Your anxiety slipped away as you stood there in his arms. And you let the thought of tomorrow get you through everything tonight.

Tags (all): @ilocuras24 @nyxmoretti @kmc1989 @destinyg237

Tags (Brendon Park): @darknessofhell666-blog-blog

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

A buzz of electricity shot through your spine at the deep, gravelly voice. You turned around on your heels, a sly grin adorning your face, cheeks bumped up to meet his almost smirk and beautiful hazel eyes.

Dr. Jack Abbot. Your grumpy, sassy, hot attending. Your personal mission.

"So you agree that I'm distracting?"

Javadi made a choked noise that sounded almost like chortle while covering her mouth.

He huffed at you, crossing his arms on his chest. You had to keep your eyes from drifting to the muscles on his big arms taut against his broad chest.

"Bribing my students with baked goods? That's distracting."

"You know, its crazy—all I keep hearing is that you find me a.k.a my cooking is distracting, doc."

"Yeah? Well that's medically compromising—you should get your ears checked."

You rolled your eyes, your grin unwavering by his dry quips. "Well, what's medically compromising is your appetite, Abbot. Say, when was the last time you tried any of my distracting goods?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Why? You want me distracted too, nurse?" His voice dropped a decibel, as if the whisper was a secret meant to only rile you up. Your cheeks immediately turned pink, dusting the tips of your ears as well.

Your grin faltered. His almost came into view.

"Very subtle—" Shen coughed up, very unsubtly as your intimate moment with the attending came crashing. Jack took a quick look at your face; pink cheeks and ears and the confidence of the sunshine he managed to falter. A prideful feeling almost bloomed in his chest—only he could affect you like this. Fluster you like this. A small smile was about to make to his face, but was he about to let you win?

"Okay, back to work everyone! Santos, you still have to finish those charts!"

He moved away from your space, the warmth lingering in your heart. But you saw it—he almost gave in.

"Well, sunshine—you almost made it. take the win, will ya?" Dana's voice rang out in the back. but you shook your head, your lower lip getting caught between your teeth, leaning back onto the counter, watching your grumpy attending order around. "Never giving up on this, Dana. Not until he actually smiles, or even laughs."

"God, when will you both stop?"

—

It all started during a particularly, mercifully uneventful night at the pitt.

You, including almost everyone at the pitt, had their eyes glued on the screen with dollars on stake. Will the stupid teenagers who stole their professor's car, with a brake fail, be caught by the unwitting police? Or will they crash? In who's vicinity? Presby or will they have to save lives in the pitt, yet again?

You had put 40$ on presby and he had snorted. "You're optimistic."

"You should try it sometimes—might just make your grumpy face prettier, old man."

Whittaker's eyes widened, Trinity side eyed Perlah and Princess who were looking like they just found gold, Jesse and Donnie stopped incessantly organising the crash cart in case the car did crash in the pitt's vicinity and Dana and Robby smirked at each other.

Amusement etched onto the attending's face and it was a thrill you never stopped chasing. "C'mon, even the grumpy dwarf in snow white smiled, doc—what's stopping you?"

He just shook his head at you, huffing at the comment and walked off. You watched him walk away with his back towards you and accepted the challenge. "One day or the other, I'm gonna make you smile, Abbot—maybe even laugh—you'll see!"

He raised his eyebrows at you and leaned back onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest, making something thunder inside your body. "We'll see about that, nurse. But first, you might want to look at the screen."

The police had caught them.

—

After that day, you brought in your best food and your best lines. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about seeing him smile. I mean, obviously you wanted to see him smile, almost concerned it would make your heart stop, but Jack Abbot started to mean something more.

Seeing him everyday, looking into his soulful eyes, his stupid soft voice while talking to patients and the almost smile he gives you during your shenanigans bloomed a deep, warm, ridiculously fuzzy feeling which had set itself somewhere behind your sternum.

Even if it got a huff out of him, a scoff, a smirk that burned its way through the small space in between you both to between your legs or just raised eyebrows.

So, you never stopped flirting. Never stopped baking. Never stopped chasing his smile. It became your dream. Because you knew it would be breathtaking to see it, feel it and know that you were the cause of it.

So, you were here, with a hop in your step, making your way towards the man.

"And I thought these dull hospital lights could never make anyone look good, but here you are, proving me wrong, Mr. Grouch."

He didn't even look up from the chart he was assessing. "Don't you have patients to check up on?"

"Don't you have some smiling to do?"

He turned to look at you and the warm feeling started to spread through your body, unwarranted. He was about to quip back, his mouth opening slightly when—

"19 year old, GSW to the chest, head trauma, pulse is thready—"

Jack's shoulders and jaw set itself tight, as if bracing for whatever was about to come next. he kept the chart back with a thud, going around you, hand brushing on your lower back. "You're with me. Smiling later." He said, lowly, breath fanning your ear.

"Promise?" Your voice had gone heavy.

You gulped as you both walked towards the gurney, his hand still on your lower back, a small comfort before heading into the storm. He glanced back at you, before getting to the boy after you gave him a nod of readiness.

"Trauma 2 is open!" You heard princess yell.

You took a deep breath before going in, hoping this one will turn around. Everyone is here. Jack is here.

It was going to be okay.

—

Your hands trembled.

Your breath was stoic. It didn't dare to move the air between you or the resident still doing cpr.

Jack glanced at his watch. "Stop."

His voice had lost its sharpness but it still held authority. It honeyed through the trauma room, reaching you. But it didn't warm you up like it usually did. His concerned face was focused at the year 2 resident who was starting to hyperventilate. She still kept going.

He glanced at you. You understood what he needed. You moved forward, your body numb. "Sweetheart, you need to let go. Its okay, its going to be alright—"

"No!" She shrieked. You heard Jack calling her name. "He was younger than me—" She whispered.

Jack stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. "Its okay, doctor. Let go. Look at me—I need you to breathe."

Her hands went slack. The machine beeped mercilessly. "Time of death, 5.57 am."

You circled your arms around her as she fell, weeping into your chest.

"shh, I know. C'mon let's get you out." You whispered, your voice sweet as sugar, your soul numbing as the machine beeped.

Jack looked at you but you avoided his gaze. Your hands were trembling, your vision was blurring and your heart was trying to punch its way through your body. Your brain couldn't take it. But you still took care of the people around you. You squeezed donnie's hand on the way out because you knew his kid was also a teenager. You promised princess a treat because you knew she was not going to eat after this. You took care of the resident in your arms because you knew she wont be able to sleep after this.

His gaze burned on your back as it followed your figure through the overbearing walls of the pitt.

After, you got the resident settled, you were about go off to take a breather when Ellis called your name. "Hey! The kid in trauma 2, do you mind calling his parents and informing them?" Your heart ached and flashbacks of another trauma, another death, another set of parents losing their whole world burned in your mind. But you nodded.

"Hello? am I speaking to Mrs Shah?" You introduced yourself, "I'm speaking from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—"

Immediately the questions started, the panic, the desperation, the devastation. You sighed, your exhaustion and anguish slipping out. You tried to explain the urgency, that they needed to come immediately. Your hands shook as you hung up and closed your eyes.

You tried to busy yourself, checking up on other patients, but your mind still wandered away to the boy. The sorrow of another soul departing, another young life you couldn't save, another injustice was too heavy. The grief set in your bones.

It was a reminder of how this job got harder. These walls sometimes seemed too hollow, too empty, with the losses all of the doctors had faced. This department wrung people out with its cruelty. You were expected to move on with no time to process everything.

That's where Jack came.

Being with him, bantering, flirting, joking—it gave you joy—something that the E.D could never steal. He made working and just being there easier, as if the air got much more breathable around him. You were almost addicted to the giddiness you felt around him. his salt and pepper curls, his teasing voice with you, his dry sarcasm, the way his black tee stretched around the muscles on his back and biceps—

"Excuse me? We were called in urgently? We are looking for our son? Neil Shah?"

The grief crashed down on you. Your eyes turned glassy again and tried to look for any other nurse or even Jack so that you wouldn't be in this position. Not again. Not where you have to inform the parents that their beloved child has passed away. Not where you have to hear the wails of the mother and denial of the father.

You sighed in defeat and led them to an empty room. Slowly, you explained what had happened. How their son had passed away. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs Shah. Truly."

They had started crying, asking you questions, Demanding answers to truths you didn't know. Until one question. "How did he get shot?"

"He—" Your voice broke, but that's when you felt a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Your beacon of comfort. You immediately recognized it. "I'm Doctor Abbot—I performed the surgery on your son. Nurse, could you please assist Dr. Kwan with a consult in south eight?"

Your heart filled with gratitude. He gave you an out. And you took it. You nodded but not before mouthing a thank you to the man in front of you. He squeezed your shoulder before holding the door open for you and your heart squeezed. Why did he have to be so kind?

You took a quick glance towards him before getting out. You felt you could breathe.

That did not long last.

"Can you believe he did that? I mean, if I was in his place, I would never put my life on the line—for a girl i just met? That was so stupid—"

You took a sharp inhale and jerked your head to the voice. "How dare you? Just because you don't even have an ounce of the bravery, the courage and the empathy that he had, doesn't mean you get to call it stupid, you—"

Before you could go up to him and slap him, strong hands grabbed you, wrapping around your torso, with no harshness but just comfort coursing through.

"Ogilvie, if you don't have even 1% basic empathy or haven't heard the phrase 'dont talk ill of the dead' I suggest you drop out of medical school and go back to 3rd grade."

You shoulders visibly relax at the voice and at his fingers which softly caressed your chubby love handles—this man was not helping you keep cool. Heat travelled up your neck when you felt his chest rumble with some instructions he gave to the resident in front of him.

Jack called your name and his hands travelled to your shoulders. "Come on, let's go—"

"What? what about the consult—"

"That was a lie—"

"You dog—"

"Come on, you nuisance. Let's get you a breather."

—

"The roof?"

"You'll see."

The door busted open and strong gust of wind hit you in the face. And there it was.

You gasped and your hands went to Jack's forearm. "Oh my god."

"Oh my god."

"Come on, you wanna see the sunrise?"

"Well, at least ask me for a cup of coffee first, old man. You losing your touch already?" He gave you a deadpan look. "But of course, if you insist."

He took you to the railing. "I've heard you go even beyond the railing..."

Jack gave you a side eye. "Oh come on, you really believe anything really stays in the box at this hole?" He still did not entertain you. "Please, Jack?" You gazed up at him, with your best puppy eyes.

"Alright. But only this time."

He ducked and got across first, holding out his hand for you, fingers gently taking your palm and helping you cross the railing. "Thank you," You softly murmured, the touch growing the warmth in your chest. the sunrise had only taken its footing—the soft blue of the sky was slowly lighting up. "So," You took a deep breath, "why did you bring me to your sacred space?"

"Sacred space? Really?" Jack scoffed.

"Everybody knows its where you and Robby come to make heart eyes at each other—" He grunted and you let out a soft laugh. "Come on, tell me." You whined.

"I saw you." He spoke. "After–after you realized he was gone, after we declared the time of death. your hands were trembling," Your breath hitched. "Your breaths were small, your voice was—" You looked away. His gaze bore deep into your eyes, trying to probe out the vulnerability gently, and his voice was too tender, too warm, almost wrapping you up in their saccharine like blanket. "The point is, you still took care of everyone. Donnie, Princess, the resident—"

"Someone has to. I just choose to. Nobody forces me to, Jack." Your voice gets small.

"And when will you let yourself take care? When will you take a breath?" Your breath hitched. "You're the sunshine of the dark side, sweetheart. We don't want you fading out while you take care of others." He syruped.

You hoped it would stay dark so that he couldn't see the red on your cheeks, the heat crawling up your neck and how you couldn't trust your own voice anymore. But you braved on.

"um, I dont know if you know this, doc, but I shifted to nights for a reason other than one grumpy teddy bear," You let out a giggle when jack let out an annoyed huff, "there was a girl, 19, just like today's kid. She was abducted and tried escaping, but the abductor shot her. She was brought in, I was a part of the surgery and despite everything, despite Robby busting his ass—she–" Your voice broke and you gripped the railing. "She almost escaped it, but...her parents were angry more than heartbroken. Her mother threw things at the father, he yelled back and I tried to calm them down, but h-he pulled me in, threw me in the wall and said I was too incompetent, I couldn’t save his daughter's life."

You inhaled sharply. "He killed himself 2 months later."

"Look at me."

"Jack—"

He pleaded your name. "That was not your fault. It will never get easy, I know that...too well. But you learn to live around it, but I need you to understand that it was not your fault."

You nodded. "How do you live with it?"

"Before returning to Pittsburgh, before my...leg, in Afghanistan—we used to get this street food. It used to be sold at nights and we used to switch routes and trade fucking mattresses and anything just to have a chance to get it. Its called kolcha. It used to be heaven in the hell we were put in.

I used to see my brothers get blown up, losing their lives, civilians losing a sense of humanity after the way everyone treated them. But there are soft joys that help the grief. that helped me live. Stopped me from..." He trailed off, a pensive look forming on his face.

Your hand clasped around his on the railing. He gazed up at you, your eyes already on him, so honeyed, filled with care and admiration, with so much compassion, he didn't know what to do with it.

You both just gaped at each other. Your hearts filled to the brim. Getting lost in time.

Suddenly, a ray of sunlight reflected in Jack's hazel eyes and you broke your contact, a gasp forming on your lips as you tore your eyes away to marvel at the jawdropping sunrise.

The sun was officially peeking up. Its rays bounced off skyscrapers made of glass, lighting up the small alleys of the street. The orange and yellow shades painted the horizon and you almost died right there. "Its so beautiful..."

The sunlight was colouring your skin, your giddiness coming out with the sun.

"Will you take care of yourself, sunny?"

You let out a sweet giggle. "Sunny?"

"The sun clearly loves you." He murmured softly before tucking in a strand of hair fallen haphazardly on your eyes, blocking him from the view.

"Hmm, you're going soft on me, old man. Or are you just manipulating me so that I won't tell anyone that your grumpy attitude is a hoax and you're just a big ol' teddy bear?"

He snorted and let out a soft smile.

Your heart jumped.

"Oh my god!" you gasped and pointed. "Oh my god! You smiled!"

"Come on, sunny. Let's get you inside before you tragically die due to slipping while celebrating something that never happened—"

"Excuse me—" You scoffed but let him lead you onto the safer side of the railing, his hands on your shoulders, sliding down to your hands to steady you as you come over.

"Try convincing Robby that you did it—"

"Oh fuck off, you are just a big, fuzzy, loving teddy bear inside—"

His smile burned through you, in your heart.

And as you predicted, you could never forget it.

—

The next day, there was a new skip to your walk as you entered the pitt. You had spent your day trying to calm down your heart every time you reminisced what happened on the roof. Your skin would jump with goosebumps and your cheeks would immediately redden. So you distracted yourself in the best way.

You walked in with a box in your hand. The aroma of the newly tried recipe made everyone turn their heads. But this time you refrained from giving in to your beloved pittlings' puppy eyes.

Lena and Dana raised their eyebrows. "What's got our sunshine happier than before?"

"Nothing." You squealed softly.

"Mhm." Lena hummed. But mama nurse knew you too well. She knew all of you too well. "You know, you spent an awful lotta time on the roof yesterday. And what's that in the box you're tryin' so hard to keep away?"

"Its for Jack." You murmured. "He mentioned this food he had when he was in Afghanistan—"

"Didn't Dr. Abbot take you up on the roof yesterday?" Joy chimed in.

"What!?" Trinity yelped.

"Excuse me?" Dana took her glasses off and left them on the counter with a thud.

"Are you serious?" Matteo asked you, with her eyes wide open as Princess squealed to Perlah. "i knew it! may utang ka sa akin ng 50 bucks!"

Donnie gave you a pat on the back, like he was proud of you. "W–wait—guys—"

"What's going on here?"

You closed your eyes and sighed in defeat. The voice, the man, the mchottie who had you in trouble. Ellis leaned up on the counter with a dangerously smug look on her face. "Well, we were just talking about sunshine here and yo—"

Your eyes widened and embarrassment crawled up your veins in your neck, swirling anxiety in your brain with all the ways this could go wrong. "Okay! Everybody go back to work, now! Trinity, go home. Ellis, your labs for the 33 year old lady in north five are here and Matteo—"

She peered at Matteo with her glasses slid down till her nose, staring at his phone dreamily, who straightened up, as if he was caught with a scandal. "—do us all a favour, keep the yearning for Dr. Javadi aside and get. back. to. work!"

Everyone scrambled off. You gaped at her with a grateful look in your eyes. "You are amazing."

You turned around to look at the man you've been—shamefully or shamelessly you didn't know—thinking about the whole night and your jaw almost dropped. The sight was marvelous.

Jack abbot in gear.

Camouflage pants and a tight black tee.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He dryly quipped at you.

Before you could reply, a gurney came bursting through the bay. "55 year old man, cardiac arrest—"

You felt his whole body reset and bracing like it always did. "Sunny, you're with me—"

"Sunny?" Shen asked, a knowing, smug look adorned his face as his eyes jumped from him to you. Your whole body flushed. He was going to be your ruin. Jack ignored Shen's absolutely valid inquiry with the excuse of the patient in front of him. But you're frozen.

He still remembered your conversation.

Did he think about it again and again and again like you did?

Your heart did not stop pumping blood but your brain stopped producing logic it seems.

"Sunny? You still with me?" Hus rough yet gentle voice coaxed you out of your thoughts and reminded you of the situation at hand. You cleared your throat and just nodded wordlessly, hoping no one would notice the red on you face.

How will you survive this man?

After sending him off to surgery, Crus looked between the both of you, as if he could sense the electricity between you, the tension, the undying sense of something happened here and just these two are in denial. "That was smooth."

Jack raised one eyebrow at him, amusement etched onto his face. "What was?"

Crus cleared his throat. You stilled. You knew what was coming. Crus did not stop. "You two make a good team."

You shot him a glare that seemed somewhere between 'i will kill you' and 'please don't make my life hell'. He saw it, noted it, considered it.

And threw it in the trash apparently. "Just saying. Everyone saw it inside. Its like you both were in sync. Unstoppable. Inevitable—"

Don't say it.

"—made for each other."

Shen made a choked sound and Ellis pursed her lips, trying to contain her giggle. Beside you, Jack stilled.

"Sunny makes it easier. Made for the night shift." He grunted out.

"Don't make it sound dramatic." He signed on some discharge papers and handed them to Lena. His hand brushed against yours. "Bye, sunny." he murmured softly against your cheek and left you. All by yourself. To process what just happened.

"So, sunny?"

"Shut up, guys."

You turned around and walked towards the supply closet, nothing but an excuse to ditch the conversation that you are about to face.

They followed you like little ducklings.

"What happened to you guys on the roof?" Crus asked.

"Nothing happened—and how do you know?"

Ellis scoffed as if the notion of anything staying a secret in this hospital was absurdly ridiculous. "Come on! tell us—"

"Nothing happened guys and shush!" You glared at them. They peered on you with curiosity as your body shook with embarrassment? Humiliation? Adrenaline? The mere thought of Jack abbot and you on the roof?

Shen slurped on his stupid watered down coffee. "You should go for it."

"I will stab you—"

"No, he's right! At least then your sexual tension in between emergency traumas will not traumatise us."

"Excuse me?"

"Please—even the unconscious patient can sense it!"

You huffed and crossed your arms as if it could save you from this conversation and put on a mask of denial. "That's not even remotely true. besides—I don't like him!"

The three of them stared at you. "Yes, and Shen doesn't live on caffeine." Ellis deadpanned. "You cant deny something we see literally everyday. You banter, flirt, tease and even cook for him! Didn't you make something specially for him today?"

Crus gasped dramatically. "Whaaaat?"

You rolled your eyes. "Its not that big of a deal."

"Yes, it is." The three of them chimed in unison. Your eyes fell on their faces, their relentless questions and sighed in defeat. You scrunched your face, closing your eyes for just a second and then squinting at them. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes—"

"No—"

You pursed your lips and raised your eyebrows at them. "Seriously?"

They gave you wordless looks almost meant to serve with pity, empathy, hope. You don't know. "Listen, you just made this afghan food for him which I know you've never even heard of before. You try to make him smile everyday and there is this embarrassingly obvious sexual tension in between you. Don't think that the ED is half blind to miss the looks you give him."

You sharply inhaled.

"Hey, there's no harm in going for it—he will say yes. If he doesn't, that's his loss. some other person will get your perfectly baked goods." Ellis assured you.

That's when your brain imagined it—wildly. Not in the unsaid, shy and restrained ways it has been doing for the past months. The vivid image of you and the attending you made smile, together, in each other's arms, happy. Holding hands, requited secret glances, soft kisses, stolen touches, his eyes with a gentleness and passion just saved for you and a love that's not a secret—its known, its seen and understood—but its just for both of you.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Your cheeks blushed furiously.

The three of them smirked, knowingly.

"I—" You gulped and stammered on your words. "I need to be somewhere." Your hands shook and your brain didn't comprehend what you needed, nor did your body and it all was about to go crashing when—

"What are you all doing there? Don't you have jobs?"

Jack.

You didn't whether to sigh in relief or wring your hair out in frustration. This man was going to end you. "You know, sunny also has patients to attend to, rather than hearing you guys bicker or gossip about whatever it is."

You felt heat and humiliation hiking up your neck as you notice the smug looks they give each other before wandering off. "Yes boss."

But not before Ellis winked at you, Crus gave you a smug salute, and Shen slurped away loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly, looking back and forth between you and Jack.

Speaking of the man, he just leaned against a counter, gazing at you, with an unpredictable and unreadable look on his face. "Well, since you're done organising that supply closet for the 4th time, some patients are getting starved of your sunshine. Unless, of course, the supply room is in dire need of your attention, sunny."

Sudden confidence flared in your chest. "Well, cap'n grumps, you could just say you are in dire need of attention. No need to shame my perfect supply room."

Your mouth spoke before your brain you could stop it. His mouth twitched, just slightly, his amusement not hiding under a curtain and a glimmer in his pretty eyes which made you weak in the knees. "Get back to work, sunny." He murmured, head shaking and his shoulders lighter than before.

You almost giggled. "Of course, boss."

You walked away. every sense in your body was tingling, goosebumps on your skin and a fire somewhere in the pit of your stomach and a familiar fuzzy feeling growing stronger beneath your chest.

You didn't know if you were going to survive this man. You didn't know if you wanted to.

—

The next hours of the shift were determined to drain the soul out of you.

There were 4 traumas at the same time and a statewide insufficiency of nurses. So that meant you had to jump back and forth. Chairs was filled and actually overflowing while you had a scarcity of beds so all the nurses were charged with scheduling, organising and moving beds according to the level of emergency and pain patients were facing. Plus, you had multiple patients and a family who had declared that dr. google was more knowledgeable than a nurse.

Amazing.

And you hadn't gotten a chance to even eat.

When you finally got a chance to eat in the breakroom, that's when you saw it. The kolcha. Untouched. Because you wanted him to have the first bite. First taste. Just to see that Heartwarming smile again.

You bit your lip and took a peek outside. Everything had slowed down. Just for bit, you were sure, before another trauma, another emergency, another goddamn patient too obnoxious and blind to only believe what google says pulls you in.

This was the time, you decided.

So, you picked up the box, an extra hop to your walk, as you looked for him.

Jack abbot.

Ellis' words rang in your ears and your heartbeat sped up. Should I do it?

Take the chance, the risk?

"Hey, Lena, do you know where Jack is?" You asked softly, almost bashfully, as she narrowed her eyes at you but then flashed you a knowing look before pointing at a room.

The buzz in your heart and brain intensified as you walked towards him. You were so giddy, it hurt. Your soft smile had turn into a beam. The anticipation had turned to you nervous and exhilarated. You wanted to see his smile, the one he'll give after you give him a kolcha. Will it be a soft and dedicated one, reserved just for you? Will it be a joyous and unwithdrawn one, not shying away from showing his beautiful wrinkles?

Everything made your heart soar.

Your feet slowed down as you got there and you heard voices. His and... Dr. Al-hashimi. She was laughing before Jack spoke.

"So, you want get that beer we talked about?"

You heard Jack chuckle. A vibration that rumbled through his lungs in his chest to the ground that you apparently walked on. You felt as if it had just been pulled underneath you. It was lighthearted, casual—directed at someone else.

The ringing of elation in your ears stopped. Replaced with a haunting stillness.

"Yeah, of course. I would love to."

Your breath stopped in your lungs.

It was casual without any audible or visible awkwardness. You glanced inside only to see Jack smiling, a sly and playful grin, lighting up his whole face. Directed towards her. Not you.

Never you.

You wondered if she made it easy for him. Like you probably never did. His whole body was turned towards her, a casual openness to him that was never reciprocated with you. Your chest tightened. Throat strained. Something in your temples felt like it was being pulled.

Jack asking Dr. Al Hashimi out for beers. Your breathing felt shallow. Why wouldn't he? She was brilliant, kind almost dazzling with every step she took. She carried herself with maturity that only comes with facing warzones and fighting injustice. She never had to take constant efforts to make someone smile. He did it instantly for her.

Your hold on the box full of kolchas loosened.

Your legs moved before your brain processed everything. Your eyes looked into the distance, your thoughts melding, twisting your heart, a suffocating hurt settling deep in your bones.

You just kept walking.

"Hey, hon—you okay?" You heard someone say, but your mouth didn't move, your voice had gone numb. So, you just gave tight smile and gave a wordless nod and moved ahead.

Get back to work. You have patients.

Your body moved, on instinct, but without any soul in it.

He didn't owe you anything, you realized. He never reciprocated your efforts, nor did he respond. He just grunted, shook his head, raised his eyebrows, scoffed. It was meaningless. Fruitless. It was just amusement to him. You felt your heart hitting the pit of your stomach. He probably never even considered it. You were his nurse. He was your attending. You tried too hard it was almost entertaining. The sunshine of the night shift. Overbearing. aAways shining. Never needed anything back.

You were nothing like her.

She was everything he could want.

You never even understood where you left the box of kolchas meant for him. It was discarded somewhere like it never included unconditional efforts, hope and love. Like you didn't just stay up the hours you were supposed to put in for sleep to make something you had never made from scratch, just for him. It was not like he ever tried anything you made.

You just walked to a patient, and gave them a smile.

But it felt foreign on your face.

You asked them what was wrong, checked their pulse, gave necessary meds and equipment to the resident in front of you. It felt mechanical. Your eyes were vacant. Too preoccupied with trying to see the things your heart missed. the hope that you harboured over time, the anticipation and giddiness on seeing him, the fuzzy feeling inside your sternum.

Now replaced with a sudden anxiety. A hollowness.

"There she is." You almost jumped, startled by the intrusion of the voice you were now dreading to listen to. "I was looking for you."

Flashes of his soft smile, the wonderful sound of his chuckle, the casual openness—never meant for you—shattered you. You stood there still, unresponsive.

"Sunny?" Jack asked, oh-so-gently, but it just pricked your skin like needles. Even his soft words had become a sign of betrayal. Was he just dragging you along?

A shaky exhale escaped you but your face remained stoic. Your movements were calculated.

"Lena wants you to talk to this patient, he doesn't agree with any of the nurses, says he wants a 'real, qualified doctor'."

"Okay—"

"—and ortho has your results ready for north five, just sign on those." You said in a clipped tone. Tou couldn’t even look at him anymore. You had to get out of there.

But you could still feel him. His furrowed eyebrows, tensed shoulders, concerned eyes—searching for answers, searching for you. All confused. But you didn't have answers. Not anymore.

So, you left, wordlessly, with your broken heart.

Him, with confusion etched onto his features.

Because you realized that while you looked for him in every room before even entering it, he probably never did.

So you should stop too.

Shouldn't you?

oh, what a curse it is to be lover girl

—laufey.

thank you for reading!

because there are already more than 100 people in the taglist, I am closing it. but feel free to comment and show your love!

tagging ppl who commented on inspo post:

“Dana! I am so, so sorry. Didn’t hear my alarm which meant I missed the bus, so I had to walk—” 

The words tumbled out of you in a rush, tripping over each other in their urgency, but Dana didn’t hear a single on of them. Her eyes had already locked onto your face.

More specifically: your eye. 

The skin there bloomed in deep, mottled color. Shades of green and yellow bled into a violent blue that stretched too far across your cheekbone to be anything minor. Her brows drew together slowly, the beginnings of a frown pulling at her mouth.  

“And then, right as I was about to cross the street, that one hotdog cart came out of nowhere and—” 

She moved without thinking. 

Out from behind the desk, around the corner, closing the distance between you in quick, purposeful strides. Her hands were already lifting before she fully stopped, fingers gentle—too gentle—where they settled against your uninjured cheek, guiding your face upward. 

Your voice faltered, excuses dying on your tongue. 

“What happened?” she muttered, thumb brushing just beneath the bruise before pressing lightly, testing. 

“Um, see about that—” 

“L/n, what have I told you about running late—oh.” 

Your gaze flickered past her shoulder, catching on the figure of your attending approaching before she even finished speaking. The shift in your expression was immediate—sheepish, bright in a way that tried too hard to sell innocence. 

“Dr. Robby, I am so sorry. I swear I was going to be early this morning; had the clock set and everything—” 

He didn’t answer right away. 

Instead, he stepped closer, looming just behind Dana as he leaned slightly to the side, angling for a better look. His eyes narrowed almost instantly, the easy patience he usually carried slipping into something sharper. 

“Is it broken?” he asked, voice low. 

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Dana replied, though her finger pressed a little more firmly now, like she didn’t quite believe her own answer. 

Her hands fell away, but Robby’s replaced them just as quickly, larger, steadier, tilting your head with practiced ease. Your skin buzzed faintly beneath his grip, whether from the pressure or something else entirely. 

“What’d you fight, kid?” he murmured, studying the bruise like he could see straight through the skin and down to the bone. “Jeez.” 

A huff slipped from you before you could stop it.  

“Let’s just say that I now know not to use a bathmat that has no grip. The thing sent me flying right into my doorknob.” 

Silence followed. 

Not long, but long enough. 

Dana’s eyes lifted to Robby’s over your shoulder, something unspoken passing between them in a glance that lingered just a second too long. When she looked back at you, it was the same expression she used on patients who insisted they were fine when they very clearly weren’t. Robby’s hands dropped, fingers curling instead around the tubing of his stethoscope. He exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy with something that edged dangerously close to frustration. 

You couldn’t tell which part of it was for you—your chronic lateness, or the fact that you were standing right in front of him with an injury that didn’t make sense, offering an explanation that made even less sense. 

“Get your handoffs and then get to charting,” he said finally. “I don’t want to see your ass out of that chair for at least an hour.” 

He braced for the usual pushback, for the groan, the complaint, the half-joling protest you always threw his way. 

But they never came. 

Instead, you stilled for half a beat, something unreadable draping across your face before it smoothed over. He could have sworn it was relief, just barely subtle but plain as day. 

Your lips curled. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

Robby snorted despite himself as you slipped past him, already scanning the room for wherever you were supposed to be next. The moment you disappeared around the corner thought, the humor drained from his expression entirely. 

He turned back to Dana, hands dragging over his face, fingers catching briefly in his hair before dropping again, restless. 

“What are we going to do with her,” Dana asked, voice lower now and threaded with something heavier than irritation. “This is the third time this month she’s shown up with unexplainable injuries that she just brushes off.” Her gaze moved from him and toward the hallway you’d vanished down. “Her cheekbone should be fractured, Robby.” 

“I know,” he replied, sharper than he meant to. The words came out clipped and tight. He exhaled, slower this time, like he was trying to rein it back in. “She didn’t even wince. Doorknobs don’t do that kind of damage.” 

_______________________

The wheeled chair shifted beneath your weight with a low, protesting creak as you pushed yourself across the narrow space with one foot braced against the floor to guide the movement. You barely avoided clipping the edge of another resident’s chair, offering a quick, absentminded apology that didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for only a second before beginning their familiar rhythm of quick, efficient, and automatic typing. 

At least, they tried to be those things. 

“Damn, Pokey! What happened to you?” 

The sharp hiss of Trinity’s voice cut through your focus, pulling your attention sideways. You turned just enough to look at her, brows lifting in mild acknowledgement rather than surprise. 

“Bathmat made me eat my doorknob last night,” you replied, tone dry like you’d already told the story one too many times. 

Trinity didn’t even hesitate. 

“There’s no way a doorknob did that.” Her hand came up immediately, finger pointing straight at your face like she was presenting evidence in a case she had already won. “Did you get that checked out?” 

Your head bobbed once, gaze drifting back to the screen as if the conversation required no more of your attention than that. 

“Yeah, Dana and Robby caught me earlier.” 

“Late again?” 

You didn’t have to look at her to hear the smirk. 

A small one tugged at your own mouth in response, almost automatic. 

“When am I never late?” you shot back, fingers continuing to move, though a fraction slower now. “My alarm clock hates me.” 

It was easier to make it sound like a joke. 

When the conversation ended there, you softly huffed at the screen. 

Charts weren’t the problem. 

You moved through them quickly—too quickly, sometimes—eyes scanning, hands typing, information slotting into place with a kind of ease that had less to do with practice and more to do with something you didn’t think too hard about. But Robby’s order lingered at the back of your mind, heavy and unavoidable. 

An hour. 

In the chair. 

So, you dragged it out. 

You scrolled when you didn’t need to. You re-read the notes you’d already processed. You hovered your fingers over the keys just a second longer than necessary before pressing down. You did anything to stay still. 

After a few minutes, Trinity pushed her chair back, wheels silently gliding against the tile, muttering something under her breath as she stood. You barely registered it, already clicking into the next chair when something cold hit your lap. 

You flinched. 

“What’s this for?” you asked, blinking down at the ice pack now resting against your thighs, condensation already beginning to bead against your scrubs. 

Trinity looked at you like you’d just asked the dumbest question she’d ever heard. 

“Your eye?” 

“Oh.” 

You picked it up, turning it once in your hand like you hadn’t quite processed its purpose before pressing it against the bruise. The cold bit sharply at first, enough to make you suck in a breath, but the feeling dulled quickly. 

With one hand occupied, your typing slowed to a clumsy tap of your index finger against individual keys, the rhythm now broken and uneven. The cursor blinked at you, patient and waiting. 

The ice pack wasn’t helping much. 

If anything, it was just getting in the way. 

“Did you watch the news last night?” 

Victoria’s voice spilled across the desk without warning, bright and intrusive in a way that made both you and Trinity glance up. Her phone was already in her hand, screen glowing, her grip tight like she was barely holding herself back from shoving it into someone’s face. 

You shook your head, shifting the ice pack slightly as it began to slip. 

“Nope. I pretty much . . . crash after my shifts.” 

It wasn’t a lie. 

Just not the whole truth. 

Trinity didn’t even look up from her computer this time. 

“If I say yes, are you still going to tell us what happened?” 

“Duh.” Victoria rolled her eyes like the answer should’ve been obvious, feet already shuffling forward. She turned the phone outward, arm extending across the space between you as she all but shoved the screen into your line of sight. 

“Look!” 

The video started loud with crashes and distant shouts spilling tinny and distorted from the speakers. The camera shook wildly, capturing flashes of movement more than anything. There was a figure—no—two. One of them went down hard, the impact echoing even through the poor audio. 

“Ouch,” you muttered, the word slipping out before you could stop it, bruise throbbing at the memory. 

Trinity leaned back slightly, finally glancing over. “Is this your update account?” 

Victoria scoffed, offended at the question. “Yes! It all happened just down the street from my house! Can’t believe I caught it all on video!” 

Your eyes stayed on the screen a second longer than necessary. 

There was something about the way the red and blue covered figure moved. They were too fast and too fluid to the point the camera couldn’t quite keep up with their speed. It was almost like the person behind it hadn’t even fully seen what they were recording. 

Your fingers stilled against the keyboard. 

“Just be glad Kingpin didn’t choose your street,” Trinity added, her thumb jerking lazily in your direction. “Or you might have been late like Pokey over here.” 

“Hey!” 

Victoria let out a soft groan, lowering her phone but not locking the screen like she wasn’t quite done with it yet. 

“My mom would kill me if I was late,” she said, then paused before glancing at you. “No offense, Pokey.” 

You waved her off easily, attention already dropping back to your screen as your fingers resumed their slow, one-handed typing. 

“None taken.” 

The last of your charts came together with a few final taps, the cursor blinking once, twice, before you clicked out of the system. The ice packs slid from your hand back onto the desk with a soft thud, forgotten just as quickly as it had been handed to you. The chair groaned again as you pushed yourself up, stretching lightly, your back arching until something cracked sharp, loud, and satisfying.

Your body felt fine. 

Too fine for what all happened the night before. 

Your hand reached automatically for a spare file case, fingers curling around the papers as you pulled them against your chest. For a moment, you just stood there, weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other, trying to stay still. 

Across the room, something clattered. 

Your head had turned before the sound had fully landed. 

Fast. 

Precise. 

Almost like you’d been waiting for the motion seconds before something even happened. 

Your grip tightened slightly on the file. 

Then, just as quickly, you forced your shoulders to loosen, your expression smoothing back into something easy and normal. 

“All right,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else. “Back to it.” 

_______________________

The shift had settled into that strange, in-between lull which never fully lasted but always seemed to pretend like it might. Monitors still chimed. Voices still continued to overlap. Gurneys still rolled in and out like a tide that refused to recede. But there was a thinning to it now, a subtle slowing at the edges as the day staff began to eye the clock and the night shift filtered in one by one. 

Handoffs were coming. 

Clock out was soon. 

Shift almost done. 

Almost—

“Dr. L/n.”

Your name cut cleaning through the noise, causing you to look up immediately. 

Jack Abbot, the night shift attending who always looked at you a little too closely like he personally knew each secret you hid in your bag, stood just a few feet away, a file tucked loosely beneath his arm, other hand resting against the edge of the desk like he’d been there longer than you’d pretended to notice. His expression was neutral—carefully so—but his eyes were already on you, unwavering and assessing in a way that made your chest tighten. 

“You’re still on?” he asked. 

Your fingers stilled over the keyboard before you forced them to move again, finishing out the last line of the chart like nothing had interrupted you. 

“Wrapping up thankfully,” you replied, tone light, easy, and practiced. “Robby benched me a bit earlier.” 

“Yeah,” Jack hummed, not quite sounding like he cared about the reason. His gaze briefly dropped ever so slightly from your eyes. “I can see that.” 

You resisted the urge to touch it, fingers twitching against the keys. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you insisted, already reaching for the next file before he could respond with one of his fast quips. “I’ve got one more: room twelve. Chest pain. Stable vitals, I just need to—” 

The sentence died abruptly. 

Not because of Jack—never because of him. 

But because of that fuzzy feeling, that pull you felt earlier. 

Now it was shaper, sudden and insistent, demanding your attention like a thread had gone taut inside your chest. Your head turned slightly toward the hallway before you could stop it, eyes narrowing for just a fraction of a breath. 

Room twelve. 

Something—

Wrong. 

All wrong.

Jack noticed, something he’d always managed to do when you were present. 

“What?” he asked, the word quiet but immediate.

You blinked, the moment snapping apart as quickly as it had formed. 

“Nothing,” you managed to spit out way too quickly. You pushed up from the chair in the same motion, final file clutched a little tighter than necessary. “Just want to finish up before handoff.” 

When you stood in front of him, Jack didn’t move an inch, didn’t step aside to let you by. 

So, not wanting to stay any later than you needed to, you angled around him, shoulder brushing the edge of his navy scrub as you slipped into the hall. Your pace picked up without permission, legs extending in longer strides, hips tilting with quicker turns like your body had already decided something your brain hadn’t realized. 

Behind you, shoes squeaked with your steps, the tell tail sign that Jack had followed.

Room twelve’s curtain was half-drawn when you finally reached it, the monitor inside still echoing away with that same, steady, unbothered rhythm: normal and predictable. The metal rings ran over the bar with several clinks until the patient came into view.

“Hey, Mr. Miller,” you started, already moving toward the bed. “Just wanted to check back in before—” 

The man looked up, offering the same half-smile as before, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. 

“Doc,” he said, voice tight like each word was going to hurt. “It’s—it’s happening again.” 

Your focus turned from casual to doctor-mode instantly. 

“Where?” you asked, hands already tugging your stethoscope from around your neck. 

He gestured haphazardly to the middle of his chest. “Same spot, just stronger.”

Of course it was. 

Your jaw tightened, but your hands stayed steady as you stepped closer, slipping the end of the stethoscope into place, metal cold against his hot skin. The room seemed to narrow around the sound of his heart, everything else fading into the near distance as you listened. 

Thu-Thump

Thu-Thump

Th-thu-thump.

There. 

There was that same not-quite-right pattern, threading itself beneath the normal beats like it wanted to join the choir. Your brows pulled together. Behind you, the curtain shifted. You felt him there without even looking. 

“Vitals are stable,” he said, eyes sticking to the monitor above. His tone was even, clinical, but below, it held an edge of uncertainty. “EKG didn’t show anything either.” 

“I know,” you muttered sharply. “But—” 

You adjusted the stethoscope, like changing the angle might make it all make sense, your ears desperate to hear that pattern again. Your other hand rose, fingers pressing lightly against the patient’s sternum, mapping something you couldn’t explain without sounding crazy. 

“Dr. L/n,” Jack’s voice sounded again, closer this time, breath fanning hotly against your nape. “What are you seeing?” 

Hesitation twisted heavy against your ribs. 

“I think there’s—” 

The high-pitched blip of the monitor cut you off perfectly, drawing Jack’s peering eyes off you and onto the screen. He was silent as he watched, chest rising and falling, until he looked back at you. His eyes swam with a need to press further, to wring every secret out of your throat. But all he could do was reach past and press the call button. 

“I need another EKG,” he said, tone shifting into something louder to fill the space. “Labs and full panel.” 

A nurse’s voice answered from outside. 

Taking that as a sign, you straightened, hands wrapping your stethoscope back around your neck, feet already taking you away from the bed. As nurses poured into the room for the second rounds of tests, you let yourself get swallowed by the wave, stepping out to return back to the desk. 

For a split second, you guessed that Jack wouldn’t follow. 

But the familiar sound of his dragging steps crept on yours the closer you got back to the sanctuary of the front desk. 

“How?” 

The question was simple. 

The answer complicated. 

“I don’t know,” you settled on. 

He shook his head like a disappointed parent, and somehow that was worse than straight anger.

 “No. You don’t get to say, ‘I don’t know.’ So let’s cut the bullshit.” 

“Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, exhaustion from the day deciding now was the time to sit on your shoulders. “It was a lucky guess.” 

The deep-chuckle-closed-eyes-head-shake combo did nothing to settle the panic inside. 

“Lucky,” he hissed. “You correctly caught an abnormality in our patient way before the monitor was able to.” His head tilted, silver curls falling gracefully against his forehead, biceps bulging as he crossed his arms. “You say it was lucky the same way you tell everyone that that—” His finger outstretched forward toward your face. “—was because you fell into a doorknob. You just expect us all to believe it?” 

“Yes,” you quickly responded like it had been sitting in your mouth for too long. “Because that’s what happened. I was lucky that I managed to check in on the patient right before the monitor picked it up, and I was lucky I missed my bathroom counter and landed on my door instead. You’re wrong about it all, Dr. Abbot.” 

Nothing about your statement was convincing. Jack’s mouth twitched in a silent battle to keep a sarcastic smile down. 

“Then prove it.” 

Behind, through the open door of room twelve, the monitor let out another high-pitched blip, another skip in the pattern. 

Your eyes had shifted from Jack’s to the room before it had even gone off. 

And like he always did, Jack saw it happen. 

_______________________

The ER had settled into its night rhythm hours ago. 

It wasn’t quieter, never was, but steadier. The day had worn down into something more controlled, the chaos no longer colliding but gentle rolling through the air into something ordered. Voices didn’t rise as often, footsteps didn’t rush quite as hard, and the constant churn of bodies through the doors had slowed just enough to let the space breathe. 

You had clocked out long ago. 

Jack had stayed put, mind still reeling on how you’d been able to catch something so small, so miniscule, that much faster than a multi-thousand-dollar machine whose sole purpose is to find anomalies like the patient had in room twelve. 

He leaned back against the counter at the nurses’ station, one hand loosely wrapped around a paper cup that had long since gone cold. He hadn’t taken a sip in a while, though the bitterness still lingered faintly at the back of his tongue, a small tang to ground him in the quiet lull between cases. 

Across the room, the TV flickered low in the corner, subtitles crawling beneath the shaky footage of the late-night news. 

“. . . another sighting reported late this evening—” 

“. . . unidentified individual intervening in what witnesses describe as—” 

The clip looped again: a blur of motion, a figure dripped in flashes of blue and red dropping into frame too fast for the camera to catch cleanly, the impact landing with a precision that felt at odds with the chaos surrounding it. The individual never hesitated, never wasted movement. 

They just controlled it all. 

Jack let his gaze linger a second longer than necessary before he looked away, jaw tightening slightly as he exhaled through his nose. 

A sound broke through the room. It was metal, close, and sharp enough to matter. 

His head turned immediately toward the ambulance bay, attention narrowing as the noise echoed once and then disappeared. No intercom followed. No call ahead. No sudden rush of movement and yelling that usually came with a new arrival. 

The silence hung strangely, lasting beats too long for Jack to ignore. 

He pushed himself off the counter, abandoning the cup where it sat as he crossed the floor in the quickest, most purposeful strides his prosthetic allowed him to. The automatic doors hadn’t opened—not flashing lights, no sirens, no incoming stretcher—nothing to explain the noise. 

Which meant—

He shoved the side door open instead. 

The night air met him all at once, cooler than he expected and settling heavy against his skin as he stepped out into the ambulance bay. The overhead lights casted long, creeping beams across the concrete, leaving the edges of the space to fall off into the late-night darkness. 

For a moment, the bay looked empty. 

And then, something moved. 

It didn’t emerge so much as appearing—a shift in the dark, that resolved too quickly into a solid form, a figure stepping cleanly into the light with a body held securely in their arms like it weight nothing. 

Jack stilled. 

The suit stretching across the figure was unmistakable in shape, fitted and seamless, the mask pulled fully into place with no break in it: no skin, no expression, nothing that could be used to anchor an identity into the movement. And yet, there was something familiar in the way they carried the weight, in the way their steps didn’t falter as they closed the distance between them and Jack, almost like they knew their way around. 

“Help,” sounded out of the space where their mouth would be, edged with urgency and tone altered slightly by the mask. 

But it was enough to send Jack into motion. 

He stepped forward instantly, hands coming up to take the woman from the . . . hero. 

“Here,” he replied, already preparing to shift the weight into his own arms. “What happened?” 

“Hit hard. Couldn’t grab her in time,” you said, adjusting your grip long enough to make the transfer seamless before letting go. Your hands hovered there for a fraction of a second more, making sure the unknowing attending had her. “Left side. Ribs are definitely cracked—maybe worse.” 

Jack’s attention dropped to the patient as he settled her, already assessing the shallow, uneven, and strained breathing that didn’t quite match her visible injuries. 

“Hey!” he called back toward the doors, voice louder now and filled with urgency. “I need a gurney—now!” 

Movement sparked inside, voices rising as footsteps approached. You didn’t step away, not yet ready to go back to what was happening just a few streets over. 

“Watch her heart,” you added, tone cutting cleaning through the panic. “It’s not consistent. She’s compensating, but it’s slipping fast.” 

Jack’s grip adjusted instinctively, his focus narrowing. 

“What?” he asked, eyes landing on the whites of the mask before returning to the woman in his arms. 

“It’s not just the trauma,” you continued, quick but precise, like you were trying to translate what you knew to what would make sense for the man. “There’s something that a quick exam won’t catch all the way. I tried to keep it steady but . . .” 

The words landed heavier than they should have. 

Because out in the ambulance bay, there were no monitors. 

No readout. 

Nothing to justify the level of clarity and certainty you spoke with. 

For a split second, Jack didn’t move. 

Then the doors burst open with nurses rushing out with a gurney, effectively breaking the moment cleanly in half. They stopped in front of Jack, pulling his attention away from you and back to the woman. 

“On three,” Jack said, voice slipping back into his usual, practiced demands. 

They transferred the patient quickly, hands moving in sync, voices overlapping as the rhythm of the ER surged back into place around them. Wheels rolled, equipment shifted, and the questions started. But his attention kept pulling, shifting against his will. 

It was hard to ignore the suited figure whose whited-out eyes continued to blankly stare. 

You weren’t watching the staff. 

You were watching the patient like taking your eyes off would send them into a downward spiral. 

You tracked her in a way that felt too focused, too ready for something to happened, something that no one would be able to catch just yet. 

“Let’s get her on a monitor,” Jack added, already guiding the gurney toward the doors. 

A nurse was quick to follow, hands steady as she placed pads under the already torn shirt the woman was wearing. They had barely gotten a few feet toward the door when the machine came alive. It was steady at first, outputting a clean rhythm to fill the space when— 

Blip. 

Small. 

But there.

Jack’s head turned sharply toward the sound, and then, just as quickly, back to you. 

A silent connection hit him all at once. 

Room twelve. The hesitation. The way you’d known before anything had changed, before there had been anything to see. 

The pattern. 

The certainty that you had matched what this masked figure possessed. 

He froze, hands slipping away from the gurney as the nurses pushed it fully into the ER. The door closed loudly behind, leaving just the two of you out there in silence. The background of the city had been drowned out by the ringing in his ears. 

He took a breath, good foot moving to take a step but stopping when you backed away, ready to retreat to the waiting darkness to swallow you once more. Behind, someone called his name, voice urgent and needy for an attending’s guidance. 

“You should get back to your ER, doctor,” you said softly, not wanting to break the ambiance of the ambulance bay. 

His gray brows pinched tightly in the middle of his forehead, eyes squinting like you’d just said something absurd. He knew, he guessed, he—

Paused. 

Swallowed the accusations back down to his stomach. 

You shifted once more, a subtle coil of motion that had started to gather in your body like it was about to reach uncontainable levels that breached the need for stillness. And again, he recognized it all. His gaze lifted, locking onto the whites of the mask. 

“You’re—” 

Your head tilted when he failed to say anything else. The motion was thoughtful, and even without seeing your face, Jack could feel the echo of your day-time presence with each shift you made here. 

“Your patient needs you.” 

And then you were gone. 

The movement was quick, clean—upward rather than away, following a soft thwip and melting into a blur of red and blue that vanished past the edge of a building before his eyes could fully track it. The air shifted fainty in the now empty space, drawing a shuddering breath from his lungs. 

“Jack!” 

His name snapped him back. 

Inside. 

The patient—his patient as you had said. 

He turned, forcing himself back through the doors, back into the light and the noise and the work that didn’t stop just because something didn’t make sense. His hands moved automatically, voice steady as he stepped back into his attending position, picking up where he’d left off like nothing had interrupted him. 

_______________________

By morning handoffs, the story had already made its rounds. 

You knew it had the second you stepped onto the floor: the subtle shift in energy, the way conversations dipped just slightly as you passed, only to pick back up again a beat too late. It wasn’t unusual. The ER thrived on retelling, on stitching together the chaos of the night into something almost coherent by daylight. 

Still, this story lingered. 

“—I’m telling you; they just appeared.” 

Shen’s voice carried easily across the nurses’ station, animated in a way that drew attention without even trying. He stood half-perched against the counter, one hand wrapped around an almost-empty Dunkin cup, the other moving as he spoke, like the story needed help existing outside of him. 

Dennis leaded against the opposite side, arms crossed, brows raised in mild skepticism. Trinity and Victoria hovered nearby, both pretending to work just enough to justify staying exactly where they were. 

And you . . . were on time for once, sitting in a chair with fingers moving to take over the charts passed on from last night. 

“They didn’t come in with an ambulance,” Shen continued, glancing between them like he needed witnesses to confirm it. “No sirens, no call ahead—nothing. Just—bam! Out of nowhere.” 

“People don’t just bam into ambulance bays,” Dennis muttered. 

“They do if they’re the guy from the videos,” Victoria cut in, already pulling her phone out like she’d been waiting for the opening. “You know, the one everyone’s been posting out it?” 

“How do you know it’s a guy?” Trinity asked, following the question with a snort. “Is he your boyfriend?” 

Victoria shot her a look. “Shut up.” 

Shen ignored them, pushing forward with the story. 

“I didn’t see them drop in,” he admitted, “but Jack was already out there, and next thing I know, he’s coming back in with this girl—back shape, like bad—and he’s calling it before we even get her hooked up.” 

Your fingers paused before you forced them to move again. 

“Calling what?” Dennis asked. 

Shen pointed, emphatic. “Cardiac. Said something was off before the monitor even confirmed it. And he was right.” 

“That’s not weird,” Trinity said, though there was less certainty in it than usual. “Attendings catch stuff all the time.” 

“Yeah,” Shen agreed easily, “but this wasn’t like that. He didn’t assess it—he just knew. Like he’d already seen it happen.” 

Your stomach tightened, body shifting in your chair, back adjusting your posture like it would settling the feeling that had already rooted too deep. 

“Okay, but what does that have to do with our mystery hero?” Victoria pressed. 

Shen’s expression shifted, like this was the part he’d been building toward. 

“Because Jack didn’t say it first,” he said. “The person who brought in the patient did.” 

Silence settled over the group. 

Dennis straightened slightly. “What?” 

“They told him,” Shen continued, lowering his voice just enough to pull them back in like a camp counselor around a fire and campers. “Said to watch the patient’s heart, that it wasn’t consistent . . . before we even had her on a monitor.” 

The room felt smaller as your pulse ticked loudly in your ears, uneven in a way you were suddenly and painfully aware of. 

“That’s—” Trinity started but then stopped. “Lucky guess?” 

Shen shook his head. “Didn’t sound like a guess.” 

Victoria’s eyes widened, her phone momentarily forgotten in her hand. “Wait—so you’re saying that they—whoever they are—can just . . . tell?” 

“No,” Dennis cut in, slower now, more measured. “He’s saying Jack thinks they can.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” 

The voice came from behind you. 

Your spine straightened before you could stop it, fingers freezing against the keys as something colder than the ice pack from yesterday settled along the back of your neck. 

Jack. 

You didn’t turn because you could feel it without even having to look. 

His gaze tingled steadily and unmoving along your back. 

“Wasn’t a guess,” he continued, voice even as he stepped fully into the space beside the group. “And it wasn’t luck.” 

He paused, very deliberate and something that felt tight in your chest. 

“You don’t call something like that unless you’ve seen it before,” he added. 

Jack’s eyes had tracked as he rounded, never leaving your face for a minute, body desperate for a reaction from you, something that could confirm what he’d been thinking about through his entire shift. 

You managed to barely school your features, choosing to keep your eyes off him and your mouth shut. 

The silence stretched thing and taut before Trinity shifted, breaking it with a forced scoff. 

“Okay, well, unless they plan on clocking in for rounds, I really don’t care how he does it,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Patients still need actual doctors.” 

Victoria nodded quickly, latching onto the exit. “Yeah, and I’m starving, so if they want to save lives, they can start with my lunch break.” 

The group dispersed just enough to dissolve the tense moment, conversation splintering into something easier and safer. 

But you didn’t move right away. 

Because even as the noise picked back up, even as the rhythm of the ER swallowed the conversation whole, you could still feel it: Jack’s attention, lingering and unshaken. 

And no matter how steady you kept your hands as you returned to typing, it didn’t go away.  

And by the time he left, all clocked out and ready to sleep until his shift in 12 hours, you found yourself missing the way he watched you, missing the way he knew, saying nothing, keeping it to himself. 

A smile curled on your lips at the thought. 

AN: Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out. 

You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.” 

“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration. 

“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” 

Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool. 

“Have you ever seen a bone?” 

“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis. 

“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.” 

Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.” 

“What!” 

It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real. 

And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson. 

He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on. 

Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler. 

~~

A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny. 

Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.

“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?” 

Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”

Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.

“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.

“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased. 

Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.” 

Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed. 

“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.” 

“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.” 

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete. 

He needed to ask you that question. 

“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.” 

You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—” 

“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.” 

“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other. 

“Memorizing me?” you teased. 

“Something like that.” 

Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you. 

He felt his back stiffen as the night went on. 

“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.” 

Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.” 

Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.” 

“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile. 

“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.” 

“Catch a vibe?” 

“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.” 

Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?” 

“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling. 

Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.” 

“I did not say that,” Jack shot back. 

“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.” 

Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.” 

“He’s not going to—” 

“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?” 

“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.” 

Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?” 

“Who isn’t—”

 “Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.” 

It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.

He did some math in his head. 

It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment. 

But that was thirty minutes ago. 

It could have been your train. 

“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—” 

“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself. 

“What?”

“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.

Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t. 

The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality. 

But it couldn’t be you. 

Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home. 

You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty. 

“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body. 

Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by. 

Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.” 

You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either. 

But you were the fifth. 

He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you. 

He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago. 

Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his. 

As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?” 

A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel. 

“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?” 

Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness. 

“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound. 

“Are you sure you should—” 

“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—” 

Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him. 

“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?” 

“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.” 

Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was. 

“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.” 

He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape. 

“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery. 

“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.” 

“Jack.” 

It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him. 

“Let them take her. You gotta back up.” 

They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone. 

He hadn’t been ready for the after. 

Robby forced it, anyway. 

Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor. 

He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms. 

He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you. 

Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.” 

Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out. 

“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—” 

“I don’t know where Penny is.” 

“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—” 

“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.” 

Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could. 

“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.” 

“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”

“I don’t even know where my little girl is.” 

“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.” 

So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did. 

Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed. 

“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.” 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder. 

“Anything I can do?” Lena asked. 

Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.

“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—” 

“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.

To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood. 

“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.” 

Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?” 

Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.” 

“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.” 

“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway. 

Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.” 

And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her. 

Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.” 

“Like how she used to check for monsters?” 

“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.” 

“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.” 

Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.” 

Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back. 

You would want your daughter to feel safe. 

He needed to be a safe place. 

So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress. 

Because that was what his life used to be. 

Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family. 

Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference. 

It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly. 

“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—” 

Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?” 

The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny. 

Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—

“Jack?” 

He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted. 

“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.” 

“Penny—” 

“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.” 

Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay. 

Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.” 

In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?” 

“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath. 

“What—does that mean?” 

You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up. 

Surprise flooded (Y/n)'s drained features and she lifted her head just enough to realise that the gentleman at the reception desk was pointing and beckoning her forwards.

Shudders began to crawl through her skin as she leant to her left where her arm was looped around the back of Nate's shoulders. She tried not to lean too much of her weight on him, keeping herself up on her right leg that wasn't giving up on her yet. While she dragged her left leg behind her like a useless, broken limb she was ready to have amputated.

Nate kept his arms around her waist as if he were giving her a comforting hug, allowing her to lean against him as they hobbled to the reception desk which (Y/n) immediately slumped her arms onto to prop herself up.

A quiet "thanks," left Nate's lips as he looked up at the man that had ushered them forwards.

"What's your name hun and how can we help?" Hazel leant forward to peer through the plastic separating them to try and see what was so urgent and whether she would have to call for help immediately or not.

"(Y/n) Park. I- I fell on a glass table, there's a lot of glass in my leg… I've tried to stop the bleeding but I can't f- feel my leg anymore."

Her eyes closed when the receptionist leant over to try and see the damage and Hazel took a sharp breath before she sank back and looked around behind her. When her eyes locked with Donny, she flagged him over and muttered something to him before her attention was back on (Y/n).

"Someone's going to bring out a wheelchair and get you in back right away, just stay there for me."

"Thank you."

This was the last place that (Y/n) thought she would find herself today, much less with all the boys too.

With her arm still looped around her eldest boy's shoulders, (Y/n) leant into him with her right arm still on the reception desk. She couldn't move away or make room for the next person, she didn't have the will power anymore. She turned her head to make sure that Lewis and Reece were still right behind them.

The last thing she wanted was to drag all three of her boys down here to the emergency room with her, but she didn't have time to ring round and try to find a babysitter for them. Her leg was still bleeding even after trying to tie one of Brendon's belts around her thigh to cut off the blood. She barely managed to drive them all down here, there was no time for anything else and 911 said an ambulance would be up to an hour or more. She didn't have that long to wait around when she felt like this and her leg was in bad shape.

A fresh set of tears welled up in her eyes when the side door opened and immediately, there was a nurse rushing towards her with a wheelchair speeding in front of him.

"Hi there, I'm Donny. Let's get you sat down and taken care of, shall we?"

(Y/n) was grateful when he took her arms, letting her pull her weight off of Nate and lean against Donny instead. He helped her hobble forward a few paces and turn her so she could flop down into the wheelchair.

It felt good to be sitting down again, and to know that she didn't have to keep biting her lip or pinching herself to keep in focus. Driving while feeling a mixture of agony and numbness had been terrifying. At least now (Y/n) didn't have to be in control like that anymore.

Once she was sat down her hands latched around the arm rests, trying to keep herself still and immobile so she didn't do anything to disrupt anything in her leg or make her injuries worse. Her head lolled to one side, trying to keep all three boys within her sights so she knew they weren't about to get lost in such a big, terrifying place like this.

"Are these your boys?"

"Hm, stay close." Reaching her hand out to the left, (Y/n) waved it until Reece stepped up and latched onto her hand.

The youngest was only three and (Y/n) couldn't handle the panic if he got lost or side-tracked or if he wandered off and saw something frightening. There were so many people in need around here, people with horrific injuries, people on the verge of passing away, Reece didn't need to witness anything like that.

He toddled alongside the chair, one hand in (Y/n)'s and the other stuffed in his mouth. While Lewis held onto his shoulder so he didn't lose sight of him, and Nate followed at the end, all of them in a neat row as they stuck close by their mum.

"Will dad be down here?" Nate tried to peer over his brothers to look across at (Y/n), unable to hide the hope from his voice.

He had never seen Brendon at work. He'd seen him wearing his scrubs, and one or two pictures on the hospital website where they showed a few of their doctors in action helping people. But he'd never been to the hospital when Brendon was on shift and quite possibly milling about the place.

(Y/n) took a deep breath through her nose to try and stem the pain she felt and shook her head. "No baby, he- he's upstairs."

"Oh, does your dad work in this hospital? What does he do?"

Donny looked between the three boys, all stood in height order from oldest to youngest while he pointed ahead to the room they were aiming for. It wasn't that often that they got family members down here with injuries, and Donny knew if this ever happened they always let the practitioner know, whoever they were.

"Daddy works with bones." Lewis raised his arm and tapped at his elbow to signal the joint, which was what their dad was always telling them his speciality was. The skeletal system, the bones, the muscles. Weaknesses, diseases, partially detached limbs needing corrective surgery. Their dad was an odd-job kind of doctor.

"Orthopedics," (Y/n) corrected, breathing through the word as she tried to ignore the light-headed feeling that was starting to overwhelm her. She tipped her head back until she was looking up at the nurse behind her. "Could you tell him we're here please? It's Brendon Park."

Donny did well to hide the shock from his face, although he couldn't stop his pupils from blowing wide.

He had no idea Brendon had a family; he couldn't even recall ever seeing a wedding ring on Brendon's finger. Although that might be because no one ever assumed he was the type of man to be married, with how isolated he seemed to be at work and his brisk, somewhat crude attitude.

He managed to nod his head before his eyes locked on his attending. "Sure… hey Robby, can you call up to ortho, we've got Mrs sh- Mrs Park down here."

Almost a slip up there. He didn't know if Brendon was the type of person to go home and talk about his work life. He knew full well that everyone in the ER, probably everyone in the entire hospital, called him Park the shark. But that might not be something he told his wife about and Donny didn't want to cause any offence or conflict if (Y/n) didn't already knew this fact.

Within a heartbeat Robby was nodding and aiming for the phone to call up to the orthopedic ward. If he couldn't get through to Brendon right away he would leave a message for an urgent call back.

"Okay here we go, let's get you on the bed."

(Y/n) could feel another bout of dizziness overwhelming her when she held onto Donny's arms and tried to stand. He must have sensed it too because he held her arms tighter and stepped closer to keep her upright.

The transfer from the chair onto the bed was swift and (Y/n) almost melted once she was sat down again. She slumped against the pillow, reclining back while Donny helped straighten her legs out so it would be easier to take a look at her injuries.

She turned to glance at the boys, making sure all three of them were alright. They were doing so great, staying calmer than (Y/n) would have anticipated, considering both Lewis and Reece had burst into tears when she fell and they saw all the blood. And although Nate had tried to be calm and take charge because he was the eldest, his eyes gave away how petrified he really felt.

Lewis clambered onto one of the chairs beside the bed, sitting perfectly still with his arms bound around his middle like he was giving himself a comforting hug. While Nate perched on the chair next to him and held his arms out, letting Reece scramble up onto his lap and he hugged the toddler close to his chest to comfort both of them.

"This is Doctor Santos, she'll be overseeing your care today." Donny introduced when Trinity came through the door with tired eyes and a wary smile as she snapped on a fresh pair of ocean blue gloves.

"Hi. Let's take a look at what we can do for you."

***

(Y/n) didn't like the radio. Whatever person was in charge of the hospital radio was either oblivious or had a very dark sense of humour, because almost all of the songs were depressing. Especially when they should be vibrant and uplifting people's spirits.

Nate had figured out how to get the little portable screen in the corner to play the radio, given that any kind of movie or program would have to be paid for, but the radio was free. He kept the volume low though because none of the boys knew most of the depressing songs being played.

Tilting her head to the left, (Y/n) buried her face in Reece's hair where the three year old was tucked up beneath her arm. He was burrowed into her side, coiling his knees up against her waist so he wasn't anywhere near her repaired leg.

She had Nate sitting on her right, reeling off any random thought that popped into his head because now that he had calmed down, he wanted something to focus on and do.

And Lewis was still sitting in his chair, a magazine open on his lap that he was flicking through because he found it on the little side table. He couldn't read most of the words in their small print, but he enjoyed looking at the pictures.

Another shiver rolled through (Y/n)'s skin that she couldn't supress. In retaliation she tightened her arm around Reece and leant into him, trying to cuddle up to fight off the cold in the room. The heaters must be broken or the air con was working no overload. (Y/n) was starting to freeze despite the thin blanket draped over her and the boys.

God, why was the room so cold? Why weren't the boys shivering too?

She tried to relax, to snuggle down and settle Reece beside her because he would be about due a nap by now since he had missed one this afternoon with all the panic.

All eyes suddenly snapped open when the door to the left side of the room burst open like it was about to swing off its hinges.

Brendon barelled in like a tornado.

Hands flexing and curling into fists at his sides, shoulders so straight and broad that his frame barely fit through the door. Chest heaving with each breath like he was having an allergic reaction to something and his lungs were no longer in working order.

His eyes were wild, pupils blown so there was no colour left visible on his irises, but he didn't seem to be taking much in of his surroundings. He was in panic mode, and it wasn't often that (Y/n) saw him like this.

"Daddy!"

"Dad! Mum got hurt."

In a split second, all three boys were moving. Lewis hopped off the chair, his magazine long forgotten as he rounded the other side of the bed and stumbled towards Brendon until he was within reach to grab onto him. His thin arms stretching up as he mewled until Brendon obliged and scooped him up immediately.

Reece fumbled out from beneath the blanket, leaving (Y/n)'s embrace as he almost fell from the bed to get down and hurry towards Brendon. Tears were already welling up in his eyes, from relief or the trauma of the day, Brendon couldn't tell.

He picked up the toddler as well, one boy in each arm, both of them clinging to his neck and kissing his cheeks like they hadn't seen him in days, weeks even, not mere hours.

As soon as Nate was off the bed, he shot towards Brendon and latched himself around his front, clinging to his torso and burying his face in his dad's firm chest that took a deep breath when all three boys were attached to him.

Brendon pressed a kiss to each of their heads, humming as they all started to whimper and babble at once. He silently began to usher them forwards, nudging until they started to move so he could actually get towards the bed. He needed to see and talk to (Y/n) as well, not just to them.

When he bent forward, Brendon eased Lewis down to his feet and ushered him to go along with Nate and sit back down in the chairs on the other side of the bed. But he gently set Reece down on the foot of the bed, knowing that their youngest would only cry out and scramble his way onto the bed anyway.

His expression was as hard and chiselled as stone as he bent over the bed and pressed a searing kiss to (Y/n)'s temple, sighing against her skin as his hand wormed around to cradle the back of her neck.

"What happened, baby? Sorry it took me so long to get the message, Robby called but I was up in surgery."

It had been a fright when he finished surgery to be told that the ER had tried calling him twice and said they needed to speak to him urgently. Brendon knew it had to be something bad, something not related to any random patient as they would have just called Garcia or one of her team, they wouldn't ask for him specifically.

Robby hadn't said how bad (Y/n)'s injuries were when he explained that Brendon's wife had come into the ER. Just that she had been hurt somehow and she had come in with the boys and was asking for him. He had run down the stairs like a mad man to avoid waiting around for the lift.

"Sorry baby," now she felt bad for dragging him down here on her acocunt. "The fuse box kept tripping, I stood on a chair, to- to fix it, Max barged past the chair… I fell on that stupid little glass table, went right through it."

She couldn't help but cringe at the thought and when she opened her eyes and glanced up at her husband, she saw his upper lip curling in the way she imagined he would look at the residents to put the fear of God into them. He wasn't angry at her. Never. He was irritated that he hadn't been there, that this accident had even happened in the first place.

The electrics had tripped out, and (Y/n) couldn't just leave it because the fridge had gone off along with the extractor fan in the kitchen and the Wifi since the box was plugged in next to the fridge in the kitchen. She only had to flip the switch to get everything back on.

But their house was an old one with high ceilings and a fuse box in the hallway that was to the right of the door and as high up on the wall as possible. (Y/n) couldn't reach it without standing on something, so she dragged a chair into the hall.

It would have been fine if their golden retriever Max hadn't barged past the chair when the boys were playing ball with him. The chair wobbled, (Y/n) fell and she just happened to land on the little rectangle unit they had in the hall with a glass top and wooden frame and legs.

She went straight through the glass, broke the frame and ended up with cuts littering her left side from her arm down to her leg. She'd had to shut Max in the kitchen so he wouldn't wander into the hall like he usually would when they were out; she couldn't risk him stepping on glass or hurting himself.

There wasn't time to clean up the glass or the broken unit or wipe her blood from the laminate floor; all of that would have to wait until they got home later. (Y/n) just gathered the boys up and got them into the car as quickly as possible.

Brendon's jaw tightened, though he nodded in understanding. He was normally the one to sort things out around the house like that. Unlike (Y/n), Brendon could stand on his tip toes and just about reach the fuse box without any assistance. This wouldn't of happened if he had been home.

His lips pursed into a pout as he turned and leant over the bed, carefully pulling back the blanket draped over her until it was bunched around her feet and strewn over Reece's lap. He needed to see what injuries she had gotten.

There were a few superficial cuts on her left arm and one rather deep one just above her elbow that had been stitched up.

There was a large gash on her left thigh that had clearly gone deep with how much it was starting to swell and how inflamed the wound looked, despite the five stitches holding it together. Brendon would bet on there being internal stitches to join the muscle together beneath it.

His fingertips ghosted across the cuts on her leg, inspecting the skill of whoever had stitched them up and counting each little cut, peering closely as if he were making absolutely sure that there were no tiny shards of glass left in her skin. And there was a very large gash right across the side of her knee that was already swollen.

There were a few specks of blood on her waist too where he guessed (Y/n) had some more superficial cuts and no doubt she would be littered with bruises and be extremely sore and aching in the morning.

"Tell me you didn't drive all of you here like that?" When (Y/n) wouldn't look up at him, Brendon grunted. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Anything could have happened. They could have been involved in a car accident; (Y/n) could of passed out behind the wheel; her blood loss could have gotten worse. If she got delirious and crashed or veered off the road her and the boys would have been in worse trouble than this.

But Brendon knew there had been little alternative. The time it would have taken if she managed to call him and get through to him, for him to then leave the hospital to go home and come right back. It would have wasted time. An ambulance had said they would be over an hour to get to her. Their neighbour was elderly and didn't drive, so he would of been no help and buses weren't reliable and made too many stops along the way.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be sorry." He spoke pointedly, moving his hand to cradle her jaw and tilt her head up towards him so he could kiss her chapped lips. "It was an accident, you're here now and that's all that matters."

After another kiss to her lips, Brendon turned and took a few steps to the right to reach out for the computer. He swiped his badge against the fob key and logged onto her chart, taking note of the stitches required and the dose of morphine she had been given for the pain. She had two hours of observation and then she could head home. That was good news.

With a nod to himself, Brendon logged out the computer now he had all the facts, and perched down on the side of the bed. He leant against her hip and stretched his left arm over her waist so his hand was planted down on the mattress and he could hover over her.

His eyes clocked the IV pole beside the bed and his brows furrowed as he observed the two bags of fluid hanging up and attached to the IV pump. But it was the red bag hidden behind them that got his attention and he gave it a little tap with his knuckle.

"Did you hit an artery?"

"Hm, lost a bit on the way here, so- so they did that." She gave a meek point to the bag of blood that was giving her a transfusion. "They saved your belt though."

Brendon's brows pulled together and he glanced to the floor where Nate pointed with a sheepish grin. Sure enough, one of Brendon's black leather belts with a silver Jaws clip in the centre was folded up on the floor. There were only a few speckles of blood on it, thankfully, so maybe it wouldn't need to be thrown out.

"Good thinking," he mused, but his smile dampened when he realised (Y/n) had her eyes closed and she was pushing her head further back into the pillow like she was in some kind of pain. "Do you feel okay sweetheart?"

"I can't feel my leg," her lips managed to form a grin and she forced her eyes back open, but she couldn't stop herself from shaking. Again. "It's just cold in here."

That made Brendon's heart palpitate an extra beat, though he wasn't quite sure why.

He reached his free arm up and gently pressed the back of his hand against her temple. She was really warm, she shouldn't be shivering or feeling the cold, especially when he knew the air con in the room was turned right down to keep the heat in.

But he supposed she must be a bit cold since she was sat here in her bloodied, cut up shirt and underwear, no leggings. They had been cut up and tossed in the bin so Trinity could sort out her wounds and remove all the glass.

Straightening himself up, Brendon reached back for the blanket he had scrunched up at the foot of the bed. The draped it back around (Y/n) before getting up to retrieve another blanket that he then circled around her. If she had to stay in here for a while longer under observation then she needed to be kept warm and comfortable, he wouldn't have her shivering while she was here.

(Y/n)'s eyes followed him when he reached over and scooped Reece up, sitting the three year old on his hip so Reece could cuddle up into his broad chest.

"I'll call my mum, see if she can come and watch the boys until I can take you home. You boys gonna come get a snack with me, let your mum rest?"

Lewis was up from the chair in an instant and the five year old toddled round to take Brendon's free hand. It didn't sound so much like a question than an instruction, and he wanted to stay with his dad. This place was scary and full of screaming, shouting and arguing people, if they stayed with Brendon they would be safe.

When Brendon lifted his head and looked over at his ten year old, Nate stayed seated on the chair and stared back at him with big pleading eyes that could always win Brendon over because they reminded him so much of (Y/n).

"Can I stay, look after mum?"

A softening look melted on Brendon's features and he nodded. "Okay. I won't be long."

With a kiss to (Y/n)'s temple, Brendon turned and headed out the room with one boy on his hip and the other attached to his side. He would take them out into the hall and get them something from the vending machine and a drink. Then he would call his parents. He didn't want the boys to have to stay and hang around here any longer than necessary, they needed to go home and feel safe and relaxed again.

That way Brendon could stay with (Y/n) until she was discharged and then take her home to take care of her.

While Brendon was gone, Nate sat on the bed again with (Y/n), reading out articles from the outdated magazine Lewis had been looking through earlier. He smiled when (Y/n) leant her head on his shoulder and curled up beside him like he was the parent giving her the love and attention she needed.

But he stopped reading what must have been the fourth article he had found, when he realised something. His mum was trembling.

His eyes narrowed and zoned in on her as he looked down to his left, observing her with scrutiny.

He thought she had been closing her eyes before, but now he realised that she was in fact trying to keep them open, but she was failing at it. Her arms were huddled to her middle, body curling up though her left leg stayed stretched out to try and keep it still and not disrupt the stitches. But she was shaking horribly as if invisible hands were roughly shoving her back and forth on the bed.

"Mum, are you okay?"

(Y/n) managed to look up at her son for a few seconds, but it was hard to find an answer when her mind didn't seem to be cooperating with her.

She felt so cold, despite the two blankets wrapped around her and the fact that Nate was cuddled up against her. She couldn't stop herself from shivering. Her head was spinning like she was on a ride that wouldn't stop and it made it hard to keep her eyes open.

And she was starting to feel numb. Her fingertips had gone numb like they were too cold to feel and she wasn't sure she could feel her feet either with the pins and needles surging through both her legs.

"Mum?"

"Go- go get dad… I don- I don't feel well." Her breaths were harsh like she was trying to fend off the urge to be sick and she closed her eyes again, tilting her head down to burrow into the pillow.

Fear struck a cord within Nate's chest and made his pulse throb in his ears as he launched himself off the bed, dropping the magazine to the floor as he sped out of the room.

Where was his dad? Where would be be? Nate didn't know where the nearest vending machine was or which way his dad would have gone to find one. Was he even still here in the ER or had he gone to a different department, a different ward? (Y/n) said he worked upstairs, did Nate have to go and search the upper floors for his dad?

His feet skidded against the floor as he hurried, making sure to stick to close to the wall so he didn't get in the way of anyone or any emergencies or transfered patients.

He realised an older woman with clipped back blonde hair was looking at him strangely and she was one second from reaching out for him to stop him running through the ER, when a familiar sight caught Nate's attention and his face lit up with relief.

"Dad!"

There was his dad, walking down a long corridor that clearly led away from the ER. He had Reece in one arm and Lewis walking close at his side, one hand curled in Brendon's scrubs to keep attached to him while he held a can of pop in his other hand. And Reece was cradling three packets of crisps in his arms like it was a bounty he had just stolen.

Brendon's pointed brows merged down and the point of his nose seemed straighter and more prominent when his sights set on his eldest, pelting down the hall towards him.

"What's wrong?"

Nate launched forward and grabbed onto Brendon's free arm that wasn't cradling Reece and gave a sharp pull, trying to yank him forwards to keep him moving towards (Y/n)'s room. But he only suceeded in making Brendon's shoulder ache and almost rip free from its socket; he didn't budge his dad any other way or direction.

"Nate don't pull; talk."

"Mum! She's not well, she said to come get you. Come on!"

This time when Nate gave another, slightly weaker, pull on Brendon's hand and tried to start walking, his dad actually moved. He hurried alongside Nate, letting go of his hand so he could reach behind him and grab onto Lewis's hand so he didn't lose his five year old in their rush to get back.

Brendon didn't care for any of the ER staff who thought this must have been a sight from a delirium. Seeing the ortho surgeon who frightened them all, hurrying down the hall with three children surrounding him, all in a wave of panic and Brendon's features moulded into a frightened sheen of panic.

As soon as they were in the room, Brendon lowered Reece down to his feet and clicked his fingers, pointing for the boys to go and sit back down. He needed them out the way so he could see to (Y/n), but still close enough to be within his sights so he didn't have to worry.

He caught sight of Nate out the corner of his eye; the eldest hadn't moved to sit down and right now Brendon didn't want to stand an argue with him. Instead, Nate was stood at the end of the bed, hands grappling with the rail at the foot of the bed and he gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his fingers began to ache. His stomach imbedded against the rail as he leant forwards, trying to keep his mum within his sights and watch his dad take care of her.

"Baby? Baby look at me." He bent forward over the bed, not entirely graceful when he took (Y/n)'s chin in his hand to tilt her head back in an attempt to get her to try and look at him.

She could barely open her eyes, let alone get her constricted pupils to focus on him, though Brendon was sure she looked relieved at seeing him which made his erratic heart flutter for a few brief seconds.

Where she had been shaking with cold when he left the room earlier, she was now writhing and tremoring on the bed like she was on the verge of going into a seizure. And he noticed a sheen of sweat glistening on her flushed skin, but she was clutching the blankets like she was still freezing cold.

With pursed lips he reached behind the bed for the thermometer and pressed it into her ear while his eyes flitted across to the monitor beside the bed. Her pulse was rising but her blood pressure was starting to drop.

"It's s- so cold, a-and I'm dizzy… Brendon, help. I don't feel right."

(Y/n) wasn't sure what was wrong and she wasn't in any specific pain, but she felt horrid. She felt like all her wires were crossed within her. Her blood was pulsing and throbbing in her ears. Her head was pounding and spinning even though she wasn't moving. Her limbs were going numb and she was so, so cold.

The way she said his name made something within Brendon's chest snap in half. She was begging him for help. She needed him to do something as a doctor, not as her husband. (Y/n) needed help before whatever was wrong with her got any worse.

He snatched the stethoscope someone had left lying around on the side and pressed the cold bell against her chest, watching her wince at how cold it was against her skin.

"You're going into shock." Brendon's voice was quiet but there was no denying the firmness to his tone, the anger hidden beneath his words.

He didn't understand.

This couldn't be some sort of reaction to her stitches because he had seen them earlier and they were just fine. Her skin wasn't bubbling or getting a rash or leaking with puss. She couldn't have an infection or it would have shown on the blood tests he saw on the computer had been ordered, and she couldn't have developed an infection from her wounds or stitches this quickly.

All her signs pointed towards her going into shock from something, but he couldn't tell what the cause was.

His jaw locked so tight he felt like he was forcing his teeth back up into his gums and his cheekbones pushed out on show as his cheeks hollowed and his whole expression tightened. He was looking for something, but he didn't know what it was.

His head turned to the right and he looked over the cannula and IV tube taped into (Y/n)'s left hand, and the blood transfusion taped into the crease of her elbow. His fingers skimmed along the tubes until he was looking over the bags. Surely someone hadn't been stupid enough to mix up the saline bags and give her something meant for another patient; something with high dosed controlled substances mixed in. But they were just two bags of sodium saline solution.

Then he finally spotted it; the writing printed on the blood transfusion bag.

Brendon's lips curled in complete horror until his grinding teeth were on show and his skin boiled and turned a nasty shade of rouge all up his neck and across his features.

"You're fucking kidding me."

All three boys reeled back in shock and Lewis meekly uttered "bad word daddy."

They hardly ever heard him swear in front of them. Contray to what everyone here at the hospital would believe, Brendon was as calm, loving and relaxed as anyone could be when he was at home with his family. His harsh expressions, glaring daggers and snarls were reserved strictly for the incompetent staff here at the Pittsbrough hospital.

Each boy winced when they watched their dad reach behind the bed and slam his palm down onto the big red button in the centre of the wall that signalled an emergency.

"Nate sit with your brothers. None of you move from that spot, you hear me?"

Each of them nodded and Nate hastily picked Reece up so he could sit down with his youngest brother huddled up on his lap like he had done earlier. When their dad was talking in such a strict, serious tone of voice, none of them were going to go against him.

All three boys stayed huddled together between two chairs, cowering and feeling tears running down their features as they looked over at their dad, hoping whatever was wrong with their mum, he could fix.

Confusion plastered across Princess's face when she peeked her head around the door and found none other than Park the shark already there with his back to her.

"What's going on?" She couldn't tell if someone had hit the emergency button and Park had responded, or if he was the one who had called the emergency. Part of her wasn't so sure she wanted to find out the answer.

"Get Robinavitch in here now."

"Oh- okay, why?"

"She's having a hemolytic reaction."

With a frown plastered across her face, Princess turned and fled the room to find the chief attending and get his attention and input. That phrase sounded so foreign in her ears which was strange when she spoke six languages; it wasn't something she heard often, or that she had ever heard whilst working here.

It didn't take long for Robby to come bustling into the room, fresh pair of gloves on his hands, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and Mel following right behind him. He had no idea what they were walking into and Robby thought another pair of hands might be in order, especially since Brendon wouldn't be allowed to treat or help with (Y/n)'s care since she was his family.

"Park, what's the situation in here?"

"Some fucker's put my wife on A positive blood transfusion, her blood type is B negative. She's going into shock."

Brendon couldn't believe he was even saying it. How could someone have made such a stupid mistake- and with (Y/n) of all people?

Someone had started her on the wrong blood type. The body was a clever, sensitive thing and it could recognise foreign cells immediately. (Y/n)'s body was fighting itself, trying to attack the foreign blood cells and it was sending her into shock.

The effects of this needed to be reversed and her body needed to be syncronised again before her organs began to shut down and she developed sepsis.

His head snapped down when he felt (Y/n) weakly reaching out to grip and tug on his forearm, pulling it towards her chest like he was a comfort teddy she wanted to cling to for reassurance.

"W-what's happening?" (Y/n)'s voice trembled almost as bad as her body that was shaking back and forth on the bed. She couldn't muffle the groan that left her lips but she did manage to keep her eyes open and focused on her husband.

Her mind wasn't concentrating properly. Her blood was pounding in her ears so loudly that she could bearly hear the rest of the conversations floating around the room. She didn't know what he had just said to Robby or what was now wrong with her. There shouldn't be anything wrong with her when she had only come in with some deep wounds and cuts that had already been seen to and taken care of.

The feeling of Brendon's thumb gliding along her jaw made (Y/n)'s heart slow down its accelerated rhythm for a few seconds.

"Someone's messed up and you're going into shock sweetheart. I'm gonna take care of it, and you'll be just fine."

Part of Brendon was irritated that he could see Robby moving around to check that his diagnosis was correct. He couldn't believe what Brendon had told him. This wasn't something that happened nowadays, it just wasn't a thing. Blood was screened closely, blood types noted on file and patients tested before being given a transfusion if their type wasn't known or suspected to be wrong. Robby couldn't imagine any of his staff making such a silly, damning mistake like this.

But Robby checked the blood bag hanging up- which Brendon had just pressed the clip on to stop the blood from getting through the cannula in her elbow- and he then swiped his badge down on the computer and pulled up (Y/n)'s notes.

He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, grunting a sigh as he closed the computer and moved round to stand at Brendon's side and check over (Y/n).

Brendon's sharp eyes locked onto Mel who was currently stood with her hands locked together and her eyes dancing between the bed and the three boys quietly shaking and crying in the corner. Unsure what they wanted her to do to help because Mel knew if she took it upon herself to try and step forward and help, Brendon would only lose his temper.

"Go get me some ACE inhibitors and I need two pints of O negative blood. Now."

Mel didn't dither, as soon as Brendon spoke she was surging from the room to go and get what was requested. Though her mind was reeling. Someone had messed up. Someone in this ER had given a patient the wrong blood type. Mel had only read about haemolytic reactions in med school, it wasn't something that ever happened in this modern day and age.

This was something that happened one hundred years ago before they had proper screening for blood transfusions. Before they had computer systems and proper filing and records that easily counted the blood types of patients.

This was grounds for a lawsuit.

"Push the fluids wide open." Robby ordered as he moved around to stand on the opposite side of the bed to Brendon so they didn't get in each other's way. "Those inhibitors will stop her kidneys from shutting down but we'll need broad spectrum antibiotics to calm her immune system."

"She's had half the blood bag already; if she gets sepsis from this I'll murder your staff." The threat was uttered quietly enough that Brendon knew his boys wouldn't hear him, but the conviction in his tone made Robby's expression harden.

Swallowing hard, Brendon leant down and gently took hold of (Y/n)'s arm, lifting it to his sights so he could carefully peel back the sticker along the crease of her elbow. He was as careful as he could be when he removed the cannula needle from her vein, ready for when Mel brought the universal blood bag so they could get actual blood in her system that her body could recognise and work with.

They didn't know how much damage that blood had done to her system already. If it reached her kidneys it could cause problems and potentially shut them down if her immune system attacked the blood and ended up attacking the kidneys too. Her liver could be next. They had to get inhibitors into (Y/n)'s system to protect her organs and antibiotics to prevent her from developing sepsis.

If she developed sepsis, which was the body's way of overreacting to an infection and attacking healthy cells, (Y/n) would really be at risk of fatal damage.

When he heard a quiet whimper and sniffs, Brendon's head shot up towards the boys sat on the chairs behind Robby. He took a few steps and grabbed onto the curtain against the wall and gave a sharp tug until the dark ocean blue paper curtain was separating the boys from the bed. He didn't want them to sit and watch this, it wouldn't be fair to see their mum crying and needing immediate medical attention.

They had already seen her have her leg stitched back up and the glass removed, they didn't need to witness this too.

"Daddy!" Lewis wailed in utter despair, about to clamber off his chair and scuttle round to his dad. He didn't want to be separated from them, even by something as thin as a curtain.

"Dad no-"

"You boys stay behind that curtain so I know where you are. Wait until I've gotten mum taken care of."

"I've got it." Mel wheeled a small trolley into the room and bustled up to Brendon's side. She had done what he'd requested. Inhibitors, blood bag transfusions and she'd also gotten some antibiotics; her quick thinking had been on the same mind track as theirs.

Brendon was quick to take the inhibitors and get them injected into the fluid IV. He couldn't give them all at once to (Y/n) and risk overwhelming her system, but the fluids were wide open so everything would get into her system at a fast rate.

Robby took the blood bag and found a fresh needle and tube, getting them inserted back into the cannula clip in (Y/n)'s vein in her elbow. And Mel acquired the right dosage of antibiotics which she held out to Brendon so he could get them too in the IV bag.

Shudders crawled down Brendon's skin and he almost jumped back when (Y/n)'s trembling hand reached out for him and ended up scraping along his thigh to claw for his attention. His name mewled past her lips as her vision continued to blur and the room felt like it was spinning around her at sixty miles an hour.

Just as Robby was about to push the clip and send the blood surging through the tube into (Y/n)'s system, he found Brendon's hand curled tightly around his forearm.

"No, I need to draw bloods first."

"What?"

"I want proof of this fuck up."

Robby looked dubious, but finally nodded when Mel held out a needle, turniquet and vial towards Brendon so he could do what he'd suggested.

He needed to take a blood sample and get it sent to the lab for analysis. He needed to get proof that someone in this ER had made the mistake of giving his wife the wrong blood type. He wanted difinitive proof, not just the wrong bag held up on the hook that someone would try and explain away.

Unease washed over (Y/n) when she realised what Brendon was going to do when he reached for her right arm, and she snapped her eyes closed in preparation, but she didn't argue or fight him. She was surprised to find she barely felt the needle slipping into her elbow for Brendon to take a blood sample. Once it was done, he kissed the crease of her arm.

He tried to do his best penmanship as he scrawled (Y/n)'s name and date of birth across the blank label on the vial before passing it to Mel.

"That needs to be rushed down to the lab, I want it in writing that she's suffered a hemolytic reaction."

When (Y/n)'s trembling hand reached out for him again, Brendon took her hand and entwined their fingers, squeezing tight as his other hand began to smooth up and down her arm. Giving what little comfort he could during this whole charade.

"This fucking ER." He muttered under his breath as his eyes stayed on his wife, who was still trembling and writhing on the bed like she physically could not sit still.

"Park this was an accident-"

"This is a royal screw up." He turned sharply until he was face to face with the chief attending. "One of your incompetant doctors didn't check their notes or do the bare minimum and gave the wrong blood. That is a schoolboy error Robinavitch. What kind of fuck ups have you got working under you in here?"

Robby chose not to answer that, though his expression hardened like stone and his jaw clicked.

"Park, the family room is free, do you want to take your boys in there?" He changed the subject quickly. He could hear all of them whimpering and whispering to one another behind the curtain. They were petrified and sobbing and they needed to be out of this room until their mum was better and they could see that she was out of danger. Sitting in here wasn't going to do them any good.

Brendon's head tipped sharply before his attention was back down on (Y/n) and he leant over the bed, trailing his free hand through her hair before he pressed a soft kiss to her flushed temple.

"I'll be right back sweetheart, okay?"

(Y/n) didn't want him to go, but she knew she could hardly beg him to stay here with her when the boys needed to be out the room until Brendon's mum arrived to take them home.

So she nodded, trying to fight back tears as Brendon kissed her temple again and his touch receeded leaving her cold with a tremoring heart.

"Boys, come with me." His tone softened ever so slightly when he weaved around the curtain and set his sights on his troop.

He didn't think twice as he leant down and scooped Lewis and Reece up into his arms like he had done earlier, cuddling them into his chest while he tipped his head for Nate to follow them. He felt Nate's hand scrunch around his scrubs over his hip, clinging to him so they didn't get separated as Brendon guided them out of the room and headed down the hall to the left until he found the family room.

"Evans, can you watch my boys for me?" He didn't stop to linger and wait for a response, simply nodded for Nate to open the door so they could all head inside, hearing Dana's hurried footsteps as she followed after them.

He hated to see the tears drenching Nate's face as the ten year old flopped down into an armchair, limbs slack and loose like he had passed out the moment he sat down. His features were drained, eyes rimmed red and tear tracks slick down his cheeks and neck.

Lewis and Reece weren't much better, both still sniffling and shedding tears as they clung to Brendon's neck and writhed and wriggled against his chest.

With a kiss to each of their temples he knelt down in front of the sofa and eased them down until they were sat wriggling and clinging to his arms to stop him from pulling away from them.

"Alright, now mummy's not well but she will feel better soon now I've fixed the problem. Grandma is coming to take you all home and then-"

"No! Daddy you take us home," Lewis sniffled while Reece simply burst into another fit of tears with a loud shrieking wail passing his lips.

"I can't take you home yet, I need to stay with mummy and make sure she gets better. But you can't stay here so you need to go home with grandma, okay?" He glanced to his left when he heard the door creak and saw Dana stood with her hands clasped in front of her and her lips pinched like she was finding it hard to keep her composure simply from watching them.

"You come home soon?" Reece murmured while he laid his cheek against Brendon's exposed bicep, clinging to him in the same way he would hang onto Brendon's arm and pretend to be a weight Brendon would lift during his training at the gym.

"As soon as mummy's okay, I'll come home to you all. I promise." His free hand curled around the back of Reece's head and reeled him closer for a sideways hug and a kiss to his chubby cheek.

He then did the same to Lewis, uttering a soft "Be good for me and stay with nurse Dana for now," before his attention turned to Nate.

Without a word, the eldest pushed up off the chair and latched onto Brendon, clinging to him with his face buried in his dad's firm chest. "Mum's gonna get better now?"

"Yeah, she'll get better in a day or two."

When they parted and Nate slumped back down in the chair, Brendon found himself tremoring. He turned away from his boys, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the tears from falling as he headed out the room with just a look towards Dana to convey his thanks that she would stay and keep an eye on his troop for the time being.

When he stepped out into the ER again, he was rattling like a pill box and his short nails were piercing through his gloves into his palms. The rage he felt was overwhelming, blinding, infuriating.

One of these people had fucked up. One of them had just endangered Brendon's wife and put her life at risk for a silly mistake they should never have made. If someone could mess up so badly like that then they should never have gotten through medical school.

If Brendon was still up in surgery and hadn't managed to come down and check on (Y/n), if she passed out and Nate and the boys didn't know any better or know that she was getting worse, this could have been prolonged. (Y/n) could have had the full pint of blood in her system, she could have gone into a worse state of shock and her organs might have started to shut down by the time someone realised something was wrong. It didn't bear thinking about.

No one in here was any the wiser. As Brendon stood still, letting the gurneys wheel past him, the nurses speed off in a rush and the doctors go about their hurried business without a care in the world for (Y/n), all he could think of was who had done this. Who was at fault, which one of them had caused this disaster and then walked away without seeing the consequences.

"Who treated my wife?"

His voice barked out through the ER, loud enough that it echoed off the walls and every pair of eyes suddenly fell to him, unsure what he was doing.

It took a few seconds for some of them to realise who was speaking, and even more turbulent energy flooded the air when they realised it was Park the shark that was shouting at them all. It was the ortho surgeon who was stood near the nurses desk with his hands on his hips, his shoulders broad and pointed outwards and s face chiselled in dark horror.

Receiving no answer made Brendon even more irritated than before and he huffed as he stared at the rounds of blank faces and noticed how many workers had stopped to look at him but gave him no answer.

"(Y/n) Park. She fell on glass, had stitches all up her left leg and due to blood loss, someone in here gave her a transfusion. Now who was it?"

Again, blank faces looked back at him and confused eyes dared not meet his gaze or look at him for longer than a few seconds at a time. Until finally, a voice broke out through the quiet, tense atmosphere.

"Uh, me… why?" Trinity wasn't sure why, but she raised her hand for a brief second so that Brendon could see who had spoken before she folded her arms over her chest and stood side by side with Dennis, who was just as confused.

Everyone here was wary of Brendon, he was inimidating and frightening and they never liked asking for a consult, even though he was one of the best in his field. They liked it when he stayed upstairs in his department. But this wasn't a side to him that they had ever seen before.

Brendon's eyes narrowed on Trinity, scrutinising her, analysing every inch of her as his lips pinched together and he gave a curt nod, humming as he dwelled on this information.

"So I know who I'm filing a law suit against."

"Excuse me?"

The brunette's eyes widened and almost bulged out their sockets and her arms dropped from her chest so her hands could grasp her hips. Who the Hell did he think he was? Why would he do that? And why was he starting such a conversation here, when they had a full audience of their peers to witness it?

Her lips parted and twitched as if she were about to smile in disbelief, but her upper lip twitched and she fought hard not to shrink back when Brendon stepped closer. He was intimidating; more so than the patients Trinity was used to standing up to and putting back in their place.

His eyes held a fire within them that could scorch the sun itself. His parted lips were practically sneering at her and his chiselled features were hardening, cheekbones sticking out as he looked down his pointed nose at her.

"When you don't do your fucking job, and give a patient the wrong blood transfusion, you will get a lawsuit made against you. And when that patient is my wife, you will regret ever picking up a med book."

He was glad to see a glimmer in Trinity's eyes. A spark of fear, a twinge of uncertainty as she tried to think back and work out whether she had actually made such a stupid mistake or if this situation was a complete misunderstanding or a mistake of someone else.

If it were someone else's mistake, Trinity would have been in the gossip chain along with everyone else, remarking how ignorant someone could be to give a patient the wrong blood type. She would pity the poor soul who had done such a mistake and knew that they would be lucky to salvage any tattered medical career after such a situation.

But she couldn't think straight knowing that this accusation was aimed at her. All she could do was stare up at Brendon with fear in her eyes and her teeth gnawing down on her lower lip to stop herself from making any kind of noise.

And when the ortho surgeon stepped closer, she visibly winced and fought a losing battle to hold her ground.

Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.

Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.

"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."

That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.

So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.

And then again.

And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."

You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.

You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.

You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.

You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.

The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.

He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.

But Jack was Jack.

Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.

And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.

It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.

It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"

Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.

Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.

"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."

And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.

Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.

So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.

Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.

"There you are," he said.

You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.

Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.

Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.

"Dana needs your signature on this."

Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine-

You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.

The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.

He looked at you for a second too long.

Then he said, "You sick or something?"

You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."

"Then why are you acting weird?"

"I'm not acting weird?"

Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.

Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."

But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.

At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.

You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.

You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.

Instead, you said, "Thanks."

Jack stared at you.

"Thanks?"

You blinked at him. "What?"

"That's all I get?"

You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."

"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."

You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."

He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.

Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.

"This is sooo much worse than I thought."

Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"

"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."

Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."

Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."

You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.

Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.

Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.

By the end of the week, Dana got involved.

She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.

"What'd you do to him, hon?"

You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"

Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."

"He doesn't sulk"

"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."

You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.

"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.

"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"

Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.

You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"

"You are a total idiot."

"Dana."

"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."

Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.

"Sorry, what?"

Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."

Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.

Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"

You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.

Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."

You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.

"What?!"

That made everything worse. So, so much worse.

Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.

That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.

He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.

"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"

You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.

"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.

"Try again."

"Shouldn't you be working?"

"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."

Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.

Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.

"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.

"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"

The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!

You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."

Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.

"That's why?"

You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."

"That wasn't a date."

"It wasn't a date."

"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Jack said.

He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"

You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.

You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"

Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.

Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."

Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.

"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.

Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?

"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"

"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.

Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.

“You thought that was one-sided?”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”

Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.

“I never stopped you.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I wait for it.”

You blinked.

His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.

“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”

Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.

Jack took one more step closer.

“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”

That did it.

That cracked the whole thing open.

You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.

You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”

You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.

“You are a disaster,” you said.

“So are you.”

You smiled despite yourself.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.

Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”

“What?”

“One of your lines.”

You stared at him.

Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.

“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”

A laugh caught in your chest.

Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”

Jack shut his eyes for half a second.

When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.

It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.

You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t start.”

“You do.”

He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”

“Yes.”

He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.

“You realised it first” he said.

You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”

Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.

“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”

Something in your chest melted completely.

You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.

When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.

“Are they in there?”

Damn it Trinity.

You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.

“You coming back down?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

You smiled. “Very romantic.”

“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”

“Wow.”

“You started it.”

You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.

As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.

Her eyes went wide.

Then narrowed. Then widened again.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”

Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”

Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”

Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”

She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”

Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.

Not enough to draw attention.

Just enough that you felt it.

And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.

You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.

And that, more than anything, felt like winning.

** me waiting to see if i did a good job:

“You’re kind of scary,” he admits, but it’s warm, teasing.

“I’m efficient,” you correct. “And clearly the only reason you’ve ever made it through airport security.”

There’s a pause. Then he laughs full-bodied and genuine.

“What would I do without you?”

“It’s a scary thought.”

“You don’t think I could manage on my own?” he says, mock-offended.

“I don’t think you could tie your shoes without my help.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”

“Is it?”

You can hear the smile in his voice before he speaks again. “Touché.”

Working for Max Verstappen wasn’t in your five-year plan. Or your backup plan. Or your blackout-drunk in Ibiza plan.

But somehow you’re here, personal assistant, calendar wizard, social media wrangler, part-time therapist, and full-time fire extinguisher. On any given day you’re organising press conferences, rejecting offers from another gin brand who want Max to be their new face, and reminding him that ignoring the stewards is generally frowned upon.

You’re the one who handles all the chaos that surrounds Max, the media, the meetings, the endless parade of appearances and dinners and fake smiles. You schedule his life down to the minute, including what time he should eat, when to leave for press, and how to avoid women with Instagram bios that say “F1 obsessed.”

He’s a womaniser, flirtatious to the point of reckless. Models. Influencers. There’s always someone, always something, and it’s usually half-dressed and hanging off his arm before you’ve even finished your first espresso. You’re the one who fields the follow-up texts. The ones that say “Can you tell Max I left my earrings in his hotel room?” or “I think we really had a connection.”

You delete them. Like you delete everything that doesn’t fit neatly into the carefully managed image you’ve built around him.

Because that’s your job.

To clean up the mess.

To stay calm.

To stay separate.

He, predictably, doesn’t appreciate it. Not really.

He’s a handful. Several, really.

And you’re very, very good at handling him.

Which is probably why he won’t let you go.

“You know you’re not my prisoner,” you tell him one evening as you both recover from a brutal double-header. You’re sunburnt, jet-lagged, and your phone is still buzzing with notifications from a fire you put out six hours ago..

He’s sprawled across the sofa in his Monaco apartment, arms behind his head, still in Red Bull merch, hair slightly damp from the shower. “You say that but every time I try to hire someone else, they run screaming.”

“What’s that got to do with me? That’s because you ask if they know how to make tequila sunrises mid-interview.”

He lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s a fair question.”

“You don’t even drink tequila sunrises.”

He cracks one eye open. “No, but you do.”