a compilation of my fixations

Then—

Smoke.

Cigarette.

And a cough.

“Shit,” you mutter.

He turns.

You’re half-hidden behind one of the vents, like you’ve been caught doing something mildly illegal. Cigarette pinched between your fingers, shoulders a little too straight, like you’re trying to pretend you weren’t just hacking your lungs out.

“Hi—hey, sorry,” you say quickly, giving him a small, guilty wave.

It’s… not what he expected.

You—pink gloss, soft cardigan, that stupidly neat skirt—looking like you walked out of a catalogue for competent and well-adjusted young professionals—

Smoking.

He doesn’t know if it makes more sense or less.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion. “Am I um… interrupting you?”

“No—no, of course not,” you shake your head quickly. “I just didn’t want to smoke in the ambulance bay. Figured I’d get… judged.”

“What makes you think that?” he says sarcastically.

You smile, a little sheepish.

“…Why are you up here?” you ask, tilting your head.

He considers it.

The truth sits right there—ugly, simple.

Because sometimes it gets loud in my head after shifts like this.

Instead—

“Long night,” he says.

You nod like that’s enough. Like you understand more than he said.

You step closer, a little careful about it. Like you’re testing the space.

He doesn’t move away.

You come to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, both of you facing out over the fence.

“Nice view,” you say.

He looks at you first.

Then the skyline. He's worked at PTMC for years now. Whenever he's looking at the skyline, he's rarely thinking about the view.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Pretty nice.”

You lift the cigarette again, inhaling, deliberately turning your head so the smoke drifts away from him. Polite. Even now.

“You know,” he says after a beat, “there’s a famous saying.”

You glance at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, serious, he leans over, a couple inches away from your ear. “Smoking’s bad for you.”

You groan immediately, a smile breaking through anyway as he pulls back. “Oh my god. You sound like my dad.”

“That right?” he hums. “Smart guy.”

“Annoying guy,” you correct.

That pulls something close to a smile out of him.

You tap ash off the cigarette, hesitating for a second before holding it out toward him.

He shakes his head. “Quit a long time ago.”

“My bad.” You pull it back, taking another drag. “I’ve been trying to quit for like a year. I just—” you shrug lightly, a little self-conscious, “—itch for it when something bad happens.”

He glances at you. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing dramatic. Just… work. Life. You know.”

He does.

“What’d you do?” you ask, softer now. “To quit.”

He exhales slowly.

“Less what I did,” he says, “more what I saw.”

You look at him properly now.

“Had a patient,” he continues. “Early on. My age at the time. Came in coughing like hell. We had to open him up—lungs were…” he pauses, searching for the word, then settles on it anyway, “grey. Just… grey. Like ash. Never touched a cigarette again.”

You choke on your next inhale, coughing hard, eyes watering.

He huffs a quiet laugh, watching you turn away, mortified and laughing at yourself at the same time.

“Yeah,” you rasp, waving a hand. “That’ll—yeah. That’ll do it.”

You clear your throat, composing yourself. He notices how your fingers sit on the cigarette, well acquainted with this act. Your nails are a warm shade of pink, sharp and long, scratching against the side of the tobacco.

“I was hoping it’d be something like yoga,” you add.

“I do yoga.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. Every morning, before I sleep.”

You look him up and down, openly sceptical. “That’s… surprising.” You hum. “I prefer pilates,” you say after a beat.

“That’s a gimmick.”

You scoff. “My ex would disagree.”

He watches you finish the cigarette—watches the way you hold it, the way your lashes dip when you blink, like you’re letting him in on something small and private.

“…Recent?” he asks.

You nod once. “Mhm.”

“His loss.”

It comes out easy. Too easy. You pause—just a fraction.

There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe. Or the fact that you didn’t expect that from him.

You look away first, out toward the skyline, but there’s a small smile you can’t quite hide.

“You likin' it here?” he asks.

You nod. “Mhm. The people here are nice.”

“High bar.”

Wind cuts across the roof. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly a little more aware of how close you’re standing.

“You?” you ask. “You like it?”

He looks back out over the city. Considers.

“…Some nights,” he says.

Your eyes flick to his. Hold. You glance down at his hands, before moving your gaze away back to the view.

The door behind you swings open.

Robby steps out, stretching, then stops when he clocks the two of you standing just a little too close.

You turn, immediately straightening a fraction. Reflex.

“Good morning, Dr. Robinvatich,” you say, polite, composed—just this side of too formal.

Robby grins. “Morning. And- Robby. Or Michael, please,” he corrects.

You hesitate. “Right... I’ll stick to Robby.”

He glances between you and Jack. Takes in the cigarette, the proximity.

“…Did I interrupt something, or—”

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yeah,” Jack says at the same time.

You both glance at each other.

Robby huffs a laugh. “Right. That clears it up.”

You look down at your shoes, then at the cigarette in your hand. “I’d rather not—these are new,” you say, gesturing slightly.

Jack steps in without thinking, taking it from your fingers, dropping it, grinding it out under his shoe.

“Thank you,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. Doesn’t step back straight away. 

You smile a bit at him and nod, stepping away as Robby walks over.

You give a polite wave as you leave. Jack gives you a nod, then you’re gone. The door shuts behind you. Silence hangs for a second.

Robby exhales slowly. He opens his mouth to say something.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “Not a word, Michael.”

★★★

“It smells like strawberries.”

Cassie’s standing at the nurses’ station, holding her contract up like it might confess something.

Jack doesn’t look up from his chart. “Didn’t know you were into smelling paperwork, McKay.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, half-laughing, half-baffled. She hands it over.

Jack takes it, glances down—renewal, standard structure, your name printed neatly at the bottom. He lifts it slightly, almost without thinking—

…and yeah.

Strawberries. Something softer underneath. Vanilla, maybe. Clean. Likely intentional.

He lowers the page, mildly annoyed he even checked.

Cassie watches him. “Right?”

“Hm.”

“She made me reprint it because the margins were off by a millimetre,” Cassie goes on, flipping through. “Then gave me this whole… ramble about how contracts should feel ‘safe and reassuring.’ Like I’m signing up for a facial.”

Jack snorts under his breath, handing it back. “Sounds about right.”

Cassie skims another page, nodding to herself. “She got me more leave.”

“That so?”

“Mhm. And flagged my overtime. Said if I burn out and make a mistake, that’s liability for the hospital.” She glances up. “Which… very fair.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“No, she’s not,” Cassie agrees. Then, too casually—“You into her?”

Jack finally looks up. “What?”

“I mean, what do you think of her?” she shrugs. “Relax, I’m not filing anything. Different departments. Grey area.” A beat. “But are you into her like that? She is pretty cute.”

He just looks at her.

“…Right. Dumb question,” she mutters, waving it off.

“I think she’s good at her job,” he says, already turning back to his screen. “Nice. Polite.”

“Nice and getting me more paid leave,” Cassie says, satisfied. She taps the paper. “I’m a fan.”

“Don’t you usually read those at home?” Jack mutters. “Day shift’s nearly over.”

“Yes, but you’re such a beacon of joy, Abbot. Thought I’d soak up some of that up before I left.” She shoulders her bag. “Have a good shift.”

“Yeah,” he says, not looking up. “See you.”

She heads off. The station settles—monitors humming, distant voices bleeding in from down the hall. Jack squints at his chart, blinks hard, drags a hand over his eyes. He senses it will be a long shift. 

Then—

Heels. Quick, speedwalking down the hall. Purposeful.

“Hey—Dana, hi—sorry, I’m looking for Doctor Ab—”

You spot him mid-sentence. Your whole expression shifts—relief, recognition.

“—there he is. Sorry. Hi.”

You’re already moving.

Jack pushes off the counter, meeting you halfway just as you nearly walk straight into a janitor coming up behind you. His hands land lightly on your arms, steering you aside without thinking.

You blink up at him, briefly disoriented, either by the sudden movement, or his large warm hands on you. Probably both.

The janitor mutters thanks and passes.

“What’s got you in a rush?” Jack asks, voice low, dropping his hands.

You straighten immediately. “I’m not in a rush. I’m walking at a completely normal pace.”

“Sure,” he nods.

You ignore that. “There’s an issue with a patient of yours from…” you flip open your notebook, already scanning, “—Four months ago. Taylor Winnipeg. Gunshot wound to the foot. Do you remember—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, “I barely remember driving here.”

That pulls a small, reluctant smile out of you.

“Right. Fair.” You nod once, recalibrating. “Okay—short version: patient’s family has retained counsel. They’re alleging negligence—failure to diagnose a Lisfranc injury on initial presentation. They’ve put forward a demand for five-point-seven million.”

Jack exhales through his nose. “Jesus.”

“Mhm,” you say, already flipping a page. “They’re arguing delayed diagnosis led to chronic instability, multiple corrective surgeries, long-term impairment. Loss of income, future care, pain and suffering—the works.”

He glances at you, more focused now.

“So—whenever you get a chance, if you could come up to my office, I just need—”

“I’m free now,” he says.

You blink. “Oh—no, you don’t have to—”

“Day shift’s wrapping,” he shrugs. “I’ll get Robby to hang back.”

“Are you sure?” you ask quickly. “I don’t want to pull you away from—”

“Robby owes me,” Jack says, already turning. “Took some of his last day shift. Did a sixteen.”

“…Right,” you nod. “Okay.”

You wait by the station while he crosses to Central Five. You watch them talk—Robby glances over, gives you a polite smile, says something that makes Jack huff. There’s a shove to Jack’s shoulder, easy, familiar.

Jack comes back, grabbing his phone.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You fall into step beside him.

“You alright?” he asks, almost offhand, his hand brushing against your lower back to guide you around a gurney.

It’s quick. Practical.

Still—

“Mhm,” you nod, a beat late. “You two are close.”

“Nope,” he says. “Hate each other.”

You glance up at him.

“He’s sneaky,” Jack adds. “Acts like a good guy. Then you realise he’s just sad and old.”

“Unlike you,” you say sarcastically.

That gets a small, surprised laugh out of him. “Unlike me. I’m pissed off and old.”

You smile—properly this time.

The elevator doors open. A couple of nurses wheel a patient out. Jack holds the door, nodding you in first.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He follows, hitting the button. The doors slide shut, leaving just the two of you in the soft hum of the lift. His eyes drift over you, slow and deliberate, while you keep your gaze fixed on the closing doors.

The light plaid skirt clings to your hips just enough to catch the light, paired with a low cut white shirt that hugs you nicely, the way your hair falls—neatly styled, yet framing you—makes him pause. He allows himself this moment, a private glance, before clearing his throat, as if reminded to breathe.

“You always carry that?” he asks, nodding to your notebook.

You glance down. Pink. Of course it is. Stickers. Your name engraved in neat cursive.

“Yes.”

“Even off the clock?”

“I’m never really off the clock,” you say, matter-of-fact. Then, softer—“I like being prepared.”

He hums. “Yeah. I can tell.”

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’ve probably got colour-coded tabs in there.” 

You hesitate, briefly stammering before settling. “…They’re not colour-coded,” you say carefully. 

He looks at you, curious. Go on. 

You sigh, conceding. “Alphabetical, obviously. Colour coding is for children.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

The lift dings. Doors open.

You step out first, already a little more composed, back on your turf.

“My office is just—” you start, then catch yourself. “—you’ve been here.”

He nods. 

You walk a few steps, then glance back. “Thank you for coming up, by the way. I know you're busy.”

“Better now than later,” he says.

You nod.

“Also,” he adds, “five-point-seven’s a starting point.”

You exhale. “Exactly.”

He watches you for a second—something with a little more intent now.

You push open the office door.

It’s quiet. Empty. Fluorescent hum a little too loud without everyone else.

Two desks—neutral, functional.

Yours… not so neutral. Soft pink tabs. Neatly stacked files, aligned perfectly. A matching pen holder. A small desk lamp casting warm light that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

Jack takes it in.

You catch it. “...What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You go over to the other side of your desk, looking through the drawers. “If you have something to say about my desk, please do so.”

He puts his hands up, as if to surrender and shakes his head with a small smile. “No, ma’am.”

Your face scrunches at that as you find the right drawer. “I don’t like that.”

“‘Ma’am?’”

“Mm. Makes me feel old.”

“If you’re old, I’m six feet under.”

You snicker at that. “Take a seat.”

He does as told, as you pull the file. He glances behind seeing you’ve got a fluffy pink pillow against the back of the seat. It’s comfortable, he might have to ask where you got it from, he notes to himself. 

You flip open the file and join him, taking the seat beside him instead of across. “Taylor Winnipeg.”

“Thirty-two,” you continue, voice settling into something more precise. “Initial presentation: GSW, left midfoot, through-and-through. No obvious vascular compromise. She refused imaging initially—signed out AMA—then consented after analgesia.”

“Yeah, right, coming back to me now. Blonde. Weird family. Mormons, or something,” he nods. “I remember the imaging refusal.”

You tap the page. “Great. The issue is what happened after.”

He glances at you, brows furrowed.

“They’re alleging failure to diagnose a Lisfranc injury at first presentation,” you say. “Specifically, that the delay—combined with inadequate reassessment—led to long-term structural instability.”

Jack exhales lightly. “Hard to diagnose if they won’t let you image.”

“Exactly,” you say, a touch sharper, pleased. “Which is why this, like most of my job, hinges on documentation.”

You flip to another tab.

“You documented the refusal,” you say. “That’s good, it’s just the language—” you glance at him briefly, “—it’s a bit vague. ‘Patient hesitant’ does not establish informed refusal.”

He frowns slightly, reading closer.

“They’re arguing she wasn’t adequately advised of material risks,” you continue. “Occult fracture, midfoot collapse, long-term disability. If that’s not clearly documented, the signed AMA form doesn’t fully protect you.”

There’s a brief pause. You’re close. Close enough that he can catch that same faint scent again. You don’t seem to notice.

“Then,” you add, clearing your throat, “there’s a two-hour gap post-consent. She’s still reporting significant pain. No documented re-evaluation before ortho consult.”

Jack nods slowly.

Then, more composed—“But look, you know, it’s defensible.”

That gets his attention.

You straighten slightly, slipping back into that controlled, careful version of yourself.

“We would frame it around the initial refusal, delayed consent, ER volume, competing high-acuity cases,” you say. “You know, reasonable clinical judgment under pressure. Something along those lines.”

He studies you for a second. “You handled something like this before?”

You hesitate. Honest.

“…Not at this scale,” you admit. “My seniors will step in. I just—” a small breath, “—want to make sure the groundwork’s solid.”

A beat.

Then, lighter—“Preferably so I don't get fired.”

He almost smiles. The glow from your desk lamp casts a soft pool of light over your workspace, the only one still awake in the quiet office.

Every other desk sits dark, abandoned, your colleagues long gone for the night.

“You making staying late a habit?” he asks.

You blink. “No.”

“Then why’re you here? Go home, day shift will love to see you bright and early, I’m sure of it.”

You hesitate, fingers smoothing the edge of the file, your eyes linger on him, briefly crossing his figure, landing to the floor in thought.

“It’s quieter. Here. At night,” you say. Then, after a beat— “Easier to think. ‘Sides, night shift needs legal help too, right?”

He hums. He doesn’t quite buy it.

“You don’t switch off much, do you?” he says.

You glance at him, a small, self-aware smile slipping through. “What makes you think that?”

“A hunch.”

You look back down, smoothing a page that doesn’t need it. “Um… anyway, uh,” you say, flipping the file closed, “I’ll just need a formal statement from you. Clear timeline. Specific language around informed refusal, consent, reassessment. Please.”

“Alright.”

“No abbreviations, God, doctors love anything but words,” you add, pointed. “I need like, actual, full sentences. Commas, too.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Big ask.”

You nod once, satisfied. “Okay. I’m gonna… do my lawyer thing. You should probably do your doctor thing.”

“I’ll try,” he says, pushing up from the chair.

You stand too, almost automatically offering a hand. He glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling.

“I’ve got it,” he nods, waving it off gently.

You drop your hand, smoothing your skirt instead.

He lingers a second longer than necessary. Looks at you—really looks this time. Still a little too polished for this place. Maybe not so out of place anymore.

“ER’s always got a spot for you,” he says. “If you… you know, get bored up here or something and want to see people being gross or dickheads.”

You grin. “I’ll keep that in mind," You hand him an extra printed version of the file you have. "This has all of the info I've got. See you around."

He nods once, like that settles something, holding the file, then turns.

Halfway down the hall, he takes a sniff of the paper. It indeed, somehow, smells like strawberries. Do all your files just… smell nice? Like, naturally?

By the time Jack gets back down to relieve Robby, he’s already being watched. There’s a look in the other doctor’s eyes.

Robby’s halfway through packing up, stethoscope off, bag over his shoulder—but he lingers.

That look.

“What was that about?” he asks, easy.

“Old case,” Jack says, logging in. “Family’s trying for five mil.”

Robby lets out a low whistle. “Sounds fun,” he says. Then, lighter—“Hey, she’s, what? Same age as Whittaker?”

“Her?”

Robby nods.

Jack frowns faintly, like he hadn’t placed it. “Yeah, I’d wager it”

“They’d be a nice pair,” Robby shrugs. “He’s always finding excuses to head upstairs. Contract questions, ‘clarifications’…” a small smirk. “Kid's not subtle.”

Jack clicks into a chart, a little sharper than necessary. “Not my business.”

“Wasn’t what you said when you tried setting Princess up with that neuro nurse,” Robby points out, amused.

Jack exhales through his nose. “That was different.”

“Mm,” Robby hums. “Was it?”

Jack holds his gaze for a second. Then looks back to the screen. “…Go home, Michael.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, slinging his bag properly over his shoulder.

“Take it easy,”

He leaves.

Jack stares at the chart in front of him. Doesn’t read a word.

Yeah. Maybe it was stupid.

No, definitely stupid.

Jack Abbot, forty-five, decades into a career that had long since burned the edges off anything soft, developing something as trivial and inconvenient as a crush on the hospital’s lawyer. The young lawyer. The one who smelled like strawberries and filed liability addendums like they were love letters to risk management.

Christ.

Work was work. He’d always been good at that line—keeping things contained, compartmentalised, clean. The ER didn’t leave room for much else anyway. People came in broken, he fixed what he could, documented the rest, went home, did it again.

But now, greater powers had a different idea.

Now he’s holding a file that smells faintly like you, which is ridiculous. Paper shouldn’t smell like anything. Certainly not like you. And yet there it is.

Subtle. Clean. Distracting.

He sets it down harder than necessary. It’ll pass, he tells himself. It always does.

You’re new. You’re… bright in a place that tends to dull people down. Put-together in a way that stands out against bloodstains and exhaustion. It’s novelty. That’s all.

And you’re young.

Too young, really.

You’d make more sense with someone like Whittaker—closer in age, less… complicated. Someone who doesn’t measure time in night shifts and missed sleep and things he doesn’t talk about anymore.

He’s lucky, in a way, to work where he does. The pace, the pressure—it keeps his head busy. Keeps everything narrowed down to the next patient, the next decision, the next thing that needs fixing.

Twelve hours disappear like that.

But the other twelve… it gets inconvenient. Because if he’s not sleeping—and he’s not, not really—his mind wanders.

And lately, it wanders somewhere specific.

You’re there even when you’re not. And when you are, it’s worse. Because he can’t avoid you.

Not when your job is tied to his. Not when you’re good at it—really good. Sharp in a way that actually helps, that makes his life easier instead of harder.

Not when you’ve made yourself part of the floor.

He sees you between patients. Hears you in passing. Catches glimpses of pink and neat handwriting and that pen you spin when you’re thinking.

And every time—

It sticks a little more than it should. He knows better. That’s the problem. He knows exactly how this kind of thing goes.

Which is why he keeps telling himself the same thing, over and over, like it might eventually stick. It’ll pass. It has to.

★★★

Your afternoon drags in that uniquely suffocating way only legal work can manage—quiet, fluorescent, over-explained.

You’re wedged into the conference room with the rest of the team, the Winnipeg file blown up across three screens like it’s something sacred. A bit cult-like, really. 

Clause by clause, line by line, every word picked apart until it barely resembles English anymore. Liability exposure. Damages modelling. Settlement posture. 

You sit a little straighter than everyone else. You always do. Pink tab markers lined up. Notes already cleaner than the document itself. You’re not bored exactly—you don’t really let yourself be—but there’s a restlessness under it. Like your brain’s moving faster than the room.

Someone’s still talking about indemnity caps. You’re already on the addendum. Typing, adjusting phrasing—tightening language the way you like it. Clean and precise. 

You tap your pen once against your lip, thinking.

“…we should soften that,” one of the senior associates says across the table. “Reads a little too defensive.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you say, not looking up. Your fingers keep moving. “It is defensive. It’s supposed to be. We’re conceding just enough to settle, not enough to invite a second claim.”

There’s a small pause.

You glance up then, offering a quick, polite smile like you didn’t just interrupt.

“Sorry,” you add, softer. “Just—if we hedge too much, it reads like we’re unsure. Plaintiff counsel will push that.”

“…No, that’s fair,” they concede.

You nod once, already back to your screen. Fixing it anyway.

God, you miss the ER a little. At least there, things happen.

Here, everything’s hypothetical until it isn’t—and by then it’s already too late to change anything. You adjust the wording again, frowning slightly.

You check your email inbox, seeing a few new emails. One of them catches your eye from the sender first as you click on it.

SUBJECT: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

FROM: [email protected]

SENT: 2:14PM

Attached. I hope they’re sufficient. Full sentences, like you asked. Even used commas correctly—feel like that should count for something legally. 

If you need edits, I’ll pretend to complain and then do them anyway, after I do my doctor thing. 

—J

P.S. If this does somehow turn into $5.7 million, I expect at least a coffee. Or a better printer recommendation. 

You’re trying to look like you’re deep in something serious while your colleagues type quietly around you—but there’s a small, uncontrollable curve at the corner of your mouth as you reread the email.

His statement is good. It’s a clear timeline. He actually wrote “the patient reported persistent pain despite initial analgesia” instead of “pt c/o pain.” You scroll through it once more, slower this time. It’s genuinely perfect.

You draft your reply three times before sending something normal.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

SENT: 4:02PM

Doctor Abbot,

Devastating news: this is, in fact, sufficient. More than sufficient, actually. I’m almost offended, I was excited to give you feedback.

Clear, detailed, legally coherent… I fear you may have missed your calling.

I’ll let you get back to your “doctor thing,” but for the record, you’ve just made my lawyer thing significantly easier.

Try not to let that go to your head.

You sign it off with your initial.

You check the time. 4:02 PM. He should be asleep. You picture it without meaning to—his place, probably quiet, blinds half-drawn. Him finally still after a shift like that. 

Out cold. He should be asleep. 

Your inbox pings. You blink. Already? You open it.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

FROM: [email protected]

SENT: 4:03PM

I knew I should've done Law School. And it has gone to my head. Sorry. Doctor. Part of the deal. 

Are you working till late tonight?

—J

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. You press your lips together, trying to stay normal about it—your colleagues are still here, still talking, still dissecting indemnity language like it’s life or death.

You type anyway.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

SENT: 4:04PM

Unlikely :( Tired. Some of us need sleep. Highly recommend it. You should try it sometime.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Three minutes pass. Then—

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

FROM: [email protected]

SENT: 4:07PM

I thought you said sleep was for losers.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

SENT: 4:07PM

Didn’t realise your memory still worked at that age. Impressive.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

FROM: [email protected]

SENT: 4:08PM

Careful. I’ll start documenting these attacks. Pretty sure harassment policies apply to lawyers too.

Aren’t you supposed to be working?

This is ridiculous—threading emails back and forth like this, subject lines stacking, pretending it’s professional when it’s very obviously not anymore.

Your cursor blinks. You don’t type your number. Not yet.

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)

SENT: 4:09PM

I am working. Multitasking. Very advanced skill. You wouldn’t get it.

A pause. Longer this time. You almost think he’s finally—

SUBJECT: Re: Statement (tragically not worth $5.7M)FROM: [email protected]

SENT: 4:12PM

Right. Of course.

Get some sleep tonight.

A well-rested lawyer is marginally less terrifying.

See you next shift.

—J

You stare at the screen a moment after it ends. You exhale slowly, leaning back in your chair, tapping your pen lightly against your lip.

“…something funny?” one of your colleagues asks, glancing over.

You blink, snapping back.

“Nope, no,” you say quickly, a little too quick. Then softer, composed again—“Um. I’ve got Jac- Doctor Abbot’s statement. I’ll download it and share it now.”

“Great news, thanks for that.”

They nod, already moving on.

★★★

You find him a few days later, early—too early to be properly awake, too late to still call it night.

Around 6AM, the hospital’s in that strange in-between again. Quieter, but not calm. Like it’s catching its breath.

The breakroom lights are harsh. The vending machine hums.

Jack stands in front of it, one hand braced against the side, the other hitting the same button with increasing skepticism.

The packet doesn’t drop.

He hits it again.

Nothing.

You hover at the doorway for a second, watching—just long enough to find it a little amusing.

Then you knock lightly against the doorframe.

“Have you tried threatening it?” you offer.

He glances over.

There’s that flicker—recognition, something softer underneath.

“Working up to it,” he says.

You step inside, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “You have to establish dominance early. Otherwise they don’t respect you.”

“Is that how you handle negotiations?”

“Exclusively,” you nod. “Very aggressive with inanimate objects.”

He huffs something that’s almost a laugh, stepping back slightly as you lean in.

You press a different button.

The machine whirs.

A granola bar drops.

You pause, looking at it, then back at him.

“…Beginner’s luck,” you say, but you’re already reaching down to grab it.

He watches you straighten, handing it over.

“Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

There’s a beat. You linger. He notices. You notice that he notices.

You smooth your skirt—habit more than anything—fingers quick, precise, like you’re resetting yourself. Then you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The skirt—shorter than the others you wear. Not inappropriate. Just… different enough that it registers. He looks away before the thought can settle.

“I, um—” you start, then reset, a little more composed. “My colleagues and I got your statement. It’s all just being finalised now.”

“Yeah?”

“They didn’t have as much to say as I did,” you say, simply. Then, a touch lighter—“Which means it was perfect.”

He leans back against the counter, unwrapping the bar. “Thought you’d say that.”

“I don’t like when doctors make my job easy,” you continue, a little prim, a little teasing. “It’s suspicious.”

“Careful,” he says. “I’ll go back to abbreviations.”

“Don’t you dare.”

A small smile passes between you.

Then—quiet again.

You shift your weight slightly, fingers tapping once against your notebook.

“Actually,” you say, like you’ve just remembered something, “that’s kind of why I came in early.”

His eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You nod, already pulling a pen from behind your ear. “There are… sometimes things come up—quick clarifications, timelines, small details that don’t really justify a formal email.”

He watches you step a little closer.

You reach for something in your bag. It's a small, pink post it note.

“Especially if I’m upstairs and you’re down here, or I’m not in at night,” you continue, like you’re explaining something purely practical. “It just slows things down.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches as you write.

“…So,” you add, softer now, just a hint of something under it, “for efficiency.”

You finish writing. Tap the pen once. Then hold it out to him.

Your number.

There’s a beat.

He takes it.

“Efficiency,” he repeats.

You nod, very serious. “It’s very important.”

His mouth twitches.

You hesitate—just for a second—then, a little lighter—

“Also, emails are… getting a bit excessive. Emails are so two years ago.”

“Right,” he agrees. “Thread was getting out of hand.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Very unprofessional.”

“Obviously.”

Another pause. Neither of you moves away immediately. Then—

“My hours are… weird,” you add, a little more honest now. “But I’m usually around. Nights, sometimes. Early mornings.”

“I’m around,” he says.

You nod like that’s enough. Like you weren’t hoping he’d say it.

“Okay,” you say, stepping back slightly, putting that careful distance back in place. “Good. That’s—good. Awesome.”

He folds the paper once. Slips it into his pocket. Casual. Not careless.

“I’ll use it for strictly professional reasons,” he says.

“Of course,” you reply, just as easily.

A beat.

Then, softer—“Doctor.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that.

“Counselor.”

You turn to leave. “Try not to pick a fight with the vending machine,” you add. “You’re representing the hospital.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You nod, satisfied.

Then you’re gone.

And for a second, the break room feels a little quieter than it did before. Inexplicably, the post it note also, somehow, smells like you.

"Ridiculous." He murmurs.