Scum & Villainy

The chaos of new staff. 

A new attending – a new attending that had to fill the space Robby would leave behind. 

Jesse being forcefully taken away. 

The computers, the whole system going down. Trying to make order out of piles of papers that never failed to stack up. 

And on top of that. 

On top of all of that…

This was Robby’s last day before he left on sabbatical. 

Leaving for his vague journey of self discovery. Travelling the roads, to feel the wind rush past him while he rides, crossing state lines. Leaving his world to fade behind him.  

Leaving you. 

You’d like to believe that you were more than simply a passing fascination of Robby’s. 

That you were more than just the person that let him melt into your arms. 

More than the person who gently dragged your fingers through his hair while he laid with you. 

More than just the person who made him laugh, that made him smile despite the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders. 

Going into this. 

You knew what he was like. 

You knew what his priorities were. That the ED would always come first. Even before his own needs. Especially before his own needs. 

And you had accepted that. 

You had understood that. 

It would be hypocritical if you didn’t, often putting in the extra effort into your own work in the ED.

It was how you had both bonded in the first place. 

The first link of understanding. 

Days turned into weeks, weeks had turned into months. 

Months of you and him, simply being together. A relationship that had developed into something safe, precious. A feeling home seeped into your heart each time you were together. 

With each featherlight kiss, which each gentle brush of his hand against you. 

You had known about his habit – his seven week itch.

But you had pulled through that. 

Made it past. 

But this was different. 

This was new. How he had been pulling away. How he had become short. Closed off. Clipped. 

You had been planning this long before today even came. 

Simply waiting for the right moment. 

But it had never come. Had never once been able to work up the courage to muster the words, never once able to take that next step. 

The set of spare keys you had made for him laid buried at the bottom of your bag. 

Just waiting. 

Watching as your hopes for broaching the next step crumble whilst Robby’s resolve weakens. 

Your window was growing thinner and thinner as the hours ticked by, as Robby’s time in the Pitt came to a close. 

Watching as he lingered. 

Mind hazy, drenched in a thick fog. His last day had a grip on him, iron tight. Though whether it was holding onto him or if he was holding onto it. Wasn’t clear. 

Dana, Jack even Cassie had all pulled you aside, had all made their comments about his behaviour. 

The finality behind his words. 

The concern lacing their tone. 

The fear in their eyes. 

“Has Robby said anything to you? Before today? Anything that felt off?” Dana had asked.

Your brows furrowing. As you lift your eyes to glance across the room. 

Mouth curling into a small frown. 

“Nothing I can put my finger on,” you replied, as you carried on with your work. Hiding from what you feared to know. 

Dana had only hummed in a response. 

Cassie had placed a hand on your shoulder, eyes filled with a sense of knowing. Like she could see right through you. Right down to the very troubles festering in your mind. 

Whispering gently, never overstepping, careful with her words, “You know you’re not alone in this”

Biting your lip you reach a hand up to hold hers. Swallowing thickly as you nod. 

“Whatever’s going on, just know I’m here for you, we’re all here for you both”

“I just don’t know what to do–” you admitted. 

Eyes so full of sympathy, you felt you could break beneath the weight of her gaze. 

“There’s only so much you can do, just be there for him” 

Taking in a deep breath, you lift her hand from your shoulder before walking away. 

The final nail in the coffin. The final push you had received. Was Jack. 

You had watched him try to reach Robby, try to reason with him. To tell him how it didn’t have to be this way. That it seemed as though none of you were to see him again. 

You don’t know how he had shifted so quickly. 

How these thoughts could've been built. 

Simmering beneath the peace you had fostered together. 

God you had been so blind.

“How could I have not noticed?” you asked Jack, gaze distant. Mind tracing back to the past few weeks. 

His mouth twisted into a small frown, “People only ever show what they want you to see–it’s not your fault if they play the part all too well”

“I don’t even know where these will leave us–how selfish is that, to think of how his absence will leave me–”

His pats your back gently, “It’s not selfish at all”

“You know I was waiting for the right time to give him a set of my keys,” you said. Somberness seeping into your words. “Now I don’t know if I’ll get the chance”

He nods in understanding, “You know, there’s never really a right time. There’s only ever just time,” he meets your eye line, trying to let the words sink in, “and what you do with it”

Your breath catches in your throat. 

Taking the words to heart. 

Leading to now. 

Standing in the summer evening air. The faint whooshing of cars in the distance. Cicadas croaking out from afar. 

You. 

And Robby. 

Mere feet apart. 

Taking in a deep breath, your hand curls around the keys digging into the palm of your hand. 

“So you’re still planning on going huh?” you tilted your head towards his motorcycle. 

He nods, shifting side to side, hands unsure of what to do as they fidget mindlessly. 

“You know I don’t like goodbyes so I’ll make this quick–” Step by step you move closer, slow movements, as though approaching a wild animal, afraid of scaring him off. 

“I don’t know where all of this will leave us–”

“I–” 

I love you. The words get stuck in his throat. 

You hold a hand up to him, stopping him short, you knew that if he spoke, it would only make your strength break, make the well in your eyes spill over. “And truthfully, I don’t want to know” 

A thick lump formed in his throat as he listened to you. 

Of all the things he’d leave behind. 

Of all the people. 

It would be you, he would miss the most. 

Believing it would be easier if he kept that inside. Easier on you. Easier for him. 

You clasp his hand, so gentle and sweet. “But, I just wanted you to know that–that you’ll always have a home with me” 

Pressing the keys into the palm of his hand, as you fold his fingers back over them. Leaning up as you press a slow and delicate kiss on his cheek. 

His eyes flutter close, imprinting the feeling of your lips into his memory. 

The sweetness of it all. 

Your mind flashed with a single word. 

Love.

It was the closest word that could describe how he made you feel. And yet it still fell short. 

You had no way of knowing how this would end. 

How Michael would handle this. 

What would happen to him on the road. 

And supposedly that was what this act was, this gesture an act of love. 

It was giving Michael the power to destroy you, to shatter your heart into a thousand pieces…and hoping–trusting that he wouldn’t use it.

Pulling back from him, squeezing his hand one final time before walking away. Before he can say anything else. Before he can place the key back into the palm of your hand. Before he can reject your offer. 

So bitter and sweet. 

Holding back the tears. 

You were never good at goodbyes.

You just hoped this was simply a, see you later. And not the final goodbye. 

That all of this wasn’t for nothing. 

His gaze lingers on you as you walk away. Your footsteps brisk, head ducked down as you turn the corner. The faintest choked out sob reaches his ears. 

Heart clenching from the sound. 

Aching for you. 

But his feet are stuck. As though sinking into quicksand. Unable to move. Unable to follow you. 

Perhaps it was easier this way. 

…But the coldness of the key seeps into his hand, hand opening as he gazes upon the metallic little key. 

But it's the glinting keychain that catches his eye. 

That makes his eyes misty. 

– Wherever you go, Come back to me ♥️

You had those words engraved weeks ago. When you had first had the idea of letting him further into your life. 

Before these doubts had begun to settle at the forefront of your mind. 

But just as Jack said…now was as good a time as any. And you needed Michael to know just how much you cared for him. 

How much he meant to you. 

More than just a passing fascination. 

It seems the keychain you had looped with your key strikes a cord within him.

Perhaps. 

He did matter outside of the hospital…Perhaps his purpose was more than just saving those that came through the doors. 

Perhaps he mattered. 

Perhaps he mattered to you. 

And just perhaps. 

Instead of chasing the road. Instead of chasing the thrill of leaving it all behind. 

He instead. 

Lets himself believe. Things could be better. That things could get better. 

Key slotting into the front of your door, twisting it to open. 

You blink in surprise as he stands in your doorway. 

“Hey”

“Hi”

The smallest of smiles slips onto your face. He notices the slight redness rimming your eyes, proof of the tears that had fallen. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. Tentative and unsure. Ready to leave if you ever asked. 

Tilting as your resolve softens for him. 

“My door is always open for you”

Your arms wrap around him as he curls into your embrace. 

This wouldn’t fix anything. 

Both of you knew there was a lot to work through before things could feel normal. Or as close to normal as possible. 

But for now you would cherish the feeling of his arms holding you close. 

Feeling a sense of home whenever he was within reach. 

A calm overcoming him.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little story. Just a little hope for them. As you extend some support while Robby spirals. As soon as I saw the key chain on Pinterest I just had to write this for him - Robby literally popped into my mind when I saw it. Let me know what you thought of this little piece of fluff! ✨ Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my main Masterlist here

“Uh,” you murmured quietly. “Give me a second.”

Javadi had looked up immediately from her tablet. Not judgmental. Not smug. Concerned. You recovered fast enough that nobody else around the station really clocked it, but she did. You could feel it in the way her eyes lingered on you afterward.

The shift kept moving because the emergency department did not stop for personal suffering. It never did. Monitors continued screaming. Stretchers kept rolling through the doors. Nurses shouted updates over the noise while somewhere down the hall a patient was vomiting loudly into a plastic bag.

And you kept functioning. That was the thing about depression nobody talked about enough. Sometimes you did not fall apart spectacularly. Sometimes you just slowly disappeared while continuing to show up to work every day.

By hour ten of your shift your stomach was cramping painfully from lack of food, but even the thought of eating made you feel exhausted. There was a protein bar crushed somewhere in your locker from three days ago. You considered it briefly before deciding you were too tired to walk there. You settled for coffee instead. Again.

“You’re shaking.”

You looked up to find Dana standing beside you near the nurses’ station, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I’m cold,” you lied automatically.

Dana stared at you for a long moment. “It’s seventy-eight degrees in here.”

“Then maybe I’m dying.”

“That would require you actually taking care of yourself first.”

You forced out a weak laugh because that was easier than letting her keep looking at you like that. Like she knew something was wrong.

“You eaten today?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“What?”

You blinked at her.

“What?”

“What did you eat?”

“Dana,” you sighed tiredly.

“No seriously. What did you eat?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because you genuinely could not remember the last actual meal you had eaten.

Her expression changed instantly. Not annoyance anymore. Worry.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The tenderness in her voice almost cracked something open inside your chest, and you straightened immediately, defensive instinct snapping into place before emotion could.

“I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

“I am.”

Dana glanced at the untouched coffee in your hand before looking back at you carefully. “You know the thing about people in this department is we literally do this for a living, right? You can’t bullshit us that easily.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ for three weeks.”

You looked away. That was becoming a problem too. Everyone had started keeping track.

At first it had been easy to hide because everyone at PTMC was exhausted all the time. Long shifts and emotional burnout were practically part of the job description. Nobody questioned when you stopped going out after work or skipped drinks at Molly’s. Nobody blinked when you claimed you were overwhelmed.

Until overwhelmed stopped looking temporary. Until your exhaustion became something heavier. Quieter.

You rubbed at your eyes hard enough to see stars behind them. “Can we please not do this right now?”

Dana softened immediately. “Okay.”

But she did not sound convinced. You were saved by the ambulance bay doors slamming open moments later as paramedics wheeled in a trauma patient, the entire department snapping into motion around you. And for the next two hours you forgot yourself completely.

That was the dangerous part too. Work was the only place you still felt remotely functional. You could intubate a patient with steady hands while your apartment sat in total disarray at home. You could comfort grieving parents while ignoring every text message on your phone for days. You could save lives while forgetting to care whether you lived yours properly at all.

“Let’s move, let’s move,” Robby barked sharply across the trauma bay as the team repositioned around the incoming patient.

You glanced up instinctively. And there he was. Dr. Michael Robinavich. Robby.

Your boyfriend.

Though lately even calling him that felt strange because you had barely let him near you in weeks. Not intentionally. At least you did not think it was intentional. Everything just felt difficult now. Answering texts felt difficult. Holding conversations felt difficult. Existing outside the walls of the hospital felt difficult. And loving someone properly when your own mind had become such an exhausting place to live felt nearly impossible.

Robby looked tired too. End-of-shift tired. His dark curls were flattened unevenly from repeatedly dragging his hands through them, and there was stubble shadowing his jaw from a schedule that had clearly stopped allowing proper sleep.

But the second his eyes landed on you, his entire expression shifted. Concern. Immediate and sharp. You hated that look lately. Because it kept appearing on everyone’s faces when they looked at you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly while pulling gloves on.

You nodded too fast. “Yep.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. You used to kiss him hello every shift without even thinking about it. Sometimes just a quick touch to his shoulder or a teasing grin from across the nurses’ station. Small things. Intimate things.

Now you barely touched him at all. Not because you did not love him. God, you did.

That almost made this worse. Because you could see the confusion it caused. You saw it every time he reached for your hand and you pulled away without meaning to. Every time he invited you over after shift and you made an excuse. Every time he asked if you were sleeping and you lied through your teeth.

“BP dropping,” a nurse called.

The trauma exploded back into motion and the conversation disappeared before Robby could push further. You were grateful for it. Until you were not.

By the end of the shift your body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. Your head throbbed viciously behind your eyes, and every muscle in your back ached with exhaustion. The locker room was mostly empty when you finally made it downstairs. You sat heavily on the bench in front of your locker and just…stared.

At nothing.

Your hands rested limply between your knees while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere nearby somebody laughed faintly. A locker slammed shut.

You should get up. You should go home. You should shower. Answer your texts. Eat something.

Sleep.

Instead you sat there unmoving because even the thought of beginning any of those tasks made your chest feel unbearably heavy.

“You’ve been down here twenty minutes.”

You startled violently. Robby stood in the doorway holding two takeout bags and watching you with an expression that immediately made your throat tighten.

Not angry. Not yet. Just deeply worried.

“I lost track of time,” you muttered.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

You looked down at it sitting beside you on the bench. Six missed texts. Three missed calls. All from him.

“Oh.”

Robby stepped closer slowly like he was approaching a frightened animal. “You forgot it existed?”

“No,” you whispered.

But maybe you had. He crouched down in front of you then, elbows resting on his knees while he searched your face carefully. And because he knew you so well, because he loved you so well, his voice became heartbreakingly gentle.

“Talk to me.”

Immediately your eyes burned. You looked away before he could see it.

“I’m just tired.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Robby was quiet for a moment. “When’s the last time you slept more than four hours?”

You shrugged.

“When’s the last time you ate an actual meal?”

Another shrug. His jaw tightened subtly.

“Baby.”

That word nearly undid you. You pressed your lips together hard enough to hurt because suddenly crying sounded dangerously possible.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time.

Robby stared at you for several long seconds. Then very carefully he reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was so gentle it hurt.

“You don’t have to keep pretending with me.”

And there it was. The thing you had been trying desperately to avoid. Not the concern. Not the questions. The possibility that if somebody looked at you too closely for too long, they would finally see how badly you were slipping beneath the surface.

******

You almost called out three times before your next shift. The first time happened when your alarm went off at five-thirty in the morning and your body felt so impossibly heavy that opening your eyes seemed unreasonable. You stared at the ceiling in the dim blue light of dawn with your phone buzzing angrily beside you and genuinely could not remember the last time you had woken up feeling rested.

Your apartment was cold. Not physically cold. Quiet cold. The kind that came from dishes stacked in the sink for nearly a week and laundry still sitting unfolded in baskets near the couch because every time you tried to put it away you ended up sitting on the floor halfway through and losing the energy to finish. The blinds had stayed shut for days now. Takeout containers crowded the kitchen counter. An unopened package sat near your front door because bringing it inside had somehow felt too exhausting.

You rolled onto your side and closed your eyes again. Maybe if you slept another hour you would feel human. Maybe if you slept another ten years.

Your phone buzzed again. Robby. You stared at his contact photo until the ringing stopped.

Then immediately guilt flooded your chest because you knew exactly why he was calling. He had worked overnight and still remembered you had an early shift. He was checking if you were awake because lately you had started oversleeping alarms. You used to tease him for being overprotective. Now you were starting to realize he had reasons.

The second time you almost called out was while brushing your teeth. You stood in the bathroom staring blankly at yourself in the mirror while mint foam gathered uselessly in your mouth. Your eyes looked dull. Your skin looked pale. There were dark shadows beneath your eyes that makeup no longer fully covered.

You barely recognized yourself anymore. The terrifying thing was that some part of you no longer cared. You spit into the sink mechanically and leaned both hands against the counter, breathing hard for reasons you could not entirely explain.

You were not sick. Not physically. You just felt empty. Like someone had quietly removed all the important parts inside you and left the shell behind to keep functioning out of habit.

The third time happened in the parking garage at PTMC. You sat in your car with the engine off and stared at the hospital entrance while people moved in and out beneath the fluorescent lights. Nurses. Techs. Residents. Families.

The idea of walking inside felt impossible. Not because you did not love your job. You did. Maybe too much. The emergency department was the only place left where you knew exactly who to be. Patients needed things. Problems had solutions. Pain had protocols. Everything was immediate and clear.

Outside of work your life had become foggy and shapeless in ways you could not explain. A knock against your window startled you violently. You jumped and looked up to find Langdon staring at you through the glass holding two coffees.

“Well this looks depressing as hell.”

You exhaled shakily and rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“You planning on coming inside today or are you just haunting the parking garage now?”

“I’m thinking about both.”

Langdon handed you a coffee through the window before leaning casually against the car. “You know everybody’s worried about you, right?”

You stiffened immediately. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, see, the problem is nobody believes you anymore.”

You looked away. That hurt more than you expected.

Langdon sighed quietly, his usual sarcasm softening around the edges. “Look, I’m not good at this emotional support thing. Dana does feelings. I do…did other things and avoidance. But you look like shit.”

You barked out a startled laugh despite yourself.

“There she is,” he said gently. “That’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten out of you in like two weeks.”

You rubbed tiredly at your face. “I’m just exhausted.”

“Everybody here is exhausted. This is different.”

You hated hearing that. Because if everybody noticed, then it meant this thing inside you had stopped being containable.

“You stopped eating lunch with us,” Langdon continued carefully. “You don’t talk anymore unless it’s about patients. You disappeared on Robby at Molly’s last week without even telling him you were leaving.”

Guilt twisted sharply in your stomach. You remembered that night. Barely.

You had gone because Robby asked you to. Everyone from the ED had crowded into the bar after shift, loud and exhausted and laughing too hard at terrible jokes while glasses clinked around you.

Normally you loved nights like that. Normally you loved him. But halfway through a conversation you had suddenly felt trapped beneath the noise and people and expectations. You slipped out quietly without saying goodbye because explaining why you needed to leave felt too difficult.

Robby found out when he noticed your untouched drink still sitting at the table. You ignored his texts for the rest of the night. Not because you were angry. Because you did not know how to explain the suffocating heaviness in your chest without sounding insane.

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” you said softly.

“I know.”

That almost made you cry. Because nobody seemed angry with you. Only worried. And somehow that felt worse.

Langdon crouched slightly beside your car window. “You don’t have to be okay all the time.”

You laughed bitterly. “That’s literally our entire job.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Our job is helping people. Somewhere along the way you forgot that includes yourself.”

You swallowed hard. Before you could answer, your phone buzzed again.

Robby.

Langdon glanced at the screen and gave you a look. “You should answer him.”

“I’ll see him upstairs.”

“Yeah, and he’ll pretend not to panic for another twelve hours while watching you survive on caffeine and self-loathing.”

You flinched slightly. Langdon noticed.

“Ah,” he murmured quietly. “So you know you’re doing it.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

The words slipped out broken and exhausted and far too honest. Langdon’s expression shifted immediately. Not pity. Understanding.

“That bad?”

You nodded once. And suddenly your eyes burned so fiercely you had to look away. Because saying it out loud made it real.

Not stress. Not burnout. Something deeper. Something heavier. Something that had been quietly swallowing pieces of you for weeks now.

Langdon straightened slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, now we know.”

You laughed humorlessly. “Know what? That I’m losing my mind?”

“That you need help.”

Immediately your walls slammed back up.

“I do not need help.”

“There you are,” Langdon muttered. “Was wondering when the stubbornness would kick back in.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You shoved your car door open harder than necessary and climbed out quickly before he could keep talking. “Can everybody stop acting like I’m falling apart?”

Langdon’s expression hardened slightly. “You want the honest answer?”

“No.”

“You are falling apart.”

The words hit like a slap. You stared at him.

“I’m still showing up to work.”

“Barely.”

“I’m still doing my job.”

“You almost nodded off during charting yesterday.”

“I was tired.”

“You forgot to eat for an entire twelve-hour shift.”

“That happens here all the time.”

“You looked at Robby yesterday like talking to him physically hurt.”

That one landed deepest. Your chest tightened sharply. Because it was true. Not that talking to him hurt. You hurt because you loved him so much and still could not seem to reach for him properly anymore.

Robby made everything gentler. Safer. Easier. And somehow even that had become overwhelming.

You shook your head hard. “I have to go inside.”

Langdon stepped aside but caught your arm briefly before you could walk away.

“Hey.”

You looked at him reluctantly.

“We’re not mad at you.”

That nearly destroyed you right there in the parking garage. Because some awful part of you had started believing maybe people would find this easier if they were angry instead of worried. Anger made sense. Love did not. You pulled your arm free gently and headed toward the hospital without responding.

The emergency department hit you all at once the second the doors opened. Noise. Chaos. Motion.

Normally it grounded you instantly. Today it just made your head pound harder.

“Morning,” Javadi called carefully from the nurses’ station.

You forced a smile. Dana looked up next, eyes immediately scanning your face with clinical precision. You hated that everybody here knew how to read suffering. And then there was Robby.

Standing at the far end of the station reviewing scans with a resident. The second he saw you his entire posture changed. Relief first. Then concern. Always concern lately. He crossed the department toward you immediately, coffee in one hand and that familiar furrow between his brows deepening as he got closer.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

You shrugged tiredly. “Sorry.”

“You left me on read at two in the morning.”

“I fell asleep.”

“You posted that you were awake thirty minutes later.”

Shit. You blinked at him. Robby stared back with quiet exhaustion written all over his face. Not angry. Hurt.

“You’re scaring me,” he admitted softly.

The honesty in his voice made your stomach twist painfully.

“I said I was sorry.”

“I know.”

His eyes moved over your face slowly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Some.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Robby.”

“What did you eat?”

You looked away immediately. And there it was again. That look. That awful, terrified tenderness spreading across his features.

He lowered his voice. “Baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

Your chest tightened instantly. The department buzzed around you while the two of you stood there in the middle of it pretending this conversation was not quietly breaking both of you apart.

You crossed your arms tightly over yourself. “Can everybody stop treating me like I’m fragile?”

Robby stepped closer. “I’m treating you like somebody I love who looks like she’s drowning.”

“I am not drowning.”

“You’re disappearing.”

The words hit so hard your eyes immediately stung. You looked away before he could see. Too late. Robby’s expression cracked slightly the second he noticed.

“Oh sweetheart.”

You hated that voice. That soft voice people used when they were afraid for you.

“I have to work,” you muttered quickly.

Robby caught your wrist gently before you could move away.

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth would be a nice start.”

Your throat tightened painfully. Because the truth was terrifying. The truth was you woke up exhausted every day no matter how much you slept. The truth was you could not remember the last thing that genuinely made you happy. The truth was even simple tasks felt impossibly heavy lately. The truth was you were starting to feel detached from your own life like you were watching yourself exist from somewhere far away. But worst of all?

The truth was you did not know how to stop it.

******

By the middle of the week, the emergency department had stopped pretending not to watch you. Not obviously. Nobody hovered. Nobody cornered you with interventions or staged some dramatic hospital breakroom confrontation about burnout and mental health. PTMC was still PTMC. Patients still coded. Families still screamed. Nurses still traded sarcasm over cold coffee at three in the morning while trauma pages echoed overhead.

But the people who loved you had started orbiting closer. Dana started leaving food beside your charts without commenting on it. Javadi quietly began double-checking your patient notes before sign-off even though you had never needed that before. Langdon annoyed you on purpose because he had figured out irritation at least got a reaction out of you.

And Robby? Robby had become frighteningly observant. You could feel his eyes on you constantly now. Across trauma bays. Through glass doors. At the nurses’ station during charting. Every time you rubbed your temples too hard or forgot to drink water or stood staring blankly at a monitor a second too long. He noticed all of it.

You were beginning to resent him for how much he loved you. Which immediately made you hate yourself.

By Friday morning you had slept maybe nine total hours across three days. Your apartment had gotten worse. At some point you stopped trying to keep up with it altogether. Laundry overflowed from baskets onto the floor now. Half-empty water bottles crowded your nightstand beside untouched mail and dead phone chargers tangled together like vines. You had meant to grocery shop four days ago, but the idea of walking through a store full of people and fluorescent lights made your chest tighten unbearably.

So instead you ate crackers sometimes. Protein shakes when you remembered. Coffee constantly. You knew it was bad. That was the horrible thing. You were not unaware.

You just could not seem to make yourself care enough to stop it. Your phone buzzed somewhere beneath the blankets.

Robby. Again.

You stared at the ceiling instead of answering. The buzzing stopped. Started again thirty seconds later. Then again. Finally, with a frustrated groan, you grabbed the phone.

“What?”

There was a brief pause on the other end.

“You sound exhausted.”

“I am exhausted.”

“Have you been asleep?”

“Kind of.”

“What does kind of mean?”

You squeezed your eyes shut hard. “Robby, please.”

His voice softened instantly. “Have you eaten today?”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You sat up slowly, your head pounding immediately from the motion. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely even though he could not see you. “Monitoring me all the time.”

Another pause.

Then quietly, “Because I’m scared.”

The honesty of it punched straight through your chest. You looked down at your tangled sheets instead of answering.

Robby exhaled softly into the silence. “I’m coming over after shift.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“I said no.”

“You haven’t answered a single text in two days unless somebody physically corners you at work.”

“I’m busy.”

“You fell asleep during charting yesterday.”

Humiliation flared hot and immediate beneath your skin.

“I closed my eyes for one second.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

Something sharp twisted painfully in your stomach because you remembered it now. The nurses’ station had been unusually quiet for once. You were sitting beside Robby reviewing scans while he dictated notes. You rested your head against your hand for just a second because your eyes burned so badly.

The next thing you remembered was Robby saying your name. Softly at first. Then louder. You had jerked awake to find the entire station staring. The embarrassment still made your face burn.

“I’m fine,” you muttered again.

Robby’s voice lost some of its gentleness then, exhaustion creeping in around the edges. “You keep saying that like repetition’s gonna make it true.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re off today.”

You closed your eyes. Right. You had forgotten. That alone should have alarmed you more than it did.

“Then I’m sleeping.”

“Okay.” His tone softened again immediately. “Sleep. But let me come by later.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because you did not want him seeing the apartment. Because you did not want him seeing you. Because the idea of someone witnessing how badly you had let things deteriorate made shame crawl up your throat thick enough to choke on.

“Because I want to be alone.”

“You’ve wanted to be alone for weeks.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

The words came out harsher than intended. Silence settled heavily between you.

Then quietly, carefully, Robby asked, “What don’t I understand?”

Your throat tightened painfully. Everything. Nothing. How could you explain something you barely understood yourself?

How could you explain that brushing your teeth felt like climbing a mountain some mornings? That answering texts felt exhausting. That even being loved by him sometimes made guilt consume you because he deserved a version of you that no longer seemed accessible.

You swallowed hard. “I just need space.”

Robby was quiet long enough that dread slowly began curling in your stomach.

Then finally, “Okay.”

The disappointment in his voice hurt worse than anger would have. You hung up quickly after that. Then cried immediately afterward. Not dramatic sobbing. Just silent tears sliding down your face while you stared blankly at your bedroom wall feeling completely detached from your own body. You did not even know why you were crying anymore.

That afternoon Dana knocked on your apartment door. You almost pretended not to be home. But she knocked again. And again. Finally you dragged yourself across the apartment and cracked the door open just enough to peek out. Dana’s face immediately fell.

“Oh honey.”

Instantly you regretted opening it.

“What do you want?”

She held up a paper bag. “Food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m fine.”

Dana closed her eyes briefly like she was physically restraining herself from snapping. “You’ve lost weight.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“No, dramatic would be me dragging you downstairs over my shoulder and forcing you into urgent psych evaluation.”

You stared at her. Dana stared right back.

Then sighed heavily. “Can I come in?”

Your panic spiked immediately. “No.”

The answer came too fast. Too defensive.

Dana’s expression sharpened instantly. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want company.”

“You haven’t wanted company in nearly a month.”

“I’m tired.”

“There it is again.”

You gripped the door harder. “Please just go home.”

Dana’s eyes softened painfully. “Sweetheart, when’s the last time you showered?”

Humiliation flooded you so quickly your vision blurred.

“That’s none of your business.”

“The fact I have to ask means it absolutely is.”

You looked away immediately because suddenly you could not bear being seen.

Dana’s voice gentled. “You are not in trouble.”

“Sure feels like it.”

“You know that’s not what this is.”

Then why did it feel so unbearable? Why did every conversation lately feel like people standing around pointing at all the ways you were failing?

You rubbed at your face roughly. “I just need everybody to leave me alone for five fucking minutes.”

Dana looked startled. Not because you cursed. Because your voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You saw it hit her instantly. The exhaustion. The desperation. The fact you sounded less angry than defeated.

“Oh baby,” she whispered.

Your eyes burned immediately. You hated that. Hated crying. Hated vulnerability. Hated the way concern kept appearing on people’s faces lately like you had become something fragile and breakable.

“I’m okay,” you said weakly.

Dana looked like she might cry herself.

“No,” she said softly. “You really aren’t.”

You started to shut the door. Then froze. Because behind Dana, standing at the far end of the hallway near the elevators, was Robby.

Your stomach dropped instantly. He looked exhausted. Still in scrubs. Hair messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it. Dark circles beneath his eyes almost matching yours. And the second your eyes met his, you realized with horrifying clarity that Dana had called him. Betrayal flashed hot through your chest.

“You called him?”

Dana looked guilty for exactly half a second. “Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“We’re worried about you.”

“I said I’m fine!”

Your voice echoed sharply down the hallway. Robby flinched slightly at the sound of it. That alone nearly shattered you. He approached slowly after that, like he knew one wrong movement might send you running.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Because I didn’t want to talk.”

“You disappeared.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“No,” Robby said quietly. “You aren’t.”

The words hit hard enough that your breath caught. You looked away immediately. Robby stopped a few feet from the door, his expression tight with barely controlled fear and exhaustion.

“You haven’t let me touch you in weeks,” he said softly. “You barely sleep. You barely eat. You look at me like holding a conversation costs you physical energy.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Stop saying that.”

The sudden sharpness in his voice startled all three of you. Robby closed his eyes briefly, visibly trying to steady himself. When he spoke again his voice sounded rougher. More honest.

“I don’t know how to help you anymore.”

That hurt worst of all. Because beneath the frustration and fear was heartbreak. You could hear it. See it. Feel it in the way his hands flexed helplessly at his sides. And suddenly you realized this thing was no longer only hurting you. It was hurting everybody who loved you too.

******

You did not remember deciding to let them inside. One second you were standing in the doorway gripping it hard enough for your knuckles to ache while Robby and Dana looked at you like you were balancing on the edge of something dangerous. The next, you were stepping backward numbly while Dana slipped past you carrying groceries and Robby quietly shut the apartment door behind him.

The sound of the lock clicking into place made your chest tighten immediately. Trapped. Not physically. Emotionally. Because now they could see it.

Really see it. The apartment smelled stale. Curtains still drawn. Laundry everywhere. Half-empty coffee mugs scattered across every available surface. Your sink overflowing with dishes you kept meaning to wash but never did. A sweatshirt crumpled on the couch beside medication bottles you had forgotten to take three nights in a row.

You watched Robby take it all in slowly. His face changed with every detail. Concern. Confusion. Then something far worse. Heartbreak.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “Don’t.”

His eyes snapped to yours instantly. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

Robby stared at you for several painful seconds before speaking carefully. “How exactly am I supposed to look at you right now?”

Anger flared immediately because anger was easier than shame.

“I didn’t ask for an inspection.”

“You stopped answering people for days.”

“I wanted space.”

“You isolated yourself so badly Dana thought you might be unconscious in here.”

“I am not a danger to myself.”

“I know that,” Robby snapped suddenly. “Jesus Christ, do you think that’s the only way someone can be falling apart?”

Silence slammed heavily through the apartment. Dana quietly busied herself unpacking groceries in the kitchen, giving the two of you distance without actually leaving. You looked away from him immediately because your eyes had already started burning.

“I’m handling it.”

Robby barked out a disbelieving laugh that sounded painfully close to breaking. “Handling it?”

“I’m still going to work.”

“You fell asleep during charting.”

“I was tired.”

“You nearly passed out yesterday.”

“I skipped lunch.”

“You haven’t eaten a real meal in days.”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot because your brain and body are running on fumes and denial.”

The words hit hard because they were true. And you were so exhausted. So deeply, bone-level exhausted. Not sleepy. Not physically tired. Exhausted in the way depressed people became when every basic task required conscious effort.

You rubbed both hands hard over your face. “Can you please stop talking to me like I’m one of your patients?”

Robby froze instantly. The hurt on his face was immediate.

“That’s what you think this is?”

“I think you’re trying to manage me.”

“No,” he said sharply. “I’m trying not to lose you.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“You are being dramatic.”

Robby stared at you in disbelief. “You wanna know what dramatic is? Dramatic is me waking up every morning wondering if today’s the day you finally disappear completely because I can literally watch you slipping away in real time and you still keep insisting you’re fine.”

The apartment went silent. Even Dana stopped moving in the kitchen. You looked at him helplessly because suddenly his fear was visible everywhere. In the tension in his shoulders. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The way his hands trembled slightly at his sides like he had been holding himself together for weeks.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whispered.

“The truth.”

“I already told you—”

“No.” His voice cracked hard enough to stop you cold. “No more ‘I’m tired.’ No more ‘I’m fine.’ I need you to stop lying to me for five fucking minutes.”

The tears came instantly then. Hot and humiliating and impossible to stop. You turned away immediately, furious with yourself for crying in front of him again.

“I hate this,” you whispered shakily.

Robby’s entire expression softened at once.

“Oh baby.”

“Don’t.” Your voice broke violently. “Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m broken.”

He crossed the room carefully then, slow enough to give you space to move away if you wanted. You didn’t. That hurt too. Because even through all this numbness and shame and exhaustion, your body still recognized him as safe.

“You are not broken,” he said quietly. “You’re depressed.”

The word landed like a physical blow.

You immediately shook your head hard. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Baby, look at me.”

You couldn’t. Could not physically force yourself to meet his eyes because if you did this suddenly became real.

Depression. Not stress. Not burnout. Not temporary exhaustion. Something bigger. Something terrifying. Your breathing started turning uneven.

Robby’s voice gentled instantly. “Hey. Hey, come here.”

The second his hand touched your arm, you shattered. Not elegantly. Not quietly. One moment you were standing there trying desperately to hold yourself together and the next your knees buckled so suddenly Robby barely caught you before you hit the floor. A sob tore out of your chest so violently it hurt.

“Oh God,” you cried brokenly. “I’m trying so hard.”

Robby dropped to the floor with you immediately, arms wrapping around you while you folded inward against his chest like something collapsing in on itself.

“I know,” he whispered fiercely into your hair. “I know, sweetheart.”

“No you don’t,” you gasped. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Your whole body shook hard with it now. Weeks of exhaustion. Shame. Isolation. Fear. Everything finally ripping loose at once.

“I can’t do anything anymore,” you cried. “Everything feels hard all the time and I don’t know why.”

Robby held you tighter instantly.

“You are not crazy.”

“I can’t sleep properly. I can’t think properly. I can barely fucking shower some days.” Your voice cracked apart again. “I look at my phone and answering people feels impossible. I love you so much and even talking feels exhausting and I hate myself for it.”

Robby made a soft wounded sound in the back of his throat. Because that was it. That was the truth you had been too ashamed to say aloud. You loved him desperately. And still could not seem to reach for him properly anymore.

“I thought if I just pushed through it…” you whispered brokenly. “I thought eventually it would stop.”

“Oh sweetheart.” Robby’s voice sounded wrecked now too. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

He pulled back just enough to hold your face between both hands. And the grief in his expression nearly destroyed you.

“There has never been a single version of you I could stop loving.”

You cried harder at that. Robby wiped tears from your cheeks with shaking fingers while his own eyes glistened visibly now.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly. “Not because I thought you were gonna hurt yourself. Because I felt like I was losing pieces of you every day and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

Guilt crashed over you immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize for being sick.”

“But I made everybody worry.”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “You did.”

You flinched hard. Robby immediately softened again, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye.

“Hey. No. Listen to me.” His forehead rested against yours briefly. “None of us are angry with you.”

“I feel insane.”

“You’re depressed.”

“I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

“That happens.”

You stared at him tearfully. “How are you so calm about this?”

Robby let out a quiet humorless laugh. “Because I’ve been waiting weeks for you to finally say it out loud.”

That stunned you silent. Weeks. He had known for weeks. Not everything. But enough. Enough to watch you unravel slowly while trying desperately not to push too hard.

“I didn’t know how to help you,” he admitted softly. “Every time I reached for you lately, you pulled further away.”

Fresh tears slipped down your face immediately.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

And somehow that made it worse. Dana appeared quietly beside you both then, crouching down with the gentleness of someone approaching a wounded animal.

“You need help carrying this,” she said softly. “You understand that now, right?”

You wiped at your face shakily. Then finally, after weeks of fighting everyone who loved you hardest, you gave the smallest nod. And for the first time in a long time, the people around you stopped looking helpless.

******

The strange thing about finally admitting something was wrong was that the world did not suddenly become lighter afterward. You had secretly hoped it might. That maybe naming it would crack something open inside your chest and release all the heaviness that had settled there over the past several months. Maybe once the truth existed outside your body instead of trapped painfully inside it, things would feel manageable again.

Instead, the exhaustion remained. The sadness remained. The numbness still lingered stubbornly beneath your skin like fog refusing to lift. But now you were no longer carrying it completely alone. And that changed everything.

The first few days after the breakdown in your apartment felt unbearably raw. Robby stayed. Not in an overbearing way. Not hovering over you every second or treating you like fragile glass. He simply…stayed. Quietly. Consistently. Like he understood your nervous system no longer trusted stability and needed proof before it believed anything good could remain.

He slept beside you every night despite the fact you barely slept at all. Sometimes you woke at two in the morning with your chest tight and your thoughts spiraling aimlessly through guilt and exhaustion and self-loathing, only to find him awake already, lying beside you in the darkness watching you with soft tired eyes.

“You okay?” he would whisper.

The answer was almost always no. But eventually you stopped lying about it. One night, around three in the morning, you sat curled against the headboard in one of his old T-shirts while rain tapped softly against the apartment windows. Your knees were drawn tightly to your chest and your untouched tea had gone cold nearly an hour earlier.

Robby emerged quietly from the kitchen carrying fresh tea anyway. You watched him approach through heavy eyes.

God, he looked tired. Not frustrated. Not resentful. Just emotionally exhausted in that specific way people became when they loved someone who was hurting.

“I can make you something else,” he said softly when he noticed you staring at the mug. “You hate chamomile.”

You blinked slowly. “Then why do you keep making it?”

His mouth twitched faintly. “Because every depressed woman in every movie drinks chamomile tea and I panicked.”

The startled laugh that escaped you felt rusty from disuse. But real. Robby visibly relaxed at the sound of it.

“There she is,” he murmured quietly.

Your chest tightened painfully. That phrase kept undoing you lately.

There she is.

Like everyone had been waiting for glimpses of you beneath all the exhaustion. Robby sat beside you carefully on the bed and handed you the tea anyway. His fingers brushed yours briefly and lingered there.

“You should try sleeping again,” he said softly.

“I’m tired of trying to sleep.”

He nodded once like he understood exactly what you meant. Because it was not insomnia, not really. It was exhaustion without rest. Your body sleeping while your mind never fully shut down.

You stared down into the mug. “I feel pathetic.”

Robby’s expression changed instantly.

“Do not say that.”

“I can barely function lately.”

“You are functioning.”

“Barely.”

“That doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you sick.”

You looked away immediately. The word still sat strangely in your chest. Sick. Depression felt too invisible to count as real illness sometimes. Which was ridiculous considering if any patient described your symptoms to you, you would immediately recognize the severity. But extending compassion toward yourself had become nearly impossible somewhere along the way.

“I should’ve handled this better,” you whispered.

Robby went very still beside you.

Then quietly, “Baby, you think this happened because you failed some kind of test?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

The second the words left your mouth you regretted them. Because Robby’s face broke. Not dramatically. Quietly. Like something inside him physically hurt hearing you speak about yourself that way.

“Oh sweetheart,” he whispered. “Who taught you that being loved depended on never struggling?”

Your eyes burned instantly. You looked down at your hands because suddenly crying felt dangerously close again. Robby shifted closer slowly until his shoulder rested gently against yours.

“You wanna know what I see when I look at you lately?” he asked softly.

You gave the smallest shrug.

“I see somebody who spent so long taking care of everyone else that she forgot she deserved care too.”

The tears came before you could stop them. Silent this time. Robby noticed immediately of course because he noticed everything about you. He set the tea aside and turned toward you fully before carefully pulling you into his lap like he was afraid you might shatter if handled too roughly.

You went willingly. That still surprised you sometimes. Even after weeks of pulling away from him, your body still instinctively sought him out when things hurt badly enough. You buried your face against his neck while his arms wrapped tightly around your waist beneath the oversized T-shirt.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered shakily.

“I know.”

“No, like…” Your voice cracked softly. “Tired in my bones.”

Robby closed his eyes briefly at that. His hand moved slowly up and down your back in long soothing strokes.

“You’ve been surviving instead of living for a while now.”

The truth of that hurt. You clung to him harder. For a long moment neither of you spoke. Rain continued tapping softly against the windows while the apartment remained dim and warm around you.

Eventually you whispered against his skin, “I’m scared this is just who I am now.”

Robby pulled back immediately so he could look at you. And the intensity in his face startled you.

“No.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

“How?”

“Because I know you.”

The certainty in his voice nearly broke you all over again. Robby brushed damp hair back from your forehead gently before continuing.

“Depression lies, sweetheart. It tells you the current version of your life is permanent. That you’ll always feel empty and exhausted and detached.” His thumb stroked slowly beneath your eye. “But this isn’t all you are.”

You stared at him helplessly.

“I haven’t felt like myself in months.”

“I know.”

“What if I can’t get back there?”

Robby’s expression softened painfully. “Then we find a new version together.”

That did it. A sob escaped your chest so suddenly you barely had time to turn your face away. Robby immediately pulled you against him again.

“Hey,” he whispered fiercely into your hair. “Hey, none of that.”

“I’ve been awful to you.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I shut you out.”

“You were drowning.”

“I ignored you.”

“You were trying to survive.”

Guilt twisted painfully through your chest. “You shouldn’t have had to drag me through this.”

Robby leaned back enough to cup your face firmly between both hands.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

You blinked tearfully at him.

“You are not difficult to love.”

The words landed directly in the center of every fear you had been carrying. Your entire face crumpled instantly. Because there it was. The thing underneath all the shame. Not just fear that you were sick. Fear that being sick made you unlovable. Robby saw it happen in real time.

“Oh baby,” he whispered brokenly.

You covered your face with both hands immediately, crying harder now. Robby gently pulled your hands away.

“Do not hide from me.”

“I hate this version of myself.”

His eyes filled instantly.

“Well I don’t.”

You stared at him through tears.

Robby’s voice shook slightly now too. “I hate what this is doing to you. I hate how much pain you’re in. But I do not hate you for struggling.”

His forehead pressed against yours carefully.

“You hear me?”

You nodded shakily.

“No.” His grip on your face tightened slightly. “I need you to actually hear me.”

Fresh tears slid down your cheeks.

“You are still worthy of love on the days you cannot get out of bed. You are still worthy of love when showering feels impossible. You are still worthy of love when your brain convinces you you’re too exhausted to exist properly.” His voice cracked softly. “And I am not going anywhere.”

You broke completely then. Not in panic this time. Relief. Pure overwhelming relief. Because for weeks now you had been terrified that eventually everyone would reach their limit with you. That the concern would sour into resentment once people realized this was not something you could fix overnight.

But Robby just held you tighter. Patiently. Tenderly. Like loving you through this was never a question at all. And for the first time in months, the future stopped feeling quite so impossible.

******

The first morning you woke up before your alarm again, you cried in the shower afterward. Not because anything bad had happened. Because nothing bad had happened.

You had simply opened your eyes naturally at seven-thirteen in the morning and realized your body no longer felt glued to the mattress by invisible weight. The apartment was quiet except for soft rain outside the windows, and for the first time in almost a year, getting out of bed did not immediately feel impossible.

The realization hit so hard you sat on the edge of the mattress staring at your hands for nearly a full minute. Then you walked to the bathroom. Then you showered. Actually showered. Washed your hair. Shaved your legs. Put on lotion afterward because you suddenly remembered you used to enjoy little things like that. And halfway through drying your hair, tears started spilling down your cheeks without warning.

Not healed. Not magically cured. Just…better. Better enough to notice the difference.

Robby found you sitting cross-legged on the bathroom counter twenty minutes later wrapped in a towel and crying silently into a cup of coffee. He stopped in the doorway immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly. “What happened?”

You laughed weakly through tears. “Nothing.”

That got his attention instantly.

“Okay, see, normally when people are crying while saying nothing happened, something definitely happened.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I mean it. Nothing bad happened.”

Robby approached carefully like he still carried remnants of those months inside him too. Like some part of him remained afraid sudden tears meant he was about to lose you again.

That guilt still lingered sometimes. Not overwhelming anymore. Just tender. Like bruised skin that occasionally still hurt when touched.

He stepped between your knees and rested his hands lightly on your thighs. “Talk to me.”

You looked down at your coffee cup. “I woke up before my alarm.”

Robby blinked once. Then twice. And slowly his entire expression changed.

“Oh baby.”

Your throat tightened immediately. “I know it sounds stupid.”

“No.” His voice went rough instantly. “No, it doesn’t.”

Fresh tears slipped down your face. Because he understood. God, he always understood. Robby reached up and brushed damp hair carefully away from your face while looking at you like you had just handed him something fragile and precious.

“You slept?” he asked softly.

You nodded.

“Through the night?”

“Mostly.”

A smile flickered weakly across his mouth then. Not huge. Not triumphant. Careful. Hopeful.

You stared at him helplessly. “I forgot what normal felt like.”

That nearly broke him right there. You saw it happen. The grief. The relief. The memory of months spent watching you disappear inch by inch. Robby leaned forward and kissed your forehead gently before resting there for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m really proud of you.”

The words hit differently now. Earlier in your depression those words would have embarrassed you. Made you feel small and fragile and handled.

Now they simply made your chest ache warmly. Because you understood how hard you had fought to get here.

Therapy had helped. Not immediately. Not magically. There had been weeks where you left sessions feeling emotionally flayed open and exhausted. Medication adjustments. Difficult conversations. Learning how to recognize when your mind was lying to you. Learning that productivity was not the same thing as worth. Learning that isolation made everything louder.

Learning how to ask for help before you drowned. That part remained hardest.

But you were trying. And so was Robby. That mattered too. Because depression had not only changed you. It had changed him.

There were still moments sometimes where you caught him watching you too closely after difficult shifts. Still mornings where he quietly checked whether you had eaten breakfast without making it obvious. Still nights where he woke instantly if your breathing changed beside him.

At first those things made guilt bloom painfully in your chest. Now you recognized them for what they really were. Love carrying scars.

“You’re staring,” you murmured softly.

Robby blinked back to himself slightly. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

His mouth twitched.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not.”

You smiled faintly into your coffee. That still felt strange sometimes too. Smiling naturally. Not forcing it for other people’s comfort.

The apartment around you looked different now. Cleaner. Brighter. Curtains open. Plants alive again because you remembered to water them most days. There were groceries in the fridge. Fresh sheets on the bed. Tiny signs of care scattered everywhere.

Evidence you had slowly started returning to your own life. Not perfectly. Just honestly. You still had hard days. There were mornings where exhaustion returned suddenly and viciously for no obvious reason. Days where your thoughts turned cruel and heavy again. Shifts at PTMC that hollowed you out emotionally until all you wanted was silence and darkness afterward. But now you told people.

Now when Dana cornered you in the breakroom and asked, “Scale of one to ten, how bad’s the brain being today?” you answered honestly.

Now when therapy left you emotionally wrecked, you texted Robby instead of isolating yourself for three days. Now when your chest started tightening with that familiar hopeless numbness, you recognized it earlier. Not failure. Management.

Healing was apparently far less cinematic than people pretended. Mostly it was repetition. Tiny choices made over and over again. Eat something. Drink water. Open the curtains. Answer the text. Ask for help before things became unbearable. Keep going.

“You know,” Robby said quietly, fingers tracing absent patterns against your bare knee, “there was a point where I genuinely thought you were never gonna let me back in.”

The honesty of it made your chest ache.

You looked at him carefully. “I’m sorry.”

His expression softened instantly. “Hey.”

“I mean it.” Your voice turned quieter. “I know I hurt you.”

Robby leaned against the counter slightly, eyes fixed on yours. “You didn’t hurt me on purpose.”

“I still did.”

He considered that for a moment. Then nodded once.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “You did.”

The honesty hurt. But it also felt strangely good now. Cleaner somehow. Neither of you pretending those months had been easy. Robby’s hand slid gently around the back of your neck.

“But loving somebody means sometimes walking through ugly things together,” he said quietly. “And sweetheart…” His eyes softened painfully. “You never stopped being worth walking through them for.”

Your throat tightened immediately. You set your coffee aside before you started crying again because apparently recovery had turned you emotionally delicate in the strangest ways. Robby smiled faintly at that.

“There she is,” he teased softly.

You groaned immediately. “You have to stop saying that.”

“Never.”

“It makes me emotional.”

“You’re emotional because your brain chemistry’s stabilizing and now you feel things like a Victorian woman with a weak constitution.”

You laughed so hard coffee nearly came out your nose. Robby grinned instantly at the sound. And there it was again. That feeling.

Not happiness exactly. Something gentler. Safer. Like your life finally fit properly around you again.

You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck while he stood between your knees, and for a moment neither of you spoke. Morning light spilled softly through the apartment windows behind him. His curls were messy from sleep. His old PTMC shirt hung crooked across broad tired shoulders. There were still faint lines around his eyes from stress and worry neither of you fully escaped untouched.

But he was here. And so were you. Trying. Still trying.

Robby brushed his nose lightly against yours. “What?”

You smiled softly. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Liar.”

You kissed him before he could keep teasing you. Tender in the way only long-term love became after surviving difficult things together.

When you pulled back, Robby rested his forehead against yours and whispered quietly, “I missed you.”

The words nearly undid you. Because even when you had been physically standing beside him, there had been months where you had felt impossibly far away from everyone, including yourself. You touched his face gently.

“I missed me too,” you admitted softly.

The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.

Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.

Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.

He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“You’re doing great,” you told him.

Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.

“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.

“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.

You nodded.

“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”

His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”

“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”

Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”

“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”

His mom made a quiet sound behind him.

You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.

“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”

Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”

You looked up. “It absolutely does.”

He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.

“That one?” he asked.

You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.

The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.

His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.

You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”

He tried. His breath caught halfway.

“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”

The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.

“No,” he said.

His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”

“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.

“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”

But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.

You moved before thought could catch up.

Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.

For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.

Slipped.

White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.

Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.

“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”

Good, you thought. That was good.

You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.

Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.

“I hurt her,” he sobbed.

You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.

“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”

A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.

You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”

Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.

You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”

His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”

His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”

“We will,” she said quickly.

You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”

“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”

You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”

“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”

You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.

“Staff injury coming down from peds.”

“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”

“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”

“Vitals stable.”

“Severe pain.”

Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.

You hated being the patient.

You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.

The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.

The ED doors opened.

The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.

Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.

“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”

Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.

For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”

You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”

Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.

“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”

You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”

His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”

You sighed. “I’m with you.”

“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”

“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.

“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”

“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.

Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”

Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”

“You thought loudly.”

Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”

You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”

Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”

The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”

Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”

Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”

“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.

Robby looked at you. “He might.”

“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”

Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”

Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.

Javadi swallowed. “I’m appropriately alert.” Robby nodded once. “Better.”

You hated how many people it took.

You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.

You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.

Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.

Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”

“Correct,” Dana said.

Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.

He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.

Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”

“I lied once,” you admitted.

Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”

The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”

“But did he believe them?” you pushed.

Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”

You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”

“You thought about it,” Robby replied.

Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”

“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”

A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.

“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.

Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”

Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.

Robby watched your face. “You okay?”

“No,” you answered honestly.

Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”

Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.

Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”

“Jack Abbot.”

The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.

Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”

You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”

The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”

Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”

“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.

Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”

“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.

It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.

Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.

Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.

Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”

Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”

Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”

“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”

You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”

“You said thanks,” Dana added.

Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.

“That’s the point.” A beat passed.

Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”

You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”

“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”

Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”

Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”

“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”

Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”

Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”

“And he had your bag,” Princess added.

“It was heavy,” you said.

She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”

You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”

Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”

“No,” you said.

“You had his jacket,” she said.

“It was cold.”

“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”

Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.

Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”

Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”

Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”

The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”

You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”

Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”

“It is normal,” you replied.

“For married people,” Dana said.

Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”

You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”

Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”

Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”

“Yes.”

“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.

You inhaled. “Yes.”

“And the sandwich,” she continued.

“Yes.”

Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”

Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”

Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”

You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I do, actually,” Robby replied.

“Why?”

Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.

“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”

You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”

“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”

Dana hummed. “That’s true.”

You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”

“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.

He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”

Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.

His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”

Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.

“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”

The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”

“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”

Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”

“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”

You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.

“She says not to speed.”

Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”

“Jack,” Robby said carefully.

“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.

Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.

He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.

Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”

Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.

You blinked. “Wow.”

Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”

You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”

You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”

“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.

You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”

Robby exhaled. “Yes.”

“I’m not mad,” you repeated.

“I know.”

You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”

“He knows,” Robby replied gently.

You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”

“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”

You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.

Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”

“I should tell him,” you told her.

“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.

You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”

“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.

Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”

You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”

Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”

You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”

Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”

Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”

Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.

You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”

“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”

Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”

“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.

Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”

Robby stared at you. “What?”

“Eli or Jack?” you asked.

Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.

“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”

You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”

Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”

Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”

Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”

Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.

You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.

His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”

You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”

“Consistent,” Robby said.

Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”

The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.

Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”

You shook your head. “Existence.”

He nodded once. “Fair.”

Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.

Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”

Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.

Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”

“It’s not a bit,” you said.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”

You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”

Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”

Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”

You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”

His expression softened. “Thank you.”

“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.

Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”

Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”

You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”

Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”

“It is nice.”

“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”

“You’re my friend,” you said.

His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”

You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”

Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he said, quieter.

Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”

The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”

Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”

“No.”

Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.

Robby stepped closer. “I know.”

“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”

Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you mean it.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”

You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”

Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”

Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”

Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”

The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.

Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”

You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”

“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”

You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”

Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.

Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”

Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”

Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.

Then he was at your side. “Baby.”

The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.

You smiled up at him. “Hi.”

Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”

His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.

Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

“I’m observing.”

“You observe too loudly.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”

“I was worried,” Robby said.

The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”

Jack’s face shifted.

You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”

Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”

You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”

Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”

Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”

“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”

You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”

Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”

“I believe my wife.”

Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.

Santos murmured, “That was hot.”

Dana said, “Santos.”

“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.

Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

His face softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”

“I won’t,” Jack promised.

You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”

“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.

Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”

“No.” Your response was immediate.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”

“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.

Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”

You frowned at him. “Still smug.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”

You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”

You glared. “That’s annoying.”

His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”

Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.

Jack saw it immediately. “No.”

Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”

The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.

You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”

Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.

Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”

“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”

His brows pulled together. “My fault?”

“Yes.”

Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”

“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”

Robby looked up. Jack did not move.

“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”

Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”

“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”

Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”

Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”

“And slutty with your forearms,” you added.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Santos whispered, “Slutty forearms.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.

Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”

You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”

“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.

“I am maintaining room discipline.”

“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.

Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.

Jack saw it happen. “No.”

Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”

“Clinically,” Robby replied.

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”

Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“She’s tensing.”

Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”

“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.

Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”

Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”

Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”

Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.

Robby pointed at you. “There.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”

“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.

You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”

Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.

Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”

The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”

“You think I’m pretty,” you said.

“I married you,” Jack replied.

“That’s not an answer.”

His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”

You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”

Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”

“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.

Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”

“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.

Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”

“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.

Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”

You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”

Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.

Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”

“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.

Robby shrugged. “It is today.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”

You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”

The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”

You frowned, offended. “Rude.”

Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.

Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”

Jack looked at her. “Dana.”

She did not look up. “I report data.”

Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”

You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”

“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.

Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.

The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”

You nodded slowly. “Wow.”

Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.

Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”

You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not compliment me.”

“Clinically outstanding,” Robby corrected himself.

Jack’s gaze didn’t leave you. “Still no.”

Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”

“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.

Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J

ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”

She shrugged. “I report data.”

Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”

Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”

Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”

“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.

Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”

Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”

Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”

His eyes opened. “Baby.”

Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”

Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”

Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”

“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.

You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”

Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”

“She came back for cake,” you added.

Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”

Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”

Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”

Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”

Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”

Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”

Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”

Jack shrugged. “You started this.”

“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”

Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”

You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”

Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”

You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”

Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”

Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”

You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”

Jack closed his eyes again.

Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.

Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”

Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”

Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.

Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”

Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”

You smiled faintly. “You started it.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”

Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”

Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”

You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”

“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.

“She came back for cake.”

Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”

Jack looked at him. “You are done.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”

Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”

Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”

Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”

You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.

Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”

Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”

Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”

A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”

Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.

Robby nodded solemnly. “Marital nomenclature. Noted.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”

Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”

“Delete it,” Jack shot back.

Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”

Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”

Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”

“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”

Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”

“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.

Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”

“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.

You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”

Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”

You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.

“My face,” he said.

You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”

Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”

“Data,” Dana said.

Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”

Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.

“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”

Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”

You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”

“I know.”

Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.

Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.

Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”

“No,” he said immediately.

Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”

Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”

Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.

Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”

Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”

Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”

“I know.” Jack smiled softly.

You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”

Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”

“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”

Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”

You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.

Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.

Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”

“I’m trying,” you groaned.

He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.

Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”

A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.

Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.

Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”

You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”

“I am not,” Jack replied.

Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”

Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”

“I did,” you said.

Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”

“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.

Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”

Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”

The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.

Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.

Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”

“I know,” Jack agreed.

“Fuck, Jack.”

His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”

Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”

You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”

Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”

You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”

“I know.” Jack nodded.

“I can hear you,” Robby said.

Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”

“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.

Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”

“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.

Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”

“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.

Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”

Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”

The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.

Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”

You stared at him. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”

“I’m swearing,” you continued.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”

“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.

His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”

“You got slutty.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”

Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”

Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.

Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”

You blinked away tears. “I am.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”

You did.

His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”

Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”

“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.

Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”

You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.

You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”

“I’m not,” Jack replied.

You glared at him. “You are.”

“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”

Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.

You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”

“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.

His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”

“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.

Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”

His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”

“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.

Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”

His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”

“What?”

“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”

You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”

Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.

Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”

Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”

“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.

His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”

Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”

For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.

Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.

Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.

The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.

He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”

You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”

“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.

Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”

His expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”

You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”

The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”

His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”

Dana looked at him. “You are not.”

“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”

Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.

“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.

Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.

Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”

“I know you are,” Jack said.

Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”

“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”

You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”

Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”

You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”

Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”

“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.

You blinked at him. “That tracks.”

Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.

Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.

Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”

You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”

“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.

You blinked. “Show-off.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.

Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.

You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”

Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”

“The face,” you said.

Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”

Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”

Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.

Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”

His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”

The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.

Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”

Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”

You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”

You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”

Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.

“And Eli?”

Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.

“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”

You stared at him. “She told him?”

“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”

You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.

Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”

Your throat closed. “He did?”

“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.

Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”

Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”

Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”

You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”

Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”

Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”

“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”

Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”

Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”

Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”

You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”

Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”

Your chin trembled. “Jack.”

“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”

A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”

“You helped him.”

The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.

“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.

You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”

His mouth softened. “I know.”

You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”

“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.

You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”

Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”

Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”

Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.

Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”

He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”

You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”

Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”

Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”

“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.

Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”

You sighed happily. “It is working.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”

Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.

Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”

“Nope,” you said.

His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”

You frowned. “I already did that.”

“Do it again.”

You looked at him.

His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.

You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”

You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”

You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”

Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.

Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”

Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”

Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”

Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”

Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.

“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.

Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes

Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”

Jack stared at him. “Husband.”

Robby smiled. “Good choice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”

“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”

You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”

“It is,” Robby confirmed.

Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”

“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”

You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”

You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”

Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”

You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”

Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”

You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”

Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”

Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.

Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.

Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.

“Therapeutic and preventative.”

Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”

Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”

“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.

A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.

Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”

You smiled so hard your eyes closed.

Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”

You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”

“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.

You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”

Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”

Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”

“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.

Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”

“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.

“I still might,” Robby said.

Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”

“You better not,” Jack warned.

“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.

Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”

Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”

You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”

Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”

Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”

Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.

Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”

The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.

Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”

You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.

Robby looked at you. “No work.”

“But peds is short,” you replied.

“Peds will survive,” Robby said.

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”

You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.

Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”

“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.

Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”

You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”

“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.

“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.

Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”

He nodded. “Soon.”

“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.

His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”

Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”

Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”

Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”

He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”

Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.

His voice gentled. “Yeah.”

Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”

Jack met his eyes. “I will.”

The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.

You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”

Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”

“Lies,” you murmured.

Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”

Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.

He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”

You leaned into him. “I know.”

That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.

“Slow,” Jack said.

“I am slow,” you grumbled.

The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.

His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”

You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”

Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.

“Supportive environment,” Robby said.

Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.

Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”

Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”

Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”

Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.

“I’m good.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”

Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”

Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”

Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

Robby grinned. “I have photos.”

Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”

Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”

Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”

“Never,” Robby responded immediately.

“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.

Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”

Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”

Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”

“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.

Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.

You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”

Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”

Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”

Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”

You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”

Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”

You smiled. “I picked good.”

This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.

Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.

“So did I.”

Jack Abbott looked like he would rather be intubating someone in a supply closet during a power outage than standing in the ballroom of the Philadelphia Grand Hotel wearing a name badge.

That was your first thought. Your second thought was that he looked unfairly good for a man who had spent the last twenty minutes silently judging an entire conference hall.

He stood beside one of the tall cocktail tables near the back of the room, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he had not actually drunk from, his conference lanyard hanging crooked against the front of his dark sweater. He had taken off his blazer sometime between the trauma systems panel and the keynote address on "Innovative Compassion in High-Pressure Emergency Environments," which was a title Jack had heard once and immediately decided was a personal attack.

The ballroom was too warm. Too bright. Too full of physicians pretending they had never once eaten a vending machine granola bar over a trash can at three in the morning.

There were banners everywhere. There were sponsored pens. There was a man from Boston wearing a bow tie and explaining airway management like he had personally invented oxygen.

Jack had been quiet for most of it. Not polite quiet. Jack quiet. The kind of quiet that made residents straighten their backs and consultants reconsider their tone. The kind of quiet that looked harmless from across the room right up until someone said something stupid near it.

You had watched three people attempt to make small talk with him already. The first had asked what hospital he was representing. Jack had said, "UPMC Mercy." The second had asked if Pittsburgh had "much trauma volume."

Jack had stared at him for one full second too long before saying, "Enough." The third had smiled too brightly and said, "I always think emergency medicine is really about resilience."

Jack had said, "It's mostly about staffing." You had nearly choked on your coffee. Now he was standing beside you at the back of the room, radiating the particular kind of irritation that came from being professionally trapped.

"You know," you said, keeping your voice low as the speaker at the front of the ballroom advanced to another slide full of stock photos and bullet points, "some people enjoy conferences."

Jack did not look at you. "Those people need hobbies." "You're a doctor. You're at an emergency medicine conference. This is technically one of your hobbies." "No," he said. "This is Robby losing a bet and somehow making it my problem."

You turned your head, smiling into your coffee. "He made you come?" "He strongly suggested." "That sounds like Robby." "He used the phrase 'good for department visibility.'"

"Oh, no." Jack finally glanced at you. There was nothing overtly warm in his expression, exactly. Jack did not really do overt. His face was all sharp restraint and tired intelligence, mouth set like he was holding back three separate complaints and a legal disclaimer.

But his eyes shifted when they landed on you. Only slightly. Enough that you felt it. Enough that you hated that you felt it. "You laughing at my suffering?" he asked. "Yes."

"Good to know." "I'm enjoying your commitment to misery." "I commit to things." "You do," you said, before you could stop yourself. It came out softer than you meant it to.

Not flirtatious, not exactly. But too honest for a ballroom full of laminated schedules and sponsored tote bags. Jack looked at you for half a second longer than necessary.

There it was again. That pause. That tiny, dangerous bit of space that kept opening between you lately. At work, you could usually avoid it. The ED was useful that way. There was always something screaming, bleeding, crashing, coding, ringing, paging, demanding. There was always a monitor alarm or a consult call or someone yelling for a blanket warmer key.

There was no room for pauses in the ED. There was no time to notice that Jack brought you coffee when he made some for himself. No time to wonder why he always seemed to appear when a patient's family member started getting aggressive near your workstation.

No time to think about the way his voice changed when he said your name instead of your title. No time to think about his hand at your back when he moved behind you in a crowded trauma bay, not touching exactly, but close enough that you felt the heat of it through your scrubs.

No time for any of that. Here, unfortunately, there was nothing but time. Time and bad coffee. Time and Jack standing too close beside you because the back of the ballroom was crowded and neither of you had moved away.

On stage, the speaker clicked to the next slide. COMPASSION FATIGUE: RECOGNIZING THE WARNING SIGNS. Jack made a sound low in his throat. You looked over. "Don't." "I didn't say anything."

"You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "A judgmental noise." "Same system." You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously. The woman seated in front of you turned halfway in her chair and gave you both a tight look.

Jack stared back with no change in expression whatsoever. The woman turned around again. "You're going to get us kicked out," you whispered. "From this?" "That would be a shame."

"Would it?" You tried to look stern. "We are representing the hospital." "We're standing in the back drinking burnt coffee while a man named Brent tells a room full of emergency physicians to try mindfulness."

"His name is Brett." "I don't care." You lost the fight with your smile then. Jack saw it. Of course he saw it. Jack noticed everything he had no business noticing. His gaze flicked to your mouth, barely there and gone so quickly you could have convinced yourself you imagined it.

Except you had stopped giving yourself that much credit. You had been imagining things with Jack Abbott for months. Or maybe you had not been imagining them at all. That was the problem.

The speaker's microphone crackled. Somewhere near the middle of the room, someone coughed. Outside the tall ballroom windows, snow pressed thickly against the glass, turning the city beyond it into a blur of white and grey.

It had started that morning as a pretty dusting. The kind of snow people from conference registration desks called seasonal atmosphere. By lunch, it had become an inconvenience.

By three, it was an advisory. Now, at almost five in the evening, it was beginning to look like a problem. You checked your phone under the edge of the cocktail table. Three weather alerts. Two emails from the airline. One text from Dana.

DANA: Heard Philly's getting buried. Tell Abbott not to pick a fight with cardiology. You snorted. Jack's eyes shifted down. "What?" "Nothing." "You laughed." "Dana says hi."

"She does not." "She said to tell you not to pick a fight with cardiology." Jack's expression did not change. "Cardiology started it." "You haven't even seen cardiology today."

"That you know of." You sent Dana a quick reply. YOU: Too late. He's fighting the concept of conferences as a whole. Dana responded almost immediately. DANA: Sounds right. Bring him back alive. Or don't. I'm flexible.

You tucked your phone away, still smiling. Jack watched you do it. "What did she say?" "Nothing." "You're a bad liar." "You're nosy." "I'm observant." "You're nosy with a medical degree."

"That's the profession." That pulled another laugh out of you, quiet but real. Jack's mouth moved like he was trying very hard not to let his own expression change. He failed, just slightly.

It was not a smile, not by normal standards. But for Jack Abbott, it was practically fireworks. You looked away first. You had to. The thing about Jack was that he made stillness feel loud. You could handle him in motion. In the ED, with his hands gloved and his voice clipped and his body angled toward disaster, he made sense. He was built for crisis. He was decisive, sharp, controlled. He moved through chaos like he had made some private agreement with it years ago.

But stillness made him harder to manage. Stillness let you notice the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. The scarred steadiness of him. The careful way he shifted his weight after standing too long. The fact that his left hand had settled near his hip, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his pocket.

Stillness let you remember that under all that competence was a person who got tired. A person who hurt. A person who, for reasons you were trying very hard not to interrogate, had started keeping track of whether you ate during twelve-hour shifts.

You looked down into your coffee. It had gone cold. "You okay?" Jack asked. It was so quiet you almost missed it under the speaker's voice. You glanced up. "What?" He was not looking at the stage anymore.

"You went quiet." "I'm listening." "No, you're not." "You don't know that." "What was the last slide?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack raised his eyebrows. You sighed. "Fine. I wasn't listening."

"Good choice." "I'm okay," you said, because you understood then that the question had not really been about the presentation. Jack held your gaze. There were days when that look irritated you. The steady, unblinking attention of it. Like he could read your pulse without touching your wrist. Like he saw whatever you were trying to tuck out of view and simply decided whether or not he was going to let you get away with it.

Today, it did not irritate you. Today, it made something behind your ribs go a little unsteady. "Long day," you added. His expression softened by a degree. For anyone else, it would have been nothing.

For Jack, it was practically a hand offered. "Yeah," he said. You both looked back toward the stage. The speaker had moved on to a case study about physician burnout that somehow included a clip-art image of a candle.

Jack stared at it. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. You coughed into your cup to cover the laugh. The woman in front of you turned around again. This time, she looked only at Jack.

Jack looked back. You gently touched his sleeve. It was instinctive. Barely a touch. Your fingers against the dark fabric at his forearm for one second, maybe less. "Behave," you murmured.

Jack's eyes dropped to where your hand had been. You pulled it back too quickly. Too obviously. Heat climbed up your neck, which was ridiculous. You worked in emergency medicine. You had held pressure on arterial bleeds. You had told surgeons where to stand. You had been vomited on by strangers and once had to explain to a grown man that shampoo bottles did not belong there, no matter what the internet said.

You should have been able to touch Jack Abbott's sleeve without forgetting how breathing worked. Jack said nothing. That was almost worse. The room clapped suddenly, polite and scattered. The session was ending.

Chairs scraped. People stood. Voices swelled all at once, filling the ballroom with that post-lecture noise of professional relief. Lanyards swung. Tote bags rustled. Someone near the doors started talking loudly about dinner reservations.

You stepped back from the cocktail table, grateful for the movement. "Well," you said, "that was very informative." Jack looked at you. You managed to keep a straight face for two seconds.

"Okay, no. It was terrible." "Thank you." "But we survived." He glanced toward the windows. The snow was falling harder now, fast and thick under the streetlights outside. It moved sideways in violent gusts, smearing white across the glass. People were beginning to cluster near the lobby entrance, phones out, faces lit with the blue glow of cancellation alerts.

Jack's jaw tightened. "What?" you asked. "Storm's worse." You followed his gaze. "It was supposed to slow down." "It didn't." "You secretly a meteorologist too?" "No. I have eyes."

You rolled yours, but you checked your phone again. Another airline email. Your stomach dropped. FLIGHT CANCELLED: PHILADELPHIA TO PITTSBURGH. "Oh," you said. Jack looked over immediately. "Cancelled?"

"Yeah." He did not ask to see your phone. He just read your face. His mouth flattened. You refreshed the app pointlessly, because apparently denial had a user interface. "All flights tonight?" he asked.

"Looks like mine, at least." You tapped through the airline page. "The app says earliest rebook is tomorrow afternoon, but that's assuming the airport opens properly." Jack pulled his own phone out.

He did not look surprised by whatever he found. "Mine's cancelled too." "Great." "Roads?" You opened the weather alert. The words hazardous travel, whiteout conditions, and avoid unnecessary trips were not especially comforting.

"Also great," you said. Jack slid his phone back into his pocket. "We stay another night." You looked toward the lobby, where a line was already forming at the front desk.

"Everyone is going to try to stay another night." "Then we get there before the orthopedic surgeons." You laughed despite yourself. Jack started walking.

You followed him out of the ballroom and into the broad hotel corridor. The conference had spilled everywhere now — doctors and nurses and vendors in branded fleeces, everyone talking too loudly over everyone else. The lights overhead were warm and expensive. The carpet was patterned in a way that made you suspect someone had been paid too much money to make beige feel important.

At the far end of the hall, the lobby opened wide and bright, all marble floors and high ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto a city disappearing under snow. The front desk line was already fifteen people deep.

Jack stopped. You nearly bumped into him. He glanced over his shoulder. "You checked out this morning?" "Yeah. My room was only booked through today because my flight was supposed to be tonight."

"Conference block?" "Full. I tried earlier when the delays started." His face shifted. Not much. But you saw the calculation begin. "No," you said immediately. "I haven't said anything."

"You're about to." "You don't know that." "I know your face." That made him pause. Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something warmer pretending to be amusement.

"You know my face?" "I know your about-to-be-stubborn face." "That's just my face." "No, your regular face is more quietly judgmental." He gave you a dry look. You smiled sweetly.

The line at the front desk moved one person forward and somehow became more chaotic. A woman in a navy pantsuit was telling the receptionist that she was a keynote speaker and therefore needed a room. A man behind her was arguing with someone on speakerphone. Near the windows, two residents were sitting on their suitcases, looking exhausted.

Jack's attention moved over the lobby once, quick and assessing. Then he looked back at you. "You can take my room." You crossed your arms. "There it is." "It's a room." "It's your room."

"You need one." "So do you." "I can figure it out." You gave him a look. He gave you one back. The trouble with Jack was that he did not posture. He did not make generous offers with softness around the edges. He did not say things to be gallant. He simply looked at a problem, decided on the cleanest solution, and expected everyone else to fall into line.

Which was irritating. Because sometimes the cleanest solution involved him being quietly self-sacrificial in a way that made you want to shake him. "You are not sleeping in the lobby," you said.

"Neither are you." "Jack." His name came out sharper than you intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His expression eased by a fraction, but his voice stayed even. "I'm not arguing about this in a hotel lobby."

"Then stop being wrong in one." His eyes narrowed. Not angry. Almost amused. Almost. "You always this difficult?" he asked. "With you? Yes." "Lucky me." "You bring it out in me."

Jack held your gaze for one beat too long. The noise of the lobby seemed to pull back for a second. Around you, people were still moving. Suitcases rolled over marble. Phones rang. The automatic doors slid open and let in a blast of cold air sharp enough to make someone curse.

But Jack was looking at you, and you were looking back, and there was that pause again. That impossible little pause. The one neither of you ever knew what to do with. Then the front desk clerk called, "Next guest, please," and the spell cracked.

Jack stepped toward the desk. You caught his sleeve again. This time, you did not pull away immediately. "Don't give up your room," you said, quieter now. His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then back to your face. "Don't sleep in a lobby," he said. "That's not an answer." "It is if you listen." You let go of his sleeve. He moved to the desk before you could argue again.

You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and watched as he gave his name to the exhausted-looking receptionist. "Abbott," he said. "I have a room for tonight. Need to extend it."

The receptionist typed quickly, her face already apologetic in the way customer service workers got when the computer was about to ruin someone's day. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Abbott. We're completely sold out for tomorrow night at this point. The storm has stranded most of the conference guests."

Jack's expression did not change. "Existing reservation," he said. "Room 1117." "I understand, sir. But all rooms are currently booked. If housekeeping confirms no-shows or cancellations, we can add you to the waitlist."

You leaned in slightly. "What about my reservation? I checked out this morning, but with the flight cancellations—" The receptionist looked at you with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. We don't have anything available."

Jack looked at her. "Anything." "I'm afraid not." "A cot?" "No cots left." "Conference room?" "Sir—" "Not for me," he said, impatient now. "For her." Your stomach did something stupid.

The receptionist glanced between the two of you. A tiny, knowing sort of understanding moved across her face. You hated her a little. "I'm sorry," she said again. "We really don't have a safe accommodation option outside of existing rooms. The city has issued travel warnings, so we're advising all guests not to leave the property unless absolutely necessary."

Jack went still. You could almost see him biting back a response. You touched his arm again, this time with warning. "Jack." His jaw worked once. Then he looked at the receptionist. "Keep the room under my name."

"Of course." "And if anything else opens, call up." "Yes, Doctor Abbott." He gave a short nod and stepped away from the desk. You followed him toward the edge of the lobby, away from the worst of the noise.

"No," you said. Jack turned. "You don't know what I'm going to say." "You're going to say I should take your room and you'll do something ridiculous like sleep sitting upright by the vending machines."

"I wasn't going to specify vending machines." "Jack." "What?" "No." He exhaled through his nose. Outside, the wind threw snow hard against the windows. Somewhere overhead, the lights flickered once, just enough for half the lobby to pause and look up.

When they steadied again, Jack's face had changed. Not softened. Settled. Like something in him had made a decision and locked the door behind it. "You're not going anywhere tonight," he said.

"Neither are you." "No." "No?" "No," he repeated. "We're not doing the noble idiot routine." You blinked. "That was directed at you, right?" His mouth twitched. Barely. "Both of us."

"Oh, progress." "We share the room." The words landed between you with the subtlety of a dropped instrument tray. You stared at him. Jack, infuriatingly, looked completely calm.

"We what?" "We share the room," he said again, like saying it plainly made it less insane. Your voice lowered. "Jack." "It has a lock. Heat. Bathroom. Presumably fewer orthopedic surgeons."

"That is not the issue." "It's a room." "It's your room." "You already said that." "With one bed?" He paused. And there. There it was. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would have caught it.

But you did. The tiny hitch in his expression. The one beat where practical Jack Abbott, the man who could handle blood and death and impossible decisions without blinking, appeared to remember that you were not simply a stranded colleague but a woman he had been standing too close to for months.

His eyes shifted away first. That almost never happened. "I'll take the chair," he said. "You will not." "I've slept in worse places." "I know," you said, softer before you could stop it. "That doesn't mean you should."

He looked back at you. The argument died a little in his face. Not completely. Jack was not built for surrender. But enough. The lobby carried on around you. People complained. Phones buzzed. The storm kept pressing itself against the glass like it wanted in.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks now. Not embarrassment exactly. Something worse. Awareness. Sharp and immediate. One room. One bed. Jack Abbott standing in front of you, close enough that you could see the dark flecks in his eyes, telling you in that maddeningly practical voice that he was not going to let you be unsafe tonight.

He cleared his throat. "It's not ideal." You let out a small laugh, mostly because if you did not laugh, you might say something dangerous. "No. I'd say it's a little past ideal."

"We're adults." "Are we?" His eyes narrowed. You lifted both hands. "Sorry. Tension response." "Clearly." "We work together." "I noticed." "People will talk." "People always talk."

"You hate when people talk." "I hate when people are stupid. Overlap, not causation." Despite everything, you smiled. He looked at your mouth again. This time, you were sure of it.

The smile faded. Jack looked away, jaw tightening like he had caught himself doing something he had not given himself permission to do. "Room's there," he said, his voice lower now. Rougher around the edges. "You can have the bed. I'll figure out the rest."

You should have said no again. You should have insisted on the lobby or found another stranded doctor to double up with or called Dana and let her laugh you through a nervous breakdown.

Instead, you looked outside. At the snow. At the city disappearing. At the people sitting on suitcases under expensive chandeliers, trying to pretend they were not scared of being stuck.

Then you looked back at Jack. He was tired. You could see it now, in the way he held himself. The conference chairs had been bad for him; standing through the reception had been worse. The cold would not help. Neither would an argument that lasted another twenty minutes because both of you were too stubborn to admit the obvious.

You sighed. "Only if you don't sleep in the chair." His brows drew together. "That's not—" "No," you said. "We are not doing the noble idiot routine. You said it. It applies."

Jack stared at you. You stared back. "I'm serious," you said. "So am I." "You always are." "Someone has to be." "You're impossible." "You keep saying that like it changes anything."

You looked at him for a long second. Then, because apparently the storm had knocked all common sense out of the sky along with the snow, you said, "Fine." Jack blinked once.

"Fine?" "Fine. We share the room." His face was very still. Very controlled. Too controlled. "But," you added quickly, "we are establishing rules." "Rules." "Yes." "For sleeping."

"For survival." His mouth twitched again. That almost-smile. The one that should not have had the power to make your chest feel too small. "Fine," he said. "Rule one: no chair."

He looked annoyed. You pointed at him. "No." "I didn't say anything." "You were thinking loudly." "Occupational hazard." "Rule two," you said, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you had apparently agreed to share a hotel room with Jack Abbott. "No being weird."

Jack looked at you. "You think I'm going to be weird?" "I think we're both going to be weird." "That's probably accurate." "And rule three…" You stopped. Because you had no idea what rule three was.

Do not look at me like that. Do not stand too close. Do not make this feel safer than it should. Do not be kind in that quiet, gruff way that makes me want things I have no business wanting.

Jack waited. You swallowed. "Rule three," you said, "we pretend this is normal." His gaze held yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack gave one short nod. "Professional courtesy," he said.

You laughed. You could not help it. It came out softer than before, edged with nerves. "Is that what this is?" His expression was unreadable. The storm threw another gust of snow against the windows.

"Sure," he said. But he did not sound convinced. And God help you, neither were you. The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent. Not peaceful silent. Not comfortable silent.

The kind of silence that had bones in it. You stood on one side of the elevator with your overnight bag tucked against your hip and your coat still buttoned to your throat. Jack stood on the other side, his conference tote hanging off one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors like they had personally offended him.

Four. Five. Six. The elevator hummed upward. You watched his reflection in the polished metal doors because looking at the actual man felt like a risky decision. He looked tired now.

More tired than he had in the ballroom. There was a set to his jaw you had learned to read over months of working beside him. Pain, probably. Or irritation. With Jack, the two had a habit of presenting similarly unless you knew where to look.

His weight was shifted slightly more onto one side. Not dramatically. Jack did not do dramatically when it came to his own body. He was careful in a way that pretended not to be care. Precise. Controlled. Almost invisible about it.

But you knew. You had no right to know, maybe. But you did. "You're doing it again," Jack said. You looked away so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "Doing what?"

"Watching me in reflective surfaces." Heat crept up your neck. "I was not." "You were." "It's an elevator. Everything is reflective." "Convenient." "You're very suspicious for a man who just invited me to share his hotel room."

He turned his head then. Slowly. "That was not an invitation." You raised your eyebrows. His mouth flattened. "It was a logistical decision." "Ah." His eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "That's my line." "I'm borrowing it." "You need better material." "You need better coffee." "I know." That, somehow, eased the air between you.

Not by much. But enough that you could breathe again. The elevator climbed past eight. A family got on at nine, two exhausted parents and a little boy in dinosaur pyjamas clutching a stuffed bear by one ear. The mother gave you both a brief, tired smile. The father looked like he had spent the last hour on hold with an airline. The little boy looked at Jack's conference lanyard, then at his face, and immediately decided Jack was the most interesting person in the elevator.

Jack stared forward. The little boy stared harder. You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack's eyes flicked sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "You're laughing again." "I'm not." "You are internally laughing."

"Can you diagnose that?" "Yes." The little boy tugged on his mother's coat and whispered, much too loudly, "Is he a spy?" His mother's eyes went wide. "Elliot." Jack did not move.

You looked at the ceiling. The father closed his eyes like he wanted to disappear. The little boy kept staring. Jack turned his head just slightly and looked down at him.

"No," he said. Elliot blinked. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Because you look like one." Jack considered that. Then said, "I get that a lot." You made a small, strangled sound.

The little boy nodded seriously, apparently satisfied. The elevator stopped at eleven. Jack stepped forward as the doors opened. You followed him out, barely keeping your laugh contained until the doors slid shut behind you.

Then you lost it. Not loud. Not enough to carry far down the hotel corridor. But enough that you had to press a hand to your mouth. Jack glanced at you. "Don't start." "He thought you were a spy."

"I heard." "You told him you get that a lot." "He was under stress." "He was six." "Children are often under stress." You laughed again, softer this time. Jack's expression shifted.

You almost missed it because it was small and gone quickly, but there was something there. Something like satisfaction. Not smugness. Not exactly amusement. More like he liked making you laugh and did not know what to do with that information.

That made you stop laughing. The corridor was quieter than the lobby, muffled by thick carpet and expensive wallpaper. The air smelled faintly of linen, citrus cleaner, and overheated radiators. Somewhere far down the hall, an ice machine rattled. Beyond the windows at the end of the corridor, snow blew hard against the glass.

Jack started walking. You followed half a step behind. For some reason, that felt worse than walking beside him. Maybe because it made you look at things you usually avoided looking at. The slope of his shoulders under the dark fabric of his sweater. The careful steadiness of his gait. The conference tote knocking against his side. The back of his neck where his hair sat slightly mussed from the collar of his coat.

This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A medical professional. A person who could calmly handle a dislocated shoulder, a combative drunk, and a cardiologist with an ego the size of Allegheny County.

You could walk down a hotel corridor behind Jack Abbott without constructing an entire emotional crisis out of it. Probably. Room 1117 was near the end of the hall. Of course it was.

Because apparently the universe had decided to commit to the bit. Jack stopped outside the door and pulled his key card from his pocket. Then he paused. You stopped beside him.

"What?" you asked. He did not look at you. "Last chance." "Last chance for what?" "To decide the lobby's better." You stared at him. Jack kept his gaze on the door like it was suddenly fascinating.

The awkwardness of the situation had finally caught up with him, you realised. Not because he regretted offering. Jack was too stubborn and too protective for that. But because he was aware of you.

Painfully aware. The same way you were aware of him. You were both standing in a hotel hallway with snow trapping you inside and a single room waiting beyond the door, and the months of not saying things had followed you upstairs like another piece of luggage.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder. "Do you want me to say the lobby's better?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came too fast. Too honest. You looked at him. He still did not look back.

"No," you said quietly. "I don't either." That made him turn. Only a little. Enough. His eyes met yours, and for one breath, the corridor felt narrower. You had said nothing shocking. Nothing romantic. Nothing that should have made his expression change.

But it did. It softened in the smallest possible way. Then the ice machine rattled again, brutally loud, and both of you looked away like teenagers caught holding hands behind the gym.

Jack cleared his throat and tapped the key card to the lock. The light flashed green. He pushed the door open. "After you," he said. You looked at him. "Professional courtesy?"

His mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck." You stepped into the room. And stopped. Because the hotel room was not bad. That was the problem. If it had been cramped or ugly or strange, you could have laughed. If the carpet had been stained or the heating had sounded like aircraft failure, you could have turned the whole thing into a joke.

But the room was warm. Quiet. Low-lit. The curtains were partly open, showing a wall of storm-dark sky and snow-lashed glass. A small desk sat near the window with a conference programme folded beside the lamp. Jack's suitcase was open on the luggage rack, clothes folded with a level of military precision that should not have surprised you and still somehow did. His coat hung over the back of the desk chair. A pair of boots sat neatly near the wall.

And the bed. The bed was large, white, neatly made, and extremely singular. One bed. One. Not two small beds pushed together. Not a fold-out couch. Not even an ottoman that could plausibly become a desperate sleeping surface.

Just one king-sized bed sitting in the middle of the room like an accusation. You heard Jack come in behind you. The door clicked shut. Neither of you said anything. The silence immediately became unhinged.

You stared at the bed. Jack stared at the bed. The bed, smugly, remained a bed. Finally, you said, "Well." Jack dropped his key card on the desk with unnecessary precision. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You were about to." "I was only going to say it's… roomy." He looked at you. You looked back. "It is," you said. "It's a bed." "Yes, Jack. That's the issue."

"It's a large bed." "Again. Not helping." He exhaled through his nose and turned away, moving toward the thermostat near the door. "Heat's on." "Good." "You can take the bathroom first."

"Fine." "And the bed." You turned. "We already discussed this." "We discussed the room." "We discussed the noble idiot routine." "I'm not being noble." "You are physically incapable of not being noble in the most aggravating way possible."

Jack shot you a look over his shoulder. "That is not a sentence that makes sense." "It does to me." "That's concerning." "You are not sleeping in the chair." He glanced at the chair.

You did too. It was a perfectly nice hotel desk chair, upholstered in grey fabric, with curved wooden arms and absolutely no business being considered a sleeping arrangement by any person over the age of twelve.

Jack looked back at you. "I've slept sitting up before." "Yes," you said, "and now you are older and more breakable." His eyebrows lifted. You froze. "Not breakable," you corrected quickly. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?" "Yes." His face was unreadable, but there was a dry edge to his voice. "Older, then?" You closed your eyes briefly. "I am making this worse." "You are." "I meant your leg."

"I gathered." You opened your eyes. Jack's expression had changed again, but not in the way you feared. He did not look angry. Not offended. Maybe a little guarded, but that was Jack's baseline around any mention of his body that did not come from a medical chart.

You softened your voice. "I meant you've been on your feet all day. Conference chairs are awful. It's freezing outside. You're not sleeping upright because of me." The guard shifted.

Just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to find the trick in what you had said. There wasn't one. That seemed to be what unsettled him. "I'm fine," he said.

You sighed. "Of course you are." "I am." "You know, when you say that, it has started to sound less like a status update and more like a legal defence." Jack turned fully toward you.

"You keep notes?" "Mentally." "On me?" The question was dry. The look was not. You should have had an answer ready. Something sharp. Something easy. Something that would put the conversation safely back where it belonged.

Instead, you said, "Sometimes." Jack went still. The room held its breath around you. The heater clicked on with a low rush of air, warm and dry, but you felt cold suddenly in the centre of your chest.

Sometimes. What a stupid thing to admit. Except it was true. You kept notes on him.

The way he preferred bitter coffee but drank bad hospital coffee without complaint if it was hot enough. The way he always stood between you and agitated family members without making a show of it. The way he hated fussing but tolerated directness. The way his patience with interns was better when no one was watching. The way grief seemed to live near him but not always in him, like a room he knew how to pass without opening the door every time.

The way he noticed when everyone else missed something. The way he noticed you. Jack looked away first. "I'll take the floor," he said. "Oh my God." "What?" "You are impossible."

"It's carpeted." "That is not an argument." "It's a fact." "You are not sleeping on hotel carpet." "I've slept on worse floors." "Stop saying that like it helps." "It's true."

"It's depressing." His mouth twitched faintly. "You wanted honesty." "I wanted common sense." "You're asking a lot." "Apparently." You set your bag down by the dresser and slipped your coat off, mostly to have something to do with your hands. The room was too warm now after the cold of the lobby. Your skin felt prickly. Your mind was moving too fast.

One bed. Jack. Snowstorm. Professional courtesy. Very funny, universe. Tremendous work. No notes. Jack moved to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. Snow slammed across the glass in thick gusts. The city beyond was nearly gone, reduced to blurred lights and white movement. The roads below were barely visible. Cars crawled through slush with hazard lights flashing. At the corner, a traffic signal swung hard in the wind.

"That's bad," you said. "Yeah." His voice had changed. Less irritated. More serious. You stepped closer, stopping beside him with enough space between you to pretend you were being normal.

Outside, Philadelphia looked suspended. The usual movement of the city had slowed to something strange and fragile. Sirens flashed somewhere far off, red and blue diffused through snow. You thought of everyone stuck out in it — EMS crews, police, hospital staff trying to make shift change, patients trying to get home.

Your stomach tightened. Jack glanced at you. "Don't." You looked at him. "What?" "You're thinking about the ED." "You don't know that." "You get that look." "What look?" "The one where you start trying to personally take responsibility for weather patterns and systemic infrastructure failures."

You stared at him. "That is very specific." "You're very specific." The words landed quietly. No joke wrapped around them. You looked back out at the snow before your face could betray you.

"I just hate knowing people are stuck out there." "I know." That was the thing with Jack. Sometimes he could be blunt enough to bruise. And sometimes he said two words like they carried a hand under your elbow.

You folded your arms loosely, not because you were cold but because you needed to hold yourself together. "The Pitt will be slammed," you said. "Probably." "Dana's going to be running on spite and vending machine pretzels."

"Dana can run a hospital on spite and vending machine pretzels." That made you smile. "True." "Robby'll keep it moving." "Also true." "They don't need us tonight." You looked at him then.

Jack kept his eyes on the window. It occurred to you that maybe he had said it for both of you. "They don't," you agreed. A gust of wind hit the glass hard enough to rattle it.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. You both looked up. "Comforting," you said. Jack let the curtain fall back into place. "Hotel'll have a generator." "Probably."

He gave you a look. You smiled faintly. "Sorry. I'll stop being reassuring." "That was you trying?" "Barely." He crossed to the desk and picked up the room service menu. "You eaten?"

The shift was so abrupt it took you a second to catch up. "What?" "Food," he said. "Have you had any since lunch?" "Yes." Jack looked at you. You looked back. "Define food," he said.

"That feels hostile." "It was a simple question." "I had half a muffin during the afternoon break." His eyes closed briefly. "Don't make that face." "I'm not making a face."

"You're making the doctor face." "I am a doctor." "You're making the disappointed attending face." "With cause." "It had blueberries." "It was conference food. It had the concept of blueberries."

You laughed, despite yourself. Jack picked up the phone. "Room service." "You don't have to—" "I'm ordering food." "I can order my own food." "Good. Then you can tell me what you want."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He waited. You crossed your arms. "You are very bossy." "Yes." "No denial?" "I'm tired." That caught you off guard. It was small, the admission. Almost nothing.

But Jack did not give away small things without meaning to. Your expression softened before you could stop it. "Yeah," you said. "Me too." His eyes met yours. For a second, the argument fell away.

The bed was still there. The storm still existed. The whole strange shape of the night still waited around you. But so did the exhaustion. So did the fact that you had both been awake since before dawn, sitting through panels and making careful conversation and pretending, always pretending, that the invisible line between you was not getting thinner every day.

Jack looked away first, but gently this time. "What do you want?" he asked, lifting the phone. You glanced at the menu. "Grilled cheese." He paused. "What?" "Grilled cheese."

"They have salmon." "I don't trust conference hotel salmon during a weather emergency." "Sensible." "And fries." "Of course." "And whatever dessert looks least disappointing."

Jack's mouth tilted slightly. "There's chocolate cake." "Done." He nodded once and lifted the receiver. You watched him order with the same brusque efficiency he used when calling consults, except instead of demanding neurosurgery he was asking a very overwhelmed kitchen employee for grilled cheese, fries, black coffee, tea, and chocolate cake.

It should not have been attractive. It absolutely was. You turned away and busied yourself with your bag. You had packed badly. Not disastrously, but with the optimism of someone who thought she would be back in Pittsburgh by midnight. You had a spare blouse, a phone charger, toiletries, and a soft sleep shirt you had only thrown in because your last flight delay had taught you humility. No actual pyjama bottoms. No extra jumper. No thick socks.

Wonderful. Jack hung up the phone. "Forty-five minutes," he said. "Not bad." "Kitchen sounds like a war zone." "Poor them." He glanced toward your bag. "You need anything?"

You looked up too quickly. "What?" "Toiletries. Shirt. Charger." "Oh." You swallowed. "No. I'm okay." He watched you for half a beat. "You packed for one night." "So did you."

"I have clothes." "Congratulations." "You're doing the defensive thing." "You're doing the observant thing." "Occupational hazard," he said again. You looked down at your open bag.

It was not a big deal. That was what you told yourself. It was just clothes. Just a hotel room. Just a storm. Just Jack. You were so tired of the word just. "I have a shirt," you said. "No bottoms. I'll survive."

Jack did not react obviously. Which somehow made it more obvious that he was reacting. His gaze moved to the dresser. "I have sweats." "No." "They're clean." "That was not my concern."

"They have a drawstring." "Also not my concern." "You'd rather sleep in conference pants?" You looked down at your trousers. They were perfectly professional and deeply uncomfortable after a twelve-hour day.

"I hate that you're making sense." "Happens." "Rarely." Jack opened his suitcase and pulled out a neatly folded pair of dark sweatpants. He held them out without looking directly at you.

The gesture was so practical. So simple. So completely dangerous. You took them. Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Nothing. A nothing touch. Except Jack's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and your pulse jumped like an idiot.

"Thank you," you said. His voice was rougher when he answered. "Professional courtesy." You glanced up. He was looking at you now. There was humour there, buried under exhaustion and restraint. But there was something else too. Something careful. Something that knew exactly how thin this joke was becoming.

You held the sweatpants against your chest. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." The bathroom was small and aggressively hotel-like, all marble counter, bright mirror, and towels folded into shapes no one needed. You changed quickly, keeping your sleep shirt on and tying the borrowed sweatpants as tightly as they would go.

They were too big. Of course they were. They sat low on your hips and pooled slightly at your ankles. They smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something cleaner underneath. Jack's suitcase, maybe. His soap. The same faint scent you sometimes caught when he leaned over a chart beside you.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. "Oh, this is bad," you whispered. Not bad because you looked bad. Bad because you looked comfortable. Bad because the pants were his.

Bad because you could already imagine walking out and seeing him notice. You pressed both hands to your face. "Get a grip." A knock came at the bathroom door. You jumped.

"You alive?" Jack asked from the other side. You opened the door too quickly. "Do not say it like that." He was standing a few feet back, one hand braced on the desk chair, his shoes off now, his sweater sleeves pushed to his forearms.

He looked at you. Then very pointedly looked away. It was possibly the least subtle thing he had ever done. Your stomach flipped. "They're too big," you said, because apparently you had chosen death.

"They have a drawstring," he said. "I used it." "Then they're functional." "Is everything functional to you?" "No." The answer came too quietly. You looked at him. He was still not looking at you.

The air changed. That was the only way you knew how to think of it. Changed like weather. You stood barefoot on hotel carpet in Jack Abbott's borrowed sweatpants, and he stood across from you in his shirtsleeves, and the room felt suddenly too small for the amount of not saying happening inside it.

Then someone knocked on the door. Both of you startled. Actually startled. Jack recovered first, because of course he did. "Room service," he said, like that was not obvious.

"Right." He crossed to the door. You sat on the edge of the bed without thinking, then immediately stood again because sitting on the bed felt insane. Jack opened the door and accepted the tray from a harried-looking employee who looked one room away from quitting the hospitality industry entirely. Jack thanked him, tipped him too much, and shut the door with his hip.

The smell of hot fries filled the room. You nearly groaned. Jack set the tray on the desk. "You look like you're about to propose to the food." "Don't judge me." "I'm not. It's the most enthusiasm you've shown all day."

"That's not true." "No?" You stepped closer to the tray and lifted the metal cover from the plate. Golden fries. Grilled cheese cut diagonally. A small bowl of tomato soup you had not ordered but immediately respected.

You looked at Jack. His expression was neutral. Too neutral. "You ordered soup." "It came with it." "Did it?" "Yes." "Jack." "What?" "You ordered soup." "It's cold out." You smiled.

He looked annoyed, but not enough. "Professional courtesy?" you asked. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down a little carefully. "Eat your sandwich." You did. You sat on the edge of the bed because there was nowhere else to sit, balancing the plate on your knees while Jack took the chair at the desk. It should have been awkward, but food helped. Food made it normal, or something adjacent to normal.

The storm raged outside. The room smelled like fries and coffee and radiator heat. Jack ate like a man who had forgotten hunger existed until food was placed in front of him. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice you noticing.

The silence between you grew less sharp. You dipped a corner of grilled cheese into the soup and looked over at him. "So," you said, "besides Robby and department visibility, why did you really come?"

Jack did not answer immediately. He leaned back in the chair, coffee in hand, eyes on the window. "For the conference?" "No, Jack. For the ambience." His mouth twitched. "I was asked."

"You always do what you're asked?" "No." "Exactly." He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Bad?" "Hotel bad." "You ordered it." "I was desperate." "You could have had tea."

"I'm not eighty." "That is hurtful to tea." "Tea will recover." You smiled, but you did not let him off. "Why did you come?" Jack looked down into his coffee. For a moment, you thought he was going to dodge again.

Then he said, "Robby thought I should get out of Pittsburgh for two days." That was not what you expected. Your face softened. "Why?" Jack's thumb moved along the side of the paper cup.

"Because he's annoying." "Jack." He exhaled. Not quite a sigh. "He thinks I've been working too much." "You have." His eyes lifted. You held his gaze. "What?" you said. "You have."

"You're one to talk." "I didn't say I was innocent." "No. You just keep mental notes on me and forget to eat." You looked down, smiling despite yourself. "That sounded almost affectionate."

"Don't get excited." "Too late." Jack's eyes stayed on you. The smile thinned a little on your face, not because you stopped feeling it, but because suddenly feeling anything seemed dangerous again.

He looked away. "Robby wanted someone senior here," he said. "I had the time. You were already going." There. Quiet. Almost buried. But there. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"You came because I was going?" Jack did not move. "I didn't say that." "You kind of did." "I said it was a factor." "A factor." "Yes." "In the logistical decision." He glanced at you, and there was that dry look again. The one that made your chest ache because it was almost easier than softness.

"You're enjoying this." "A little." "Dangerous habit." "Noted." You ate another fry to give yourself something to do. But your mind had snagged on it. You were already going.

Not a confession. Not even close. But with Jack, half the time the truth came wrapped in enough caution to survive impact. You wondered how many other almost-truths he had offered you over the months that you had been too careful to pick up.

Outside, thunder cracked. Not thunder, maybe. Something heavy and distant. A transformer. Ice shifting. A city noise made strange by snow. The lights flickered again. This time, they went out.

The room dropped into darkness. For one second, everything disappeared. You heard yourself inhale sharply. Then the emergency lighting kicked in, faint and amber from the hallway through the crack under the door. The city glow outside the window blurred through the curtains. The heater went silent.

"Jack?" "I'm here." His voice came immediately. Close enough that your panic had no time to grow teeth. Then your phone screen lit up where it sat on the bed beside you, buzzing with an alert.

WINTER STORM WARNING. SHELTER IN PLACE. You stared at it. "Well," you said, trying for lightness and not quite getting there. "That feels dramatic." Jack stood. You heard the chair shift, then the careful sound of his movement in the dark.

"Stay there." "I wasn't planning on sprinting." "Good." He moved across the room with a confidence that made something inside you ache. Even in near-dark, even in a strange hotel room, Jack was calm. Measured. One hand found the desk. Then the lamp. Then the wall.

A second later, his phone flashlight clicked on, casting sharp white light across the room. You blinked. He aimed it toward the floor, not your face. "Power's out," he said.

"Really? I thought they were setting the mood." His eyes flicked up. Even in the thin flashlight glow, you saw the look. "Joke response," you said. "Ignore me." "I usually try."

"No, you don't." "No," he said after a beat. "I don't." You looked at him. The darkness softened everything except the places it sharpened. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed, the lines of him drawn in silver and black. His sweater was gone now, you realised belatedly, leaving him in a dark T-shirt that made him look less like the attending who could silence a trauma bay and more like a man trapped in a room with you and all the things neither of you said.

He crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer. "What are you doing?" "Looking for extra blankets." "In the dark?" "I have a light." "You also have a habit of ignoring your own limits."

He stopped. Not for long. Just enough that you knew he had heard the thing beneath the words. Then he pulled open the lower drawer and found a folded blanket sealed in a plastic bag.

"Found one," he said. "Of course you did." He brought it over and handed it to you. You accepted it, fingers brushing his again. This time, neither of you moved away as quickly.

The room was colder without the heater already. Or maybe that was your imagination. Maybe you were just suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. Jack's hand was warm.

Steady. Scarred along the knuckles. You let go first. Barely. "We should call the front desk," you said. "They're aware." "Because of the power outage?" "Because half the hotel just started calling them."

"You're probably right." "I usually am." "Incredible how you say things like that and expect people to like you." His mouth moved. "Some people manage." Your breath caught.

Jack seemed to realise what he had said at the exact moment you did. His expression locked down. But not fast enough. You saw it. The flash of something unguarded. The room felt very quiet.

Too quiet. Then his phone buzzed in his hand, cutting through the moment with brutal efficiency. He looked down. "Generator's delayed," he read. "Hotel says emergency lights remain active, heat may be intermittent, guests advised to stay in rooms."

"Great." "Could be worse." "How?" "We could be in the lobby with orthopedic surgeons." You laughed. You really could not help it. The laugh came out tired and a little shaky, but it was real.

Jack looked at you for a second with that almost-soft expression again. Then he glanced at the bed. You followed his gaze. One bed. One extra blanket. No heat. Professional courtesy, your traitorous brain supplied.

You pulled the blanket against your chest. "So," you said carefully, "this got more complicated." Jack's jaw shifted. "Yeah." "We can still be adults." "Probably." "Probably?"

"I'm accounting for variables." "Such as?" He looked at you. In the phone light, his eyes were darker than usual. "You," he said. Your pulse jumped. Jack looked away almost immediately, like he had not meant it to come out like that.

But it had. And now it was in the room with you. You. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the lack of heat. You. You swallowed. "I'm a variable?" "A persistent one." You should have laughed.

You almost did. But his voice had gone too quiet. Too honest. So you only said, "That sounds inconvenient." Jack's gaze returned to yours. "It is." The snow hit the window hard.

Neither of you moved. Then, somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, "Power's out on ten too!" and another voice yelled back something about flashlights, and the moment snapped before either of you could decide what to do with it.

Jack exhaled, low and controlled. "You should finish eating before the food gets cold." You blinked. Then laughed softly, because of course. Of course that was where he went.

Food. Practicality. A safe surface after stepping too close to the edge. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." He looked at you for one long second. Then he said, very dryly, "Don't make me regret naming it."

You sat back down on the edge of the bed with your plate and the extra blanket over your lap. Jack returned to the chair, phone flashlight propped against the lamp base so it lit the room in a strange upward glow.

You ate in semi-darkness while the storm pressed against the windows and the hotel groaned softly around you. And for a while, neither of you talked about the bed. Neither of you talked about variables.

Neither of you talked about the fact that the room was getting colder. But Jack took the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around your shoulders without asking.

And you let him. When his hand brushed the back of your neck, neither of you said anything at all. By the time you finished eating, the fries had gone soft, the grilled cheese had gone lukewarm, and the room had become noticeably colder.

Not freezing. Not dramatic. Just cold enough that the tips of your toes had started to curl against the hotel carpet. Cold enough that you had pulled the borrowed sweatpants lower over your ankles and tucked the extra blanket tighter around your shoulders. Cold enough that Jack had noticed, because Jack noticed everything, and was pretending he had not noticed in a way that meant he absolutely had.

The emergency light from the hallway bled under the door in a thin amber line. Jack's phone was still propped against the lamp base, flashlight angled at the ceiling so the whole room sat in a pale, strange glow. Shadows gathered in the corners. The window was a black mirror now, occasionally flashing white when the wind threw snow hard against the glass.

The hotel was quieter than it had been. Or maybe it only felt that way because the power outage had changed the sound of everything. No humming heater. No elevator chime. No faint television from the room next door. Just wind, the distant murmur of stranded guests in the hallway, and the occasional muffled thunk of something outside giving in to the storm.

Jack stacked the empty plates back on the room service tray with the kind of precision that suggested he could not quite tolerate mess when there were too many other things he could not control.

You watched him from the edge of the bed. "You know they have people for that." He did not look up. "For what?" "Stacking plates like you're preparing them for sterile processing."

"That would be a terrible use of sterile processing." "You understood my point." "Unfortunately." He set the cutlery on the plate, folded the napkin once, then stopped when he caught you watching.

"What?" "Nothing." "You keep saying that." "You keep asking." "You keep looking at me like you have commentary." "I always have commentary." "That's true." You smiled faintly.

The silence that followed was softer than the ones before. Less sharp, anyway. The food had helped. The ridiculousness had helped. The fact that you were both too tired to maintain full emotional defences had helped in a deeply inconvenient way.

Jack took the tray to the narrow table near the door, then checked his phone. "No update?" you asked. "Generator crew's working on it." "That sounds fake." "It does." "Do you think they're lying?"

"I think they're busy." "That was generous." "I have moments." "You hide them well." He glanced at you, dry. You tucked your feet under the blanket and tried not to shiver.

Failed. Jack saw it. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to the blanket around you, then to your bare feet, then back to your face. "You cold?" "No." "You're a bad liar." "I'm fine."

"That one's mine." "I'm borrowing it." "You use it worse." "You use it constantly." "With more conviction." "With more denial." His expression shifted. Not a flinch exactly. Jack was too practised for that. But something in him went still around the edges, like your words had touched a place you had not meant to press.

You regretted it immediately. "Sorry," you said, softer. "That wasn't—" "It's fine." "Jack." He turned toward the suitcase instead of looking at you. "You need socks." "I don't."

"You do." "I'm not taking your socks." "Why?" "Because there are lines." "There's a line at socks?" "Yes." "But not at sweatpants." You looked down at yourself. The borrowed sweatpants were still much too big, bunched slightly at your waist where you had tied the drawstring tight enough to survive a storm. You hated that they were comfortable. You hated more that you had stopped noticing they were not yours.

"That was an emergency." "So is hypothermia." "I am not hypothermic." "You're shivering." "I'm dramatically chilly." "Clinical distinction?" "Emotional distinction." Jack opened his suitcase.

You sighed. "Jack." He pulled out a pair of thick dark socks and held them out. You stared at them. He stared back. The socks hung between you like the dumbest possible symbol of intimacy.

"You're very bossy," you said again. "You're very cold." "I could put my shoes back on." "You're not wearing shoes in bed." The sentence landed. Both of you heard it. Both of you froze.

In bed. Not the bed. Not that bed. In bed. The words sat in the dim room, far too casual and far too specific. Jack's jaw tightened. You took the socks mostly so neither of you had to keep looking at each other across the space between you.

"Thank you," you said. His fingers brushed yours as you took them. A small touch. Accidental. Still, your hand warmed like his skin had left a mark. Jack stepped back too quickly and turned toward the window.

You pulled the socks on under the blanket, trying to do it with dignity. It was impossible. The blanket slipped off one shoulder. The sweatpants rode up. You nearly kicked the nightstand with your heel.

Jack did not turn around. Which meant he was very deliberately not turning around. Somehow that made it worse. "There," you said when you were done. "Feet saved. Crisis averted."

"Good." His voice was rougher than before. You looked at the back of him. He stood near the window with one hand braced against the frame, shoulders slightly bowed. The phone light made a dark outline of him against the curtains. Without the hotel noise, without the conference, without the ED, he seemed more human in a way that made your chest ache.

Still Jack. But less armoured. You wondered if anyone else at The Pitt had ever seen him like this — barefoot in a hotel room, tired around the edges, quietly trying to make sure another person was warm without making it a scene.

Probably not. The thought did something strange to you. "Are you cold?" you asked. "No." "Bad liar." He did not look over. "I'm fine." "Worse liar." His mouth moved, barely visible in profile.

"Probably." That answer felt too honest. You watched him for another moment, then looked away before he could catch you looking again. The hotel groaned softly around you.

Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed. A woman shushed him. A door opened, then closed. The storm kept pressing at the windows, steady and relentless. You reached for your phone on the bed and checked the time.

8:47 p.m. It felt much later. You had been awake since four-thirty that morning, because the first flight out of Pittsburgh had seemed like a good idea when you booked it. It had not seemed like a good idea when your alarm went off in the dark. It had seemed actively hostile by the time Jack appeared at the airport gate with black coffee, a conference folder, and the expression of a man who had already decided the day was guilty until proven otherwise.

You had laughed at him then too. He had handed you the coffee without comment. You had not asked how he knew your order. That was the thing with Jack. He gave things in ways that made asking feel impossible.

He would notice. Adjust. Provide. Protect. Then act like anyone would have done the same. Anyone would not have. That was the problem. You scrolled through your notifications. Dana had texted again.

DANA: You alive? You smiled. Jack, still near the window, said, "Dana?" You looked up. "How did you know?" "She asks that when she wants reassurance but refuses to phrase it emotionally."

"That is… uncomfortably accurate." "What'd she say?" "You alive?" Jack huffed softly. It was almost a laugh. "See?" You typed back. YOU: Alive. Snowed in. Power out. Abbott still hasn't killed anyone.

Dana's reply came fast. DANA: Yet. DANA: Where are you staying? Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Ah. There it was. The simple question with the deeply complicated answer.

You glanced at Jack. He had turned from the window and was watching you now. Not suspicious. Aware. Always aware. "Dana asked where I'm staying," you said. Jack's expression went carefully blank.

"What are you going to tell her?" You looked down at the phone. That was an excellent question. The truth was simple. You were in his room because the hotel was full and the city was shut down and neither of you had any better options.

The truth was also impossible. Because Dana would understand the logistics. Dana understood emergencies. Dana understood bad weather and full hotels and professional adults making practical decisions.

Dana would also absolutely hear the silence between the words. Dana had eyes. Worse, she had instincts. Even worse, she liked you. You typed. YOU: Hotel. It's chaos here. Everyone stranded.

Not a lie. A strategic omission. Jack watched you send it. "She'll know," he said. "Probably." "You omitted relevant details." "I learned from doctors." "That's charting, not lying."

"Overlap, not causation." His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something warm under it. "You're getting too much use out of my lines." "You should write better ones."

"I'll workshop it." Dana's next text buzzed through. DANA: You dodged that question so hard I felt the wind from Pittsburgh. You pressed your lips together. Jack saw your face.

"What?" "She knows." "I said that." You set the phone face down on the bed. "I'm ignoring her." "Sensible." "I can practically hear her eyebrows." "Dana has loud eyebrows."

"She really does." You both smiled. The room went quiet again. This silence was different. It was domestic in the strangest, most dangerous way. You were sitting on his bed in his sweatpants and socks, ignoring a text from Dana while Jack stood by the window in his T-shirt, and for one awful second you could imagine this without the storm. Without the conference. Without the emergency explanation.

A room. Food containers. Shared warmth. Jack looking at you like you were something he had learned the shape of without meaning to. The thought was so clear it startled you.

You stood abruptly. "I should brush my teeth." Jack blinked. Then gave one short nod. "Okay." "Then we should probably…" You gestured vaguely toward the bed, immediately regretted it, and turned the gesture into pointing at your bag. "Sleep. Eventually. Because we're exhausted. And adults. Professional adults."

His mouth twitched. "Professional adults brush their teeth?" "They do." "Good to know." You grabbed your toiletries and escaped into the bathroom. The mirror was bright only because of your phone flashlight propped against the soap dish. Without the overhead lights, your reflection looked softer and stranger. Tired eyes. Messy hair. Jack's sweatpants. Jack's socks.

You brushed your teeth with too much focus. Then you stood there for a moment with your hands braced on the sink. This was fine. Fine was a word doing heroic work tonight.

You had shared tighter spaces with coworkers before. Ambulance bays. Trauma rooms. Supply closets during disaster drills. Once, a hospital break room with six people, one working microwave, and a smell you all silently agreed not to identify.

This was not different because of square footage. It was different because of Jack. Because every quiet thing he did felt louder in the dark. Because he had remembered food. Socks. Blankets. The fact that you got anxious when you thought too long about the ED functioning without you.

Because he had said, You were already going. Because he had called you a variable. Because when the power went out, your first instinct had been to say his name, and his first instinct had been to answer before you could be scared.

You rinsed your mouth, dried your face, and stared at your reflection. "Normal," you whispered. "We are being normal." When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Not in it. On it. His prosthetic was off. You stopped before you could stop yourself. It was not the first time you had seen him without it. Not exactly. The ED had a way of stealing privacy from everyone eventually, and Jack was not secretive in the way people assumed. He was matter-of-fact about the reality of his body when he had to be.

But this was different. This was not clinical. This was not a glance through a curtain gap or a practical adjustment after a brutal shift. This was Jack in the low light of a hotel room, one leg extended slightly, his liner set aside with careful precision, his hand resting near his thigh. His posture was composed, but there was something in the stillness of him that made you understand, immediately and painfully, that he had not expected you to come out just then.

His head lifted. His expression closed. Fast. Too fast. "Sorry," you said softly. You did not know what you were apologising for. Walking out. Seeing. Making him feel seen. All of it.

Jack looked away first. "It's fine." There it was again. The legal defence. You stayed where you were by the bathroom door, toiletries in hand. For once, you did not tease him.

You did not say he was a bad liar. You did not try to make the room easier by making a joke. Instead, you said, "I can give you a minute." His jaw shifted. He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes you could not read.

Not embarrassment, exactly. Not shame, though something close enough to make your chest hurt. Wariness, maybe. A man used to people either looking too long or looking away too fast.

You did neither. At least, you tried not to. "You don't have to," he said. His voice was low. Rough. You nodded once and crossed to your bag, setting your toiletries inside with deliberate calm. Not ignoring him. Not staring. Just letting the moment exist without making it bigger.

Jack watched you for a second. You could feel it. Then he reached for the compression sleeve beside him and adjusted it with efficient, practised movements. You turned toward the window and gave him privacy without leaving.

The snow was still falling hard. The glass had frosted slightly at the corners, feathered white around the dark. The city lights outside looked blurred and far away. Behind you, fabric shifted. Jack moved carefully. The bed creaked once.

"You can turn around," he said. You did. He had pulled the blanket over his lap, sitting upright now, back against the headboard. The bedside lamp was useless without power, but his phone flashlight on the nightstand lit the lower half of the room. His face was half in shadow.

"You okay?" you asked. Then immediately wanted to kick yourself. Jack's eyebrows lifted. "I mean—" You stopped, exhaled. "Sorry. Stupid question." "Not stupid." "You hate that question."

"I hate most questions." "True." His mouth twitched faintly. The tension eased by a millimetre. You sat carefully on the opposite side of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between you. The mattress dipped under your weight, and both of you noticed.

How could you not? One bed. One room. No power. The space between you suddenly felt measured in inches and bad decisions. Jack reached for his own toiletries. "Bathroom's yours?"

"I'm done." He nodded and shifted to stand. You looked away before he could need you to. It was instinct. Respect. Maybe both. But before he moved, he paused. "You don't have to do that."

You looked back. "What?" "Look away like I'll break." The words were quiet. Flat, almost. But something under them hurt. You swallowed. "I'm not looking away because I think you'll break."

Jack held your gaze. "Then why?" You thought about lying. You were both good at it, in your own ways. Little lies. Necessary ones. The kind that kept rooms functioning. I'm fine.

It doesn't hurt. I don't care. This is professional courtesy. But the storm had narrowed the world to this room, and the lights were out, and Jack had given you socks like it meant nothing when it meant everything, and you were so tired of talking around the truth.

"Because I don't want to make something private feel less private," you said. He went still. You could hear the wind dragging snow across the window. Then Jack looked down.

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That's considerate." You tried to smile. "Don't sound so surprised." "I'm not." "You are a little."

"I'm used to people being curious." That landed hard. You kept your voice gentle. "I'm curious about you, Jack. Not about that." His eyes lifted. Oh. The room seemed to stop.

You realised what you had said a second too late. Not about that. About you. There was no good way to pull it back. No joke quick enough. No professional framing strong enough to cover it.

Jack looked at you like you had put a hand directly over a bruise. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Then he looked away, and the moment passed. Or he let it pass. You were not sure which.

"I'll be quick," he said. He stood, carefully, and you kept your gaze on your hands this time. Not because he had asked, not because you thought he needed saving from being seen, but because the room already had too much honesty in it and you were not sure either of you could survive another piece.

The bathroom door closed. You exhaled slowly. Your phone buzzed against the blanket. Dana again. You turned it over. DANA: You are absolutely not telling me something. DANA: Fine. Don't die. DANA: Also Abbott better not be pretending he doesn't need sleep. He does.

You smiled despite yourself. Dana was the human equivalent of a locked medication cabinet and a warning label. She saw more than people wanted her to see, kept what mattered safe, and made sure you knew when you were being stupid.

You typed back. YOU: He is being managed. You stared at it. Then deleted it. Absolutely not. You tried again. YOU: We're both going to sleep soon. Power's still out. Dana replied.

DANA: Both? You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course she caught that. Before you could decide how to answer, the bathroom door opened. You dropped your phone face down like a teenager hiding contraband.

Jack paused in the doorway. "That subtle?" "Shut up." "Dana?" "No." "Liar." "Fine. Yes." "What did she say?" "Nothing." He gave you a look. You sighed. "She noticed I said both."

Jack's expression did something complicated. "Ah." "Exactly." He moved back to his side of the bed with his toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, then set them on the nightstand. The room was colder now, enough that goosebumps had lifted along your arms where the blanket had slipped.

Jack noticed. He pulled the top blanket down on his side. The bed suddenly became a real object again. Not a prop. Not a joke. A place where both of you were expected to sleep.

You stood. Too quickly. "I can sleep on top of the covers." "No." "Jack." "It's cold." "I know." "So don't be stupid." You looked at him. "Did you just call me stupid?" "I told you not to be."

"Fine distinction." "Important one." You crossed your arms. He leaned back against the headboard and looked up at you with tired, unamused patience. "We are not doing this for another hour," he said.

"Doing what?" "Pretending either of us is sleeping anywhere but the bed." The bluntness of it sent heat straight up your neck. Jack noticed that too. His gaze flicked away, but his mouth tightened like he regretted nothing.

"You could phrase things less aggressively," you muttered. "I could." "You won't." "No." You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because exhaustion was apparently making you brave, or reckless, or possibly both, you said, "Fine. But the pillow stays in the middle."

Jack looked at the row of pillows stacked against the headboard. "One pillow?" "One pillow." "As a border?" "As a diplomatic boundary." "That's not what pillows are for."

"It is tonight." He considered this. Then reached for one of the pillows and placed it lengthwise down the centre of the bed with dead-serious precision. You watched him.

The absurdity hit first. Then the tenderness. Jack Abbott, attending physician, military veteran, professional misery enthusiast, was sitting in a powerless hotel room during a snowstorm creating a pillow wall because you had asked him to.

Your chest did that stupid, aching thing again. "There," he said. "You made it very official." "It's a terrible wall." "It's symbolic." "It's structurally unsound." "Most emotional boundaries are."

He looked at you. You looked back. For a moment, neither of you smiled. Then Jack's mouth twitched. You laughed quietly and climbed under the covers before you could think about it too much.

The sheets were cold at first, crisp against your legs. You slid carefully onto your side, keeping the pillow between you. Jack stayed sitting up for another moment, phone in hand, probably checking alerts. Or pretending to. You suspected he was giving you time to settle before he moved.

The thought made you ache in a way you did not know how to name. Finally, he set his phone on the nightstand with the flashlight still aimed upward and lowered himself under the blankets.

The mattress shifted. The world narrowed. You were lying in bed with Jack Abbott. There was a pillow between you. There were several inches of careful space. There were covers pulled up to your shoulders, socks on your feet, snow at the window, and a storm blocking every exit the two of you had spent months pretending you needed.

"This is normal," you said into the darkness. Jack turned his head slightly. "Is it?" "No." "Then why say it?" "Manifestation." "That doesn't work." "Evidence?" "This." A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Jack's eyes were on the ceiling, but his expression had softened. The flashlight glow caught the line of his jaw, the tired slope of his mouth, the lashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted now. Not just annoyed. Not just inconvenienced. Truly worn down.

Something in you quieted. "You should sleep," you said. "So should you." "I will." "Good." "You too." "That was implied." "Was it?" "Yes." You smiled into the dim. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The hotel settled around you. The storm battered the window. Somewhere distant, a door opened and closed. Your phone buzzed once more, but you ignored it. The cold made the bed feel smaller than it was. Or maybe awareness did that. You could feel the heat of him on the other side of the pillow. Not touching. Not even close enough, really.

Still, you knew exactly where he was. Every breath. Every subtle shift. Every careful movement made by a man trying not to make this harder for either of you. "You asleep?" Jack asked eventually.

"No." "Why?" "Because you asked me if I was asleep." He huffed softly. You smiled. A long pause. Then he said, "Your flight tomorrow. What time?" "Rebooked for two-thirty. Assuming the airport doesn't stay closed."

"Mine's three." "Good." "Good?" You stared at the pillow boundary between you, barely visible in the dark. "Means I'm not leaving you stranded here alone with all the orthopedic surgeons."

"You'd make that sacrifice?" "I'm heroic." "You forgot to eat today." "I contain multitudes." "Mostly bad decisions." "That's rich coming from you." He was quiet for a beat.

Then said, "Fair." The honesty of that made your smile fade. You turned onto your back carefully. "Can I ask you something?" Jack did not answer right away. His gaze stayed on the ceiling.

"That depends." "On what?" "Whether you're about to ask something I don't want to answer." "I don't know if you'll want to answer it." "Then probably no." "Jack." He sighed.

"Ask." You hesitated. The question had been sitting in you since dinner, since you were already going, maybe even before that. Since the airport coffee. Since the way he always turned up near you without making a thing of it.

"Why do you do that?" His head turned slightly. "Do what?" "Take care of people and pretend you're not." His face went unreadable. You rushed on before you could lose courage.

"The coffee. The food. The socks. The room. At work too. You act like it's all logistics, but it isn't always." Jack looked back at the ceiling. The silence stretched. You almost apologised.

Then he said, "It's easier if people don't make it a thing." Your chest softened. "Why?" His jaw moved once. "Because then they expect you to talk about it." The answer was so Jack that it almost hurt.

You turned your face toward him. In the low glow, he looked carved out of restraint. "You don't always have to talk about it." His eyes shifted to yours. "No?" "No." "What do I have to do?"

The question was quiet. Too quiet. You were not sure he meant it the way it sounded. You answered anyway. "Let someone notice." Jack did not move. Something passed over his face — guarded, tired, almost unbearably vulnerable before he buried it.

"I let people notice plenty." "Charting irregularities don't count." His mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. "People notice what they want," he said. "That's not true."

"It's often true." You studied him across the ridiculous pillow. "Then let me notice." The words came out before you could stop them. Soft. Plain. Terrifying. Jack looked at you.

Fully now. The room seemed to contract around his silence. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Outside, the storm kept going. Snow against glass. Wind at the windows. The city hidden. The hotel powerless. Everything ordinary stripped away until there was only this: you and Jack, inches apart, pretending a pillow could hold back months of almosts.

Jack's voice, when it came, was rough. "You already do." You could not breathe for a second. He looked away first. But the damage was done. The truth was there between you, small and live and glowing.

You did not know what to do with it. So you did nothing. Maybe that was the only thing either of you could manage. You lay there in the dark, his words moving through you like warmth.

You already do. For a while, neither of you spoke again. Eventually, exhaustion began to pull at you. The edges of the room blurred. The storm became a dull, steady rush. Your body, traitorous and tired, stopped caring about awkwardness and started caring only about heat.

The bed was cold where you were not touching anything. Your feet were warm in Jack's socks, but your shoulders were not. You curled slightly on your side, facing the pillow wall, tugging the blanket higher.

Jack shifted on the other side. "You cold?" "No." He made a low sound. You did not even open your eyes. "I know. Bad liar." "Terrible." "I'm fine." "Mine." "I know." The mattress dipped as he adjusted, and the blanket shifted over you, tucked more securely near your shoulder. Not intrusive. Not too much.

Just enough. His hand brushed your upper arm through the fabric. You opened your eyes. Jack's hand withdrew immediately. "Sorry." "It's okay." "I was just—" "I know." His face was close now.

Closer than before because you had both shifted toward the middle without noticing. The pillow was still between you, crushed slightly under the weight of your shoulders.

The flashlight had dimmed as his phone battery dropped, turning the room softer. Jack's eyes were dark in the low light. You should have moved back. You did not. Neither did he.

"You should sleep," he said again. His voice had changed. Low. Careful. Like he was speaking near a wound. "So should you." "I'm trying." "Are you?" "No." The honesty made something in your chest go still.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, like he regretted it. You watched him. Then, because you were too tired to be wise, you whispered, "Me neither." He opened his eyes. There it was again.

The pause. The dangerous pause. His gaze moved over your face, not quickly this time. Not hidden. He looked at you like he was memorising the cost of wanting something. Your fingers rested near the pillow between you.

His hand lay on the blanket on the other side. Not touching. Almost. Almost had become a language between you. Jack swallowed. "We shouldn't," he said. You had not asked what.

You both knew. "No," you whispered. But you did not move. The room held very still. Then the hallway erupted with noise. A door slammed somewhere. Someone laughed too loudly. A man cursed about the emergency lights. The spell shattered so abruptly you almost flinched.

Jack looked away. You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. The pillow wall suddenly looked absurd again. Useful, maybe. Merciful. You turned onto your back, staring at the dark ceiling.

"Orthopedic surgeons," you murmured. Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he huffed a laugh. A real one. Small. Exhausted. But real. It loosened something in the room. You smiled.

The two of you lay there in the dark while the hotel settled again and the storm carried on, pretending nothing had almost happened. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy. Your body warmed under the blankets. The borrowed socks were soft against your feet. The bed no longer felt quite as cold. Jack's breathing evened out beside you, slow and controlled, though not quite sleep.

You drifted in and out. At some point, the pillow between you shifted. You were too tired to know who moved first. Maybe you curled toward the warmth. Maybe Jack turned in his sleep.

Maybe the bed dipped and the pillow slid down between your knees and neither of you woke enough to correct it. The room had grown colder. The blankets had tangled. The storm was loud.

You came halfway awake to the feeling of warmth against your forehead. A steady body near yours. An arm, heavy but careful, resting around your waist. For one hazy second, your mind did not understand.

Then you felt Jack's breath against your hair. You should have startled. You should have pulled away. Instead, half-asleep and freezing, you made a small sound and shifted closer.

The arm around you tightened. Not much. Just enough. Jack murmured something you could not make out. His hand settled flat against your back, warm through the borrowed shirt. His body curved around yours with a kind of unconscious care that made no room for embarrassment because neither of you was awake enough to choose it.

The pillow boundary was gone. The diplomatic border had failed. You tucked your face against his chest. He was warm. So warm. The storm battered the window, but under the blankets, in the dark, the world narrowed to the steady rise and fall of him.

Jack's chin brushed your hair. His hand rested between your shoulder blades. You fell asleep like that. Not deciding. Not confessing. Not crossing any line either of you could name while conscious.

Just cold and exhausted and drawn, somehow, to the safest heat in the room. Outside, snow buried the city. Inside, Jack held you like he had been doing it for years. Jack woke before the power came back on.

For a few seconds, he did not move. That was habit. Old habit. Useful habit. The kind of stillness that came before assessment. Before pain caught up. Before memory sorted itself into place. Before the body told the truth the mind had not agreed to yet.

Dark room. Hotel. Storm. Philadelphia. Conference. You. That last one arrived slower. Not because he had forgotten. Because his mind seemed determined to give him one merciful second before handing over the evidence.

Warmth against his chest. Soft breath through the fabric of his T-shirt. A hand curled loosely near his ribs. Your knee tucked between his. His arm around you. Jack stared at the ceiling.

The phone flashlight had died sometime during the night. The only light came from the window now, weak and blue-grey through the curtains, the city beyond still blurred by snow. The power was still out, or the room would have been humming. Instead, the silence was deep and cold around the edges, broken only by wind and the steady sound of your breathing.

You were asleep. Against him. Not beside him. Not near him. Against him. Your cheek rested over his heart like you had chosen the exact place designed to ruin him. Jack did not move.

He should have. That was the first reasonable thought. The second reasonable thought was that if he moved, you would wake up embarrassed, and then he would have to watch you apologise for something that had been as much his fault as yours.

The third reasonable thought was that he had no idea how the hell the pillow had ended up near the bottom of the bed. He looked down slowly. The diplomatic boundary, as you had called it, had collapsed sometime in the night. One end of the pillow was wedged between the blankets near his shin, completely useless. The other had vanished under the duvet.

Structurally unsound, he thought. And then, despite himself, almost smiled. Almost. His hand was spread against your back. He became aware of that next. Not gripping. Not possessive. Just there. Warm through the cotton of your sleep shirt. His thumb had found the small space beneath your shoulder blade and rested there like it belonged.

It did not belong there. That was the problem. Or one of them. Jack should have moved his hand. Instead, he let himself feel the weight of it for one more second. One more second, he told himself, was not a crime.

You shifted in your sleep. Jack went completely still. Your fingers tightened faintly against his shirt, and your face turned a little closer into his chest. A small sound left you, half breath and half protest against the cold room.

His arm responded before he could stop it. It tightened by a fraction. Your body settled. Jack closed his eyes. Idiot. The word had no force behind it. He had been called worse by better men and disagreed less.

Because this was stupid. Not the storm. Not the hotel room. Not even the bed, in itself. Those had been logistics. Bad logistics, but logistics. This was something else. This was waking up with you tucked against him and feeling, for one unguarded awful moment, not alarmed but relieved.

Relieved. Like some part of him had been waiting for the world to arrange itself like this. Like he had slept better with your breath against his shirt than he had any right to.

That was the dangerous thing. Not desire. Desire was simple enough to recognise and avoid. Jack had been avoiding wanting you for months with the grim discipline of a man disarming a device he refused to admit was live.

But this— This quiet. This ease. This body-deep reluctance to leave. That was what frightened him. Your breathing changed. He heard it before you moved. A slight catch. A deeper inhale. The soft, muddled shift of someone beginning to surface.

Jack opened his eyes. He still did not move. There was no good version of this. If he pulled away now, you would wake to rejection. If he stayed, you would wake to everything.

You stirred again. Your hand slid a little against his shirt. Then stopped. Your body went still. Jack held his breath. He felt the exact moment you woke properly. Your fingers curled.

Your cheek lifted a fraction. For a second, neither of you did anything. Then your eyes opened against the dim grey of his chest. You blinked. Once. Twice. Jack watched your face change.

Sleep-soft confusion. Recognition. Horror. Not horror of him, he thought. Not that. Horror of the situation. Of your hand on him. Of your leg tangled with his. Of his arm around you like he had made some claim in his sleep that he had not had the courage to make awake.

You lifted your head very slowly. Your eyes met his. Your hair was mussed on one side. Your face was warm from sleep. There was a faint line from his shirt pressed into your cheek.

Jack's chest tightened with such abrupt force that it bordered on pain. "Morning," he said. It came out low. Too rough. Your mouth parted. Nothing came out for a second. Then, because apparently you were both determined to survive by saying the least helpful things possible, you whispered, "Hi."

Neither of you moved. His arm was still around you. Your hand was still on his chest. The room was still cold. The snow kept hitting the window in softer gusts now, less violent than the night before but steady. The world outside had gone pale and quiet, buried under white.

Your eyes dropped to where his arm lay across your back. Jack became very aware of his hand again. He loosened it at once. "Sorry." The word left him before he could stop it.

Your gaze snapped back to his face. "No," you said quickly. "No, I'm— I'm sorry. I must have—" "We both moved." You stopped. Jack watched that land. You looked down between you, where the blankets were tangled around your legs, where the pillow boundary had failed catastrophically, where all the evidence suggested neither of you had been an innocent bystander.

"Oh," you said. Jack's mouth twitched faintly. It was not exactly funny. Except it was a little funny. You saw the almost-smile and exhaled a small, embarrassed laugh. "The wall failed," you murmured.

"Poor construction." "I blame the contractor." "You approved the design." "I was under duress." "You were under a blanket." "That too." The tiny rhythm of banter returned like a match struck in the cold.

It did not fix the intimacy. It made it worse, actually. Because neither of you had moved away. Not properly. Jack's arm had loosened, but his hand had not left your back. Your hand had shifted lower against his ribs, but it had not disappeared. Your knee was still pressed against his thigh beneath the covers.

You both knew. You both pretended not to know for one more second. Then you said, softer, "Are you okay?" Jack looked at you. He could have answered the usual way. He almost did.

The word sat ready. Fine. A shield. A reflex. An old door that knew how to close itself. But your face was close to his, and your voice had none of the clinical edge people usually carried when they asked him that. You were not asking about pain only. You were not asking whether he needed help. You were not asking because you had seen something and wanted reassurance that it had not disturbed you.

You were asking because you had woken in his arms and still wanted to know if he was alright. Jack looked away. "Yeah." A beat. Then, because the room had apparently stripped him of common sense, he added, "Better than expected."

Your expression changed. Slowly. Carefully. Like you did not want to frighten the admission by looking at it too quickly. "Yeah?" you asked. Jack should have corrected course.

He did not. "Yeah." Your fingers relaxed against his shirt. The movement was tiny. He felt it everywhere. "I'm okay too," you said, though he had not asked aloud yet. He looked back at you.

"You sure?" You nodded. Your cheek was still marked from his shirt. It made you look younger somehow, more vulnerable, and he hated that the sight of it did something warm and unreasonable to him.

"I'm sure." The words settled. No one moved. The morning had made the room visible in pieces. The room service tray near the door. His suitcase open on the rack. Your bag on the floor with a sleeve hanging out. The dead phone on the nightstand. The useless lamp. The curtains breathing faintly whenever the wind found a seam at the window.

And the bed. The two of you in it. Too close to pretend it meant nothing. Not close enough, a terrible part of him thought. Jack shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "You're probably cold."

You blinked. Then laughed, the sound soft against him. "That's where we're going?" "It's relevant." "Is it?" "The power's still out." "Ah. Logistics." "Yes." "Professional courtesy?"

He looked down at you. The joke had been easier last night. Now it sounded like a challenge. His hand, still traitorous, rested against your back. Your body was warm where it touched his.

He could feel your heart beating. "No," he said. The word left quietly. Barely more than breath. But it changed everything. Your smile faded. Not in a bad way. In the way a person goes still when a door opens somewhere they thought was locked.

"No?" you asked. Jack swallowed. The smart thing would be to move. Sit up. Reach for his phone. Check the flight status. Talk about snowplows and airport delays and work schedules and the thousands of ordinary facts that could bury this one extraordinary one.

He was good at ordinary facts. He was good at burying things. But you were looking at him, and for once, the cost of silence seemed heavier than the cost of speech. "No," he said again.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then your hand flattened gently against his chest. Not pulling him closer. Not pushing away. Just there. "Okay," you whispered. Jack had no idea what that meant.

He had no idea if you meant okay, I understand or okay, stop or okay, me too. He had no idea how a single word could make him want to lean in and run at the same time. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

"You should know better." Your eyebrows drew together. "Than what?" He looked at you. "Than to get involved with me." The words were blunt because bluntness was easier than fear.

There. Said. Ugly thing on the table. Except there was no table. Just a cold hotel room, a failed pillow wall, and your hand over the centre of his chest. Your expression shifted.

Not hurt. Not quite. Angry, maybe. Softly. The way you got angry with patients who apologised for needing help. "Jack." He looked away. "I'm serious." "I know you are." "You work with me."

"I noticed." His mouth tightened despite himself. "You know what I mean." "I do." Your voice stayed quiet. "But I also know I'm not a child, and I don't need you to make decisions for me because you've decided you're complicated."

His eyes came back to yours. That hit somewhere precise. You knew it too. He saw it in the way your face softened after the words landed, like you had not meant them to bruise but were not taking them back either.

"You are," you said. "Complicated. So am I. So is everyone who works where we work and keeps showing up anyway." "That's not the same." "No," you agreed. "It isn't." The honesty of that did more damage than reassurance would have.

You did not pretend he was easy. You did not pretend there was no grief in him, no damage, no history that stood in rooms before he did. You did not smooth him down into someone more convenient. You did not make him harmless.

You just stayed. "You deserve someone who—" he began. "No." Jack stopped. Your voice had sharpened. Not loud. Not harsh. Just firm enough to cut through the sentence before he could use it against both of you.

"No?" "No," you said. "You don't get to do that." His brows drew together. You pushed yourself up a little, enough that your faces were no longer so close, though your hand still rested lightly on him.

"You don't get to decide what I deserve if the only reason you're doing it is because you're scared I might choose you anyway." Jack went utterly still. Outside, the wind dragged snow across the glass in a long hiss.

Your own face changed then, as if you had surprised yourself. But you did not look away. Brave, Jack thought suddenly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just there, under the borrowed sleep shirt and the oversized sweatpants and the line from his shirt on your cheek.

Braver than him, maybe. Often. His throat worked. "That's not—" he started. You waited. He stopped. Because it was. Of course it was. The room was quiet. You sighed softly, not with impatience. With tiredness. With tenderness. With something that made him feel more exposed than anger would have.

"I'm not asking you for everything right now," you said. "I'm not asking you to have some perfect answer in a hotel room with no power after six hours of sleep and terrible conference food."

"Good," he said, because he was still himself. "That would be unreasonable." A smile broke over your face before you could stop it. Small. Affectionate. Devastating. "There he is."

His chest tightened again. You said it like you had been waiting for him under all the fear. Like the deflection was not all of him, but it was a familiar enough piece to love.

Love. No. Not going there. Not yet. Jack looked at your hand on his chest. Your fingers shifted as if you had only just realised you were still touching him. You began to pull away.

He caught your wrist. Gently. Not enough to hold you if you wanted to go. Just enough to make you pause. You looked at him. Jack stared at the place where his fingers circled your wrist.

Your pulse tapped against his thumb. Fast. Not fear, he thought. Or not only fear. His voice was low when he spoke. "I'm not good at this." Your face softened again. "I know."

That might have offended someone else. For Jack, it felt like relief. "I mean it," he said. "I know." "I'll make it harder than it needs to be." "Probably." His eyes flicked up.

You shrugged a little. "What? You will." A faint laugh moved through him before he could stop it. You smiled, and the whole room changed around it. "But I'm not exactly known for choosing the easy thing," you said.

"No?" "No." "That seems like a character flaw." "You would know." His thumb moved once, unconsciously, over the inside of your wrist. You looked down at the movement. So did he.

The banter faded. The air shifted again. Jack let go of your wrist. But slowly. Very slowly. Your hand did not retreat this time. It lowered to the blanket between you, close to his.

The space from last night returned. Almost. A language, you had made it into. A habit. Jack was tired of almost. That was the problem. He had been tired of it for a while.

He had just called it professionalism. Timing. Caution. Decency. Self-preservation. He had dressed fear up in enough adult words that it could pass through most rooms unchallenged.

But here, in the low morning light, with your hair mussed and your body still warm from his and your eyes not letting him disappear inside his own excuses, it looked exactly like what it was.

Fear. And wanting. Both. Your phone buzzed. Neither of you moved. It buzzed again. You closed your eyes. "Dana," Jack said. "Probably." "Persistent." "You respect that." "I do."

The phone buzzed a third time. You groaned softly and reached toward the nightstand, nearly overbalancing because the blankets were tangled around your legs. Jack's hand moved to your waist automatically, steadying you.

You froze. So did he. His palm was warm through the shirt. Your eyes met. The phone stopped buzzing. Neither of you said anything. His hand stayed where it was. You were close again.

Not accidentally this time. Not entirely. Jack could see the hesitation in your face. Not doubt. Not regret. Just awareness. The same line both of you had been walking for months, suddenly under your bare feet.

He should have let go. He did not. Your gaze dropped to his mouth. It was so quick he might have missed it if he had not been looking for some reason not to be the only one losing the fight.

His breath changed. You noticed. Of course you did. "Jack," you whispered. He had heard his name in every possible context. Shouted across trauma bays. Snapped in frustration. Called over noise. Written on charts. Spoken by patients, colleagues, strangers, people dying, people grieving, people angry enough to spit.

He had never heard it like that. Soft. Terrified. Wanting. It reached somewhere he had not fortified well enough. He lifted his hand from your waist slowly, giving you time to stop him. Giving himself time to stop.

Neither of you did. His fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. A question more than a touch. Your eyes fluttered, then held his. He leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough. Enough that your breath warmed his mouth. Enough that the whole room seemed to vanish except for the inch between you. Enough that if either of you moved, there would be no pretending this was about weather or beds or professional courtesy.

Your phone rang. Loudly. You both jerked back. The sound tore through the room with the violence of an overhead page. Your phone skittered slightly on the nightstand as it vibrated.

Dana's name lit the screen. For one second, you and Jack stared at it. Then Jack closed his eyes. You made a sound that was half laugh, half despair. "I'm going to kill her," you whispered.

"No, you're not." "I might." "You like her." "That's the only thing saving her." The phone kept ringing. You grabbed it, cheeks flushed, and answered with the tone of someone clinging to the last scraps of dignity.

"Dana." Jack lay back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. You avoided looking at him. Mostly. "What? Yes, I'm alive. No, the power's still out." You paused. "No, I'm not in the lobby."

Jack's eyes closed harder. You sat up a little straighter, dragging the blanket with you. "No, I found somewhere safe." Another pause. "Dana." Jack turned his head slightly.

Even in the dim light, you could see the amusement beginning to break through his exasperation. Your face warmed further. "Because I'm an adult and I don't have to give you my full lodging itinerary." You listened, then looked briefly skyward. "Yes, I ate. Yes, actual food. No, not just coffee."

Jack mouthed, barely. You glared at him. He looked almost pleased with himself. "I am ignoring that," you said into the phone, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Dana or Jack. "How's the ED?"

The shift was instant. Jack saw it. Felt it, almost. The way your face changed. The softness tucked away. The clinical focus returning. Concern sharpening your posture even though you were sitting in his bed in his clothes with your hair a mess.

You listened for nearly a minute. The room changed with you. Jack watched quietly. "They got extra staff in?" you asked. "Good. Is Robby there? Of course he is." You smiled faintly. "Tell him Abbott hasn't caused an interstate incident yet."

Jack gave you a look. You ignored it. "No, don't tell him the rest." A beat. "There is no rest." Jack's eyebrows rose. You covered your eyes with one hand. "Dana." Your voice dropped. "I'm hanging up now."

Whatever Dana said made your mouth fall open. Jack could not hear it, but he could guess the flavour. You pointed at the phone like she could see you. "That is harassment."

A pause. "Love you too." You hung up. The room went quiet. You set the phone down very carefully. Jack waited. You did not look at him. "She knows," he said. You nodded once. "She knows something."

"What did she say?" "No." "That bad?" "She said…" You stopped, pressing your lips together. Jack watched your restraint with growing interest. "She said?" You turned to him, face hot. "She said if I'm with you, she hopes you're being less emotionally constipated than usual."

Jack blinked. Once. Then looked away. You waited. His shoulders moved. Just slightly. Then again. "Oh my God," you said. "Are you laughing?" "No." "You are." "I'm not." "You absolutely are."

He pressed his fingers to his brow. It was contained. Barely audible. But it was there — a low, reluctant laugh that seemed dragged out of him against his will. The sight of it did something catastrophic to you.

Jack Abbott laughing in a dark hotel room under a snowstorm because Dana had called him emotionally constipated. Your heart did not stand a chance. "It's not funny," he said.

"It's very funny." "She's insubordinate." "She's charge." "That explains the confidence." You laughed then too, and the room warmed a little around the sound. It helped. It saved you, maybe.

Or delayed the inevitable. Jack's laughter faded first, but not completely. There was still something loose around his mouth when he looked back at you. For a second, it was easy to imagine waking up like this again. Not in a hotel. Not because of a storm. Just morning. His voice. Your phone. Someone from work interrupting with unnecessary accuracy. Jack pretending to be annoyed while secretly pleased you had people who checked on you.

The thought must have shown on your face because his expression softened. Not much. Enough. "ED's okay?" he asked. You nodded. "Busy. Not catastrophic. Roads are bad, but night shift got stuck, day shift came in early, everyone's annoyed but functioning."

"Normal disaster mode." "Pretty much." "Good." "Robby told Dana to tell you that if you're bored, you can review the conference notes and send him bullet points." Jack's expression went dead flat.

You grinned. "He did not." "No." "Good." "He did say, apparently, that you should not pick fights with anyone from cardiology while stranded." "Cardiology keeps coming up."

"You have a reputation." "I have standards." "Same system?" "Same system." The quiet settled again, gentler this time. You were sitting up now, blanket around your shoulders, and Jack was still half-reclined beside you. The accidental closeness had been disrupted, but not erased. If anything, the interruption had made the unfinished thing between you brighter.

You both knew what had almost happened before the phone rang. Neither of you could unknow it. Jack looked at your phone, then at the dead lamp. "We should check flights."

"Probably." Neither of you moved. A beat passed. Then another. You turned your head toward him. "Jack." He looked at you. There was caution in his face again, but not the closed kind. More like a man standing at the edge of a room he had avoided for years, listening for whether it was safe to step inside.

You swallowed. "We don't have to pretend nothing almost happened." His jaw flexed. "No." "No, we don't?" "No," he said. "We don't." The answer was steady. Your pulse was not.

"Okay." "Okay." It would have been easier if one of you had looked away. Neither of you did. Jack's hand rested on the blanket near your knee. Yours rested beside it, fingers curled in the fabric.

Close. Almost. Again. This time, you moved. Only a little. Your fingers brushed his. Jack looked down. You waited. His hand turned beneath yours. Slowly. Palm up. An offering.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not the kind of gesture that belonged in speeches or films. Just Jack, quiet and tired and scared enough to be careful, letting you decide if you wanted to take what he could give right now.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours. Warm. Firm. Real. Something in your chest unknotted so abruptly it almost hurt. Jack kept looking at your joined hands like he was studying an X-ray for a fracture line.

Then he said, "This is a bad idea." You squeezed his hand once. "Probably." His eyes lifted. You smiled faintly. "You're not the only one allowed to make bad decisions." "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." "You could try." "I could." "You won't." "No." A faint almost-smile tugged at his mouth. The shape of it was so familiar now it made you ache. "What happens when we get home?" you asked.

There. The real question. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the almost-kiss. Home. The Pitt. The ED. Dana's loud eyebrows. Robby's knowing looks. Long shifts. Short breaks. Professional distance. Charts and traumas and grief and the kind of fatigue that made honest things hard to hold.

Jack's fingers tightened around yours. Not much. Enough. "I don't know," he said. The answer should have disappointed you. It did not. Because he did not pull away. Because he did not say nothing.

Because Jack Abbott admitting uncertainty while holding your hand felt more intimate than any clean promise would have. You nodded. "Okay." "That enough?" "For this minute?"

His eyes stayed on yours. "Yes." You looked down at your joined hands. "For this minute, yeah." Jack let out a slow breath. Then, after a long moment, he said, "When we get home, I'd like to take you to dinner."

You looked up so fast you nearly hurt your neck. "What?" His face shifted, some of the vulnerability closing under dry irritation. "You heard me." "I did. I'm just checking for carbon monoxide."

"The power's out, not the ventilation." "Could be subtle." "It's not carbon monoxide." "It might be concussion. Did you hit your head?" "You're making this difficult." "I'm panicking."

"That's obvious." You laughed, breathless and ridiculous and on the edge of something much softer. Jack's eyes warmed. There. No hiding it this time. Not entirely. "Dinner," he repeated.

Your smile settled. "Like a date?" His thumb moved once against yours. "Yes." One word. No flourish. No professional courtesy. Just yes. Your heart went very quiet. Then very loud.

"When we get home," you said. "When we get home." "And not at the hospital cafeteria." His eyebrows lifted. "You have standards." "I do." "Good." "Somewhere with actual food."

"Fine." "And no orthopedic surgeons." "That may be harder to guarantee." You smiled. He did too. Barely. Perfectly. The room hummed suddenly. You both looked up. The heater clicked.

The lamp beside the bed flickered once, then turned on, flooding the room with warm yellow light. The power was back. For some reason, neither of you moved for several seconds.

The return of normal things felt rude. The lamp. The heater. The faint buzz from the mini fridge. The hotel room snapping back into itself as if it had not spent the night holding you both outside of ordinary life.

Then your phone began charging again and immediately buzzed with a flood of notifications. Jack looked at it. "You're popular." "I'm monitored." "Accurate." The heat began to push through the room slowly. The window stayed pale and snow-blurred, but the worst of the storm seemed to have softened. Somewhere beyond the walls, the hotel came alive again — pipes shifting, voices rising, the distant chime of an elevator finding power.

The spell should have broken. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why you noticed, suddenly, that you were still holding Jack's hand. Maybe that was why Jack noticed too. Neither of you let go.

Not immediately. Then, carefully, like he did not want you to mistake the movement for regret, Jack released your hand and reached for his phone. "Flights," he said. "Right."

"Need to know if we're stuck another day." "Imagine." His eyes flicked to yours. You held his gaze. The joke did not quite land as a joke. A flush climbed your neck. Jack looked back at his phone.

His mouth twitched. "Airport's delayed," he said after a moment. "Cancelled?" "Not yet." You checked your own phone. It took a second to load, then the airline app opened with the kind of cheerful incompetence only travel software could manage.

"My flight's still showing delayed." "Mine too." "So we might get home." "Might." You sat there with him, both of you looking down at your screens and pretending the ordinary task was enough to steady the room.

It helped. A little. Then a notification from Dana appeared at the top of your phone. DANA: If he asks you to dinner, say yes. If he doesn't, tell him I'm disappointed but not surprised.

You stared at it. Jack glanced sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "Dana again?" "No." "Liar." You turned the phone screen down against the blanket. "She's invasive." "She's usually right."

You looked at him. Jack's eyes were on his phone, but his expression had gone deliberately neutral. A smile crept across your face. "She is, actually." He looked up then.

The warmth between you changed shape. Not less. Just steadier. A little less accidental. A little more chosen. You tucked the blanket around yourself and leaned back against the headboard, suddenly aware of how tired you still were. The night had not been restful, exactly, even if it had been something close. Your body felt warm now in the returning heat, heavy with interrupted sleep and emotional whiplash.

Jack noticed. Of course. "Sleep another hour," he said. You blinked. "What?" "Flights aren't going anywhere yet. Checkout's delayed because of the outage. Sleep." "You too?"

"I'm awake." "That is not an answer." "It was adjacent to one." You gave him a look. He sighed. "Fine." "Fine?" "I'll sleep." "Good." "But if you steal the blanket—" "I will."

His mouth twitched. "You admit it?" "I contain multitudes." "Mostly theft." "Mostly survival." He set his phone down and reached to turn off the lamp. Then he paused. The room was warm-lit now, no longer hidden in emergency glow. Morning had made everything more visible. More real.

He looked at the bed. Then at you. The pillow wall was still at the bottom of the mattress, defeated and crumpled beyond repair. You followed his gaze. A laugh threatened, but your throat felt too tight for it.

"Do we rebuild the border?" you asked. Jack looked at the pillow. Then at you. "No," he said. Soft. Certain. Your breath caught. He did not touch you. He did not make it bigger than that.

He just turned off the lamp, easing the room back into dim morning, and settled under the covers beside you. Not as far away as before. Not pressed close either. Just there.

Close enough that if either of you shifted in sleep, you might find each other again. Close enough that pretending would require more effort than honesty. You lay on your side facing him.

Jack lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. For a minute, neither of you spoke. Then you said, very softly, "Dinner when we get home." His eyes closed. "Yes." "Not professional courtesy."

His mouth moved. "No." You smiled into the quiet. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, under the returning heat and the tired morning hush, Jack reached beneath the blanket and found your hand again.