you the reader

“Patient isn't engaging.” Someone mumbles at the foot of your bed.

You know they’ve already decided what you are. You can hear it in the tone, in the looks exchanged between staff who think you aren't paying attention.

“I think she’s had too much,” another voice replies. “Offer a non-steroidal if she complains again. Hold the PCA.”

You shift slightly against the mattress and immediately regret it. The pain doesn't spike so much as deepen, pulling low and heavy through your abdomen, radiating outwards into a warbled moan.

That had been about twenty minutes ago, maybe longer. Time didn’t behave properly here. It stretches and contracts in ways that make it difficult to trust, marked less by minutes and more by interruptions: blood pressure cuffs tightening around your arm, the soft beep of a monitor recalibrating, the flick of a curtain as someone else’s crisis briefly becomes visible before being hidden again.

Your arm stings where the butterfly cannula sits against your skin, though the IV pump itself has gone quiet. No soft mechanical click, no option to press and wait for a temporary fog of relief. Just the awareness of your body, unmediated.

You knew the timing. You always knew the timing. Even when you had tried to gaslight yourself into not knowing the timing by deleting all of your menstrual tracking apps, your body wasn't as amenable.

The physical part was easier to name, even if no one ever seemed particularly interested in addressing it. Bleeding that comes heavier than it should, cramps that aren't cramps so much as sustained contractions that never quite resolve, dragging through your back and down to your thighs.

It's the rest of it that makes things difficult. The way everything slows, not dramatically enough to alarm anyone else, but just enough that you notice it in the gaps. The way your thoughts feel padded out, as though they have to travel through something dense before they can reach you, arriving softened at the edges, already half-lost.

Words coming late, or not at all. Reactions dulled before they could fully form. A constant, low-level awareness that you are slightly misaligned with your own body, as if you had stepped half a second out of sync with yourself and can't quite find the point at which to slip back in.

So, last night you had decided to go to bed early: quietly and without commotion. It hadn't felt like a decision so much as a pre-emptive retreat. You were not someone who made a scene, or asked to be managed, and you knew—had learned, carefully—what the consequence of doing so was. It's easier to step back before it becomes uncomfortable for others.

Eight o’clock had felt reasonable. Early enough to be unremarkable. Considerate, even.

Ten hours later, you hadn't slept: your body hadn't allowed it.

Pain came in waves that never quite broke, low and insistent, threading through your pelvis and pulling tight enough to keep you anchored in it. It was familiar in the way something could be familiar and still take you by surprise. You could have described it clinically if asked. You could have located it, mapped it, and accounted for it. That part, at least, behaved as expected.

You had tried, at first, to push against it in the ways you knew how. You had read, though the sentences refused to hold their shape long enough to mean anything. You had written, filling pages with words that felt accurate in the moment and incoherent the second you looked back at them. You had been searching, not for a solution, but for a description that felt precise enough to be believed.

You had not found one.

Despondent was the closest you had come, and even that felt too neat, too self-contained for something that seemed to leak into everything. It implied a feeling you could access, name, hold in place. This was looser than that. More diffuse. You did not so much feel it as exist inside it, aware that something was wrong without being able to reach the part of yourself that might respond appropriately.

At some point, you had ended up on the floor, your back pressed against the bed frame. You did not remember deciding to sit down. You only became aware of it once you were already there, folded in on yourself slightly, the room around you dimmed in a way that suggested time had passed without your noticing. You had stayed there for longer than was sensible, or comfortable, or measurable, watching nothing in particular, thinking in fragments that dissolved before they could be completed.

When you finally stood, it was less a decision than a shift. Your body moving first, your awareness following a fraction of a beat behind. You noticed, distantly, the imprint the metal frame had left along your back when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror later—thin red lines pressed into your skin, sharp enough to suggest they should hurt.

They didn’t.

You found yourself staring at it for longer than necessary, as though observation alone might prompt a reaction. As though, given enough time, something might catch up and correct it. It didn’t.

The thought arrived slowly, as everything did now, but it landed with a clarity that felt out of proportion to the rest of you. If that didn’t register, what would?

It lingered at the edge of your thinking, half-formed but insistent, carrying with it a shape you recognised without wanting to examine too closely. It was not a plan, or even a desire, but the awareness of a possibility—one that existed entirely outside of the muted, padded quality of everything else.

That was the fear that had driven you to the ER waiting room just after seven a.m.

You had called an Uber without really registering doing so, pulled on whatever was closest to hand, and left your apartment before there was time to reconsider. Pyjama bottoms. A sweatshirt you only noticed later, faintly stiff at the collar where toothpaste had dried and been forgotten.

The journey itself blurred almost immediately. You could recall fragments—the shape of the driver in the rear-view mirror, the muted hum of early traffic—but none of it settled properly. By the time you reached the entrance, everything had already begun to glaze over. The coughing, the raised voices, the low, constant churn of movement and disinfectant and something less definable beneath it. It all passed through you without landing, as though you were moving through it rather than existing within it.

At reception, you had given your name. You assumed you had, at least. There was a vague memory of speaking, of answering questions a fraction too slowly, of watching the person behind the desk recalibrate their tone in response. You had been triaged more quickly than you expected, though you couldn’t quite place why.

They had given you a bed in a small bay near the nurses’ station, close enough that the noise never quite dropped away. Someone had found a vein on the second attempt, the sharpness of it noted more in theory than in sensation, and the IV had been secured with efficient, practised movements. A low dose of morphine had been administered for the pelvic pain, and then, at some point after that, a decision had been made.

Across the bay, someone has visitors.

You are pulled from your thoughts by the soft crinkle of a bed sheet, followed by the hushed affirmation of: I'm here.

You try, briefly, to imagine what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such reassurance. The thought doesn't hold. It slips, the same way everything else does, leaving behind only the faint awareness that something is missing where another thing should be. A thing that everybody else around you seems to have.

You settle on staring at the ceiling instead.

Your phone lies on the tray beside you, screen dark. You had turned it face down earlier, not because anything new had come through, but because it hadn’t. Because the same message had remained there, unchanged, taking on a different tone the longer it sat unanswered.

Let us know if you need anything.

You had read it enough times for the words to lose shape, flattening into something more abstract than meaning. You find yourself circling the phrasing, not for comfort, but for clarity: what, exactly, qualified? What threshold would you have to cross before it became something you were permitted to ask for, that you wouldn't be reprimanded for causing unnecessary concern over?

You wonder, not for the first time, what would actually happen if you did. The question lingers, unresolved. You don't reach for the phone.

There are voices closer now, just beyond the curtain.

“…She’s not engaging with questioning,” the younger doctor says, recognising the voice from an earlier consultation. “Just kind of staring. We thought maybe she’d had too high a dose of analgesic for what she’s reporting.”

Another voice answers; it's older and steadier, not louder, but more certain.

“Tell me about the patient.”

“Twenty-seven. History of dysmenorrhoea. Six months in on subcutaneous injection gonadorelin analogue treatment for PMDD, apparently.”

You can almost hear the air quotes being made around the word PMDD.

“Could be… you know,” the younger voice adds, a fraction quieter. “In withdrawal.”

Something in your chest tightens. The other voice doesn't respond immediately. But when it does, it's measured.

“Or,” he says, “she’s in pain.”

You picture it without seeing it: a shift in posture, the slight tension in the air when something isn't received the way it had been expected to.

“We see this all the time,” the younger one continues, pressing slightly. “Chronic presentations, high use—”

“And we also see people get labelled before anyone’s actually listened to them.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Langdon,” the older voice adds. “I’ll assess her. Properly.”

Another beat passes. Then, quieter—almost muffled by the sound of latex gloves being stretched over large hands:

“Assumptions don’t tend to age well around here. A little empathy goes a long way. You should know that better than most.”

You find yourself staring more intently at the ceiling, as though that might make you less obviously aware of what you had just heard.

Footsteps follow, moving closer.

You consider, briefly, closing your eyes again. Letting whoever walks in think what they want. Letting this version of you—the one that doesn't answer, doesn't engage, doesn't quite exist—continue to erode any sense of self you have left.

It would be easier. Less effort. But the thought doesn't settle long enough to act on, and the curtain shifts.

The man who steps in doesn't hesitate at the threshold: he pulls the curtain closed behind him in one smooth motion, cutting off the rest of the department with quiet efficiency.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch,” he says. “People call me Dr. Robby.”

His tone isn't warm, exactly. It isn't cold either. It sits somewhere in the middle, grounded, as though he has no interest in performing anything beyond what is necessary.

His eyes move over you quickly, not lingering but not missing anything either. You have the distinct sense of being seen, so much so that you can't quite bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Pain’s been bad?”

“It’s fine.”

Your voice sounds flatter than you expected. Distant, even to your own ears, as though it has come from slightly to the left of where you actually are.

“Okay,” he says, lowering his glasses to rest on the bridge of his nose.

His gaze drops briefly to the pump, then to the line at your arm. He reaches out, gloved fingers light but deliberate as he traces the cannula site, pressing just enough to assess without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“Let me know if that’s sore,” he says, holding your arm gently between his gloved fingers.

You watch his hand where it touches your skin, waiting for the sensation to arrive in a way you can meaningfully respond to. It doesn't quite come.

He adjusts the dressing slightly, then straightens.

“My colleagues stopped your PCA,” he says, pushing the frames back to rest on his head. “Said you weren’t responding.”

You shift your head slightly against the pillow.

“I am.”

He watches you for a moment. Not evaluating or dismissing, just taking you in.

“No, you are,” he nods, furrowing his brows into a sympathetic frown. “Just not very quickly.”

“I’m not like this because of the morphine,” you say, cheeks turning pink at the unexpected sharpness of your tone.

“I didn’t say you were.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, steady but not challenging, before shifting to the monitor beside you. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation. You watch his eyes track each number.

He asks you to lean forward, fingers catching the hem of your hoodie just enough to lift it at the back, exposing your skin to the air. The stethoscope follows a moment later, and he murmurs an apology for the apparent coldness of it against your spine.

“How would you describe the pain?” He asks, looping the stethoscope back around his neck. “Where it sits. What it’s doing.”

“Low,” you say eventually. “Pelvic. It—” you pause, the rest of it catching somewhere just out of reach. “It doesn’t really… peak. Just stays.”

He nods once, as though your garbled brain fog is crystal clear to him.

“Radiating anywhere?”

“Back,” you say. “Thighs.”

Another small nod.

“And the morphine helped at all?”

You consider the question longer than you should.

“Well, yes,” you hesitate. “It just—”

Robby waits, his eyes never leaving your face. Not in a way that presses or demands, but holds the space open for the answer to form without pressure.

“—I can cope with the pain,” you finish, quieter. “It’s the thoughts that I want to stop.”

For a moment, he doesn't speak.

You feel it, the silence, but it doesn't close in on you the way it usually does. It doesn't carry that familiar sense of having said something wrong, or too much, or not enough. It simply exists, held in place between you, as though he were choosing not to move past it too quickly.

“That’s been happening with this cycle, especially?”

You nod, the motion small, reluctant.

“Worse,” you reply. “It always happens. Just… not like this. I was, I don't know. Scared, I guess.”

He absorbs that without interruption, his attention settling more firmly rather than pulling away.

“Feels like you want it to quiet down,” he says. “More than the pain.”

It wasn’t quite a question. You hesitate, then nod again.

“Yes.”

The word comes more easily this time. Still quiet, still slightly out of step, but closer to where you mean it to land.

You expected him to redirect. To return to something measurable. Pain scores. Medication. Something that can be charted and delegated to a student doctor.

Instead, he shifts his weight slightly, one hand coming to rest against the rail of the bed, not quite leaning in, but closer than he had been before.

“What were you scared of?” He asks, his voice lower now, softer.

"I don't know."

Your eyes betray you almost immediately, stinging before you can stop it, vision blurring at the edges. You blink hard, dragging your focus back into place, forcing something like a scoff under your breath.

“I'm not usually like this.”

It doesn’t land. A small silence settles.

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me what the thoughts are doing.”

His hand shifts slightly where it rests against the bed rail, fingers adjusting their grip in a way that feels more unconscious than deliberate.

You look away, your gaze drifting somewhere over his shoulder, towards the indistinct blur of the curtain. Easier than holding his eyes while you try to organise something that resists logic.

“They’re just—” you stop, frustration dull but present. “Everywhere.”

The word feels insufficient the moment you say it. You try again.

“I feel like I'm not really here,” you whisper, slower. “But the thoughts are just all-consuming,” you pause, searching. “I'm everywhere, but also nowhere.”

“And do the thoughts feel like yours?” He asks.

You stare at him for a second, and it takes longer than it should to answer.

“I don’t know,” you say eventually, sitting with the honesty. “I think so. They feel like me, but—” you exhale, quieter now. “They don’t feel manageable.”

Another small nod. He doesn’t rush to fill the space after that, or attempt to soften it into something more palatable.

“Any thoughts about hurting yourself?” He asks.

You could lie—it would be easier, cleaner.

“I don’t think so,” you say. It’s not entirely untrue.

His expression doesn’t shift much, but he doesn’t move on.

“Don’t think so?” He repeats.

“I wouldn't act on it,” you start, then stop. You glance at him, briefly, then away again. “But if I don’t feel anything properly, I don’t really trust what I might… not react to.”

The sentence hangs there, incomplete, but understood.

“Like those lines on your back didn’t hurt?”

You look up at him, quickly: you hadn’t told him that. He holds your gaze, steady but not intrusive. Something in your chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” you say quietly.

Another pause. This one heavier.

“That makes sense,” he says eventually, and the phrasing is careful enough that it catches your attention despite the fog. Not it’s fine, not you’re okay. Just an acknowledgement that what you’ve described follows its own internal logic, even if you don't quite know what that is.

And it shouldn’t land the way it does. It’s a standard response. Something he likely says a dozen times a day, in a dozen different contexts.

He shifts his weight back a fraction, his hand leaving the bed rail, though he doesn’t step away immediately. There’s a brief pause—small, but deliberate—like he’s recalibrating something in his own head before moving on.

You look down again, your fingers curling slightly into the sheet, suddenly aware of how tired you are.

“I’m going to restart your PCA,” he says, eyes flicking to the pump as he adjusts the settings. “And I’ll speak to the team about your management. You shouldn’t have had it stopped without a proper assessment.”

He watches you for a moment longer, as though checking that the answer has settled properly rather than simply been given.

“Are you here on your own?”

“Yes.” You don’t elaborate. There isn’t anything to add that wouldn’t require more effort than you have to give.

He nods once, absorbing it without comment, though something in his expression shifts—subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t already scanning for changes.

“I’m going to step out for a few minutes,” he says. “I want to sort a couple of things for you.”

You nod, or at least you think you do. The movement is slight enough that you’re not entirely sure it registers.

He doesn’t ask anything else of you before he turns. No final question, no instruction to try and rest or drink water or behave in a way that would make you easier to manage. He just reaches for the curtain, and then, instead of closing it, he leaves it half-open. There’s a line of sight now—partial, but intentional—between you and the nurses’ station just beyond.

You watch as he steps out into the corridor, and for a moment you can see him properly, framed by the gap in the curtain. He doesn’t move away straight away. Instead, he turns slightly, catching the attention of the charge nurse stationed a few feet down.

You recognise her vaguely—she’d been the one who checked your obs earlier, efficient without being brusque. You had felt the warmth of her palm when she had placed it against your forehead.

“Dana,” he says quietly, low enough that you wouldn’t catch it if you weren’t already listening.

She looks up immediately. He gestures, small and unobtrusive, back towards your bay. You can’t hear every word, but you catch enough.

“…keep an eye… bit dissociated… PCA restarting… I’ll be back.”

“Got it,” she replies, equally quiet.

Robby doesn’t look back at you before he leaves. You’re not sure if it's intentional or simply out of habit, but something about it feels restrained. Maybe it's the delirium of morphine working its way back into your body.

The noise of the department seeps back in around the edges. It doesn’t feel as overwhelming as it did before, though you can’t quite explain why. The same sounds persist—the low murmur of voices, the intermittent beeping of monitors, the distant clatter of something being wheeled across linoleum—but they don’t press in quite as insistently.

A few minutes pass. Or longer. Time still refuses to behave in any meaningful way.

Dana appears at the edge of your bay not long after, stepping into view with the same steady efficiency you remember.

“Hi sweetheart,” she says, voice pitched somewhere between professional and kind. “Just checking in. You doin' okay? Anything I can get for you?"

You hesitate, then nod.

“I don't think so, but thank you, ma'am.”

She studies you for a second.

“Okay,” she smiles, patting your leg affectionately. “If you need anything, just shout. I mean it, okay? We’ve got you.”

It’s close enough to the message that lies dormant on your phone that you flinch slightly. And then she adjusts the blanket where it’s twisted near your legs, a small, practical movement, before stepping back out again, leaving the curtain as it is.

For a while, nothing happens.

You drift in and out of something that isn’t quite sleep, more like slipping under and catching yourself again before you fully go. The edges of the room soften, then sharpen, then soften again, like your awareness can’t decide how much of it it wants to hold. At one point, you think you’ve been gone for seconds; at another, it feels like you’ve been sitting there for hours without moving at all.

You only realise your eyes have closed when you jolt slightly back into awareness, neck aching faintly from the angle you’ve fallen into. Another time you’re sure you’ve only blinked, and yet the light has shifted imperceptibly, the room rearranging itself in small, untraceable ways.

He doesn’t announce himself this time, but you recognise the movement immediately, the same unhurried presence stepping back into the space.

Robby’s holding something in his hand. A paper cup, steam curling faintly from the lid.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want this,” he says, crossing the small distance between you with an ease that feels unforced. “But it’s easier to talk when you’ve got something warm.”

He sets it down on the tray beside you, within reach but not pressed into your hands. An offering, not an instruction.

“Tea,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “No sugar. Best I could do was steal a sweetener from the staff lounge.”

You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary. It’s such a small thing, objectively. Something anyone could have done. Something that probably gets handed out a dozen times a day without meaning anything at all.

But it doesn’t feel incidental.

You glance back at him, a fraction slower than you intend.

“You came back,” you say.

It slips out before you can stop it.

“I said I would,” he replies, and there’s no defensiveness in it. Just fact.

He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t hover either. Instead, he settles into the space beside the bed.

“I’ve got a couple of minutes,” he says, his tone unchanged, but the words carrying a weight that the others hadn’t. “Tell me about yourself.”

You glance at him, expecting to find some sign that this is procedural, a box to be ticked before he moves on. But he doesn’t look like he’s performing anything. He’s just waiting, a paper cup of his own resting loosely in his hand, his other elbow braced lightly against the counter by your bed as though he has nowhere else he needs to be right now.

“Your family in Pittsburgh?”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly, heat creeping up your neck as you realise you’ve been looking at him while he waited for you to answer. You force your gaze down to the cup instead. “I live here for work. My family’s a couple of states away.”

He nods once—like that’s useful, like it slots you into place in his head in a way that matters clinically, but also a little personally, even if he’d never frame it that way.

“And they know you’re here?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” you say eventually. “I texted my mom this morning.”

Robby doesn’t react outwardly. He just watches you for a second longer than most people would, like he’s learned the first answer is never the one he’s actually looking for.

Then, evenly: “And how’d that go?”

Your mouth tightens before you answer.

“Not great,” you laugh. “She didn’t really… take it in properly. I think she thought I was being dramatic when I said I was coming to the ER. Or that it wasn’t serious in the way it actually turned out to be.”

His expression shifts, sharpening at the edges.

“That ‘stuff’ being your PMDD?” He asks, careful, but not hesitant.

“Yeah,” you say. Your fingers curl slightly around the paper cup. “That’s part of it.”

He exhales once, quiet.

“And when you say she didn’t take it in,” he continues, “what does that actually mean?”

“She just… doesn’t know what to do with it,” you say finally. “Mental health stuff. Chronic stuff. She either minimises it or turns it into something I’m supposed to either push through or take some bullshit supplement to cure.”

Robby’s jaw tightens a fraction.

“She always been that way?” He asks.

You swallow.

“I told her I’m not having kids,” you say. “A while ago. It wasn’t impulsive. It was considered. Based on what this does to me, how unpredictable it is, what pregnancy or hormonal shifts could mean on top of it.”

A beat.

“She acted like I was saying it to punish her, and our relationship changed after that.”

Robby’s expression doesn’t change dramatically, but something in him goes still in a way that feels more controlled than neutral.

“She made your medical condition about her,” he says flatly.

It’s not phrased like a question. You blink at that, slightly thrown by the directness.

“I guess,” you say, quieter.

Robby shakes his head once, small and sharp, like he’s cutting through something he’s seen too many times before.

“That’s not how this works,” he says. “You don’t get to override someone else’s health because it conflicts with what you want out of them.”

You go still at that.

He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a firm, opinionated edge to him now that wasn’t there before. You look down again, voice smaller.

“She keeps talking about grandchildren,” you admit. “Like that’s the endpoint. Like that’s what I’m supposed to be aiming for, even if I’ve told her I don’t want it.”

Robby exhales through his nose, barely audible, but there’s something unmistakably disapproving in it now.

“That’s not how parenthood works,” he says. “You don’t get to outsource your expectations onto someone else’s body and call it grief when they don’t comply.”

You glance up at him, unsure what to do with how cleanly he’s naming it.

“She doesn’t see it that way,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he replies immediately, like that part isn’t new to him at all. “People like that rarely do.”

You shift slightly on the bed, immediately regretting it as the pain drags low and insistent through your abdomen again, grounding you back into your body whether you want it or not.

Robby notices instantly.

“Pain’s spiking again?”

“It comes and goes,” you say automatically, then quieter, “It’s fine.”

His look says he doesn’t fully accept that definition of fine, but he doesn’t push it into words. Instead, he steps back just enough to glance at the pump, then returns his attention to you.

“You’re not staying here alone with this tonight,” he says, like it’s already been decided somewhere upstream of the conversation.

You frown slightly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll keep an eye on you,” he says. “And you don’t sit with it escalating without saying something.”

Then, more quietly, but no less firmly: “And I'm not just talking about the physical symptoms.”

You look down at the cup again, because looking at him suddenly feels too direct.

Outside the curtain, a monitor alarms briefly before being silenced. Someone calls his name. Life continues in clipped, efficient fragments.

Robby glances that way, already partially pulled by it, but he doesn’t leave yet. Instead, he looks back at you.

Then he says, “Finish your tea. I’ll be back.”

Jack Abbot hates the rain.

Back when he didn't wake, fingertips reaching out for a body that was no longer there, or an itch without a source, he would happily submit to a sudden downpour. Let it wash over him: mind and body. It had been a welcome change from that smothering dryness of the desert.

He relished afternoons spent beneath layers of scratchy blankets and a warm pair of legs stretched languidly across his lap. He never minded the cramps, either, although he’d dramatically complain every time he reluctantly stood to refill the chip bowl. Jack would’ve gladly let both legs go numb for days if it meant she was there with him, sleeping safely.

But that was then. A lifetime ago, it seemed.

In this new life that he finds himself in, rain is no longer romantic: the heel of his prosthetic slips against slick asphalt, and phantom aches bloom beneath the pressure of the storm.

So, he stopped walking to work at even the tiniest threat of a downpour. Started driving instead, one hand loose against the steering wheel while the city blurs in grey and yellow beyond the windshield. His stomach still lurching each time a headlight reflects off his left hand.

Somewhere along the way, you’d fallen into the habit of leaving your umbrella by the front door. This morning was no exception, despite the storm that had loomed over Pittsburgh since you'd woken for the day shift.

Slowly, almost without either of you noticing, the passenger seat beside Jack becomes occupied more often than not. By now, it feels natural: Jack waiting outside your apartment before sunrise, two coffees balanced precariously in the cupholder, the low murmur of the radio carrying you both to and from PTMC.

It’s been a couple of months now, but you still think he sees you as something wounded and uncertain, all stumbling limbs and creased scrubs. At first, the rides home had felt clinical in their politeness, the kind of thing a man like Jack would offer to any young, vulnerable woman walking home alone. An attending physician making sure one of his nurses gets home safely after a shift. Nothing more.

Yet, somewhere between winter bleeding into spring and spring bleeding into summer, rides home become rides to work too. Not that you’d expected it of him. The first time he texted I’m outside before dawn, you stared at your phone for nearly a full minute, assuming the message had arrived by mistake. Truthfully, the time spent beside him at the beginning and end of each day had quickly become your most cherished part of the week, though admitting that aloud would probably kill you instantly.

There is just something about the quiet intimacy of it all. Knowing the inside of Jack Abbot’s truck by heart feels strangely sacred, like stumbling accidentally into a part of him no one else gets to know. You know the cracked leather smell of the seats, the faint bite of industrial-strength antiseptic soaked permanently into the fabric of his jackets, the pine-and-smoke air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that he pretends not to notice, replacing every few weeks.

You know he taps twice against the steering wheel whenever he’s stuck at a red light too long. That he drives one-handed when he’s relaxed enough. That he always leaves the radio low enough to talk over, even if neither of you says much at all.

Sometimes he leaves you alone in the truck while he pays for gas inside, and you find yourself sitting there in the strange quiet intimacy of his absence, surrounded by discarded receipts and the lingering warmth of him in the driver’s seat.

When he finally relented and handed over control of the Bluetooth, you started building entire playlists around songs you thought he might like. Older songs, mostly. The kind that sounded right played low through sleeping streets and rain-heavy mornings.

The first time a Jeff Buckley track played through the speakers, Jack glanced sideways at you so abruptly you nearly laughed.

“Kid,” he’d said, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “how the hell do you know about Buckley? Were you even alive when he was making music?”

“Wow,” you’d muttered, feigning offence while staring pointedly out the windshield. “That doesn’t make you sound ancient at all.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him then, brief enough you almost missed it. “Answer the question.”

Warmth had spread embarrassingly fast through your chest. “My dad had all of his records,” you admitted. “He would play them every Sunday morning, without fail. Coffee brewing, windows open, the whole house smelling like burnt pancakes.”

Jack had gone strangely quiet after that. “Sounds nice,” he’d said eventually, voice softer than before.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you would spend the rest of your life chasing the feeling that single sentence gave you.

This morning, however, Jack had nearly rear-ended a Prius at a stoplight when Otis Redding flooded suddenly through the speakers.

“Fuck––” he braked hard, enough for the coffees to slosh dangerously against their lids.

You burst into laughter immediately, fumbling for the skip button. “You trying to kill us before shift, Abbot? I didn’t realise you felt that strongly about Otis Redding.”

Something unreadable crossed his face then. Quick enough, you almost missed it. “I’m sorry,” was all he had replied.

Of course, you were entirely oblivious to the fact that he’d once held his wife close to that same song in the soft yellow light of a rented reception hall.

Suddenly, he had been twenty-nine again, one hand at his wife’s waist, convinced happiness might actually last forever. He can still remember the weight of her against him. The damp curl of her hair at the nape of her neck from dancing too hard, too long. She’d laughed when he stepped on the hem of her dress, all breathless disbelief, like she couldn’t understand why someone as solemn as him had chosen her.

Someone had told him once that wet knots were harder to untie. Jack remembers hearing it the morning of his wedding, while rain hammered against the reception hall roof and guests stumbled inside carrying dripping bouquets and ruined umbrellas.

Later on, he’d watched as water dripped from his wife’s eyelashes, dress plastered against her knees, and kissed her beneath a storm-dark sky. Of course it is, he’d thought. Nothing on this earth could pull us apart.

Despite the steady pull of nightfall, the remnant heat of the day still presses hard against the windows. A couple of hours into your shift, the air conditioning had finally coded after years of being on the brink; also known as Gloria's so-called "to-do list". Now, every surface feels like it's sweating, and every fluorescent light buzzes too loudly.

In the room next to you, somebody bleeds onto the floor of trauma three.

Outside of ordering around overheated interns, Jack has barely spoken for the entirety of your shift, not that the others have picked up on it. To everyone else, Jack Abbot is always stoic, vaguely irritated, and entirely in control. It's part of his whole thing. But you'd come to learn the difference between Jack's tiredness and absence.

Even exhausted, Jack keeps the music low on the drive to and from PTMC. He still asks what you’re doing for dinner afterwards, still tucks away pieces of his day to tell you during the quiet stretches between traffic lights.

But this version of him, with all that vast, unreachable space that leaves you fumbling blindly in the dark, prefers the low hum of the road instead. You think it steadies him. Quietens whatever is clawing around inside of him.

Tonight, Jack is somewhere else.

You watch as he moves through the department with clipped efficiency, jaw locked so tight it hurts just looking at him. He answers questions with one-word responses, broad shoulders tense beneath black scrubs, already darkened with sweat between the shoulder blades and armpits.

Twice, you catch him staring blankly at nothing after trauma pages. The third time, you find a moment to slip beside him, fingers skimming his arm against his behind the privacy of paperwork.

“Hey,” you whisper. He blinks hard and sucks a breath deep between his teeth, like you'd dragged him up from underwater. “You okay?”

For a second, something unfamiliar to you flicks across his face. “I'm fine.”

His hand flexes once against the counter between you, silver flashing beneath fluorescent light. A stupid ache twists unexpectedly beneath your ribs. He isn’t yours, and you’re not even sure he ever could be.

Around you, monitors beep. Someone shouts for respiratory. Rain hammers steadily against the ambulance bay doors with sudden force.

Jack is already turning away. “I’m trying to work.”

The sentence lands clean between your ribs. Heat lightning pulses silently behind dark clouds.

“Right,” you say quietly, resting your hands on the desk in front of you. "Of course."

By the time the words fall from your lips, he's already gone.

The storm breaks fully an hour later. Thunder rattles the entire building hard enough to shake already wobbling ceiling panels loose, while half the waiting room complains about flickering lights. Ambulances keep coming anyway. Wet footprints mesh with stray drops of blood that fall from passing gurneys, streaking across the tile.

You stop looking for him. Stop drifting unconsciously toward whichever trauma bay he’s ruling over. You make the conscious decision not to double-check if he’s eaten, if he needs coffee, if he remembered to take something stronger than aspirin for the headache he’s been nursing since noon.

And the ER continues to move around both of you in frantic bursts: trauma pages, crying parents, soaked paramedics tracking rainwater across the floor. But now there is something strained and invisible stretching between you; it hums louder than the fluorescent lights overhead.

Dana corners you near the nurses’ station while peeling off a pair of latex gloves with her teeth.

“You two fight or something?”

You nearly fumble the stack of charts in your arms. “What?”

Dana snorts softly. “Please. The air pressure in here dropped ten degrees the second Abbot snapped at you.”

“He didn’t snap at me.”

“Mm.” She arches a brow. “I hope you remembered your umbrella.”

Despite yourself, your gaze flickers instinctively across the department.

Across the ER, Jack stands with one hand braced against the trauma board while an intern stumbles through a patient presentation. You can't help but let your eyes fall to his broad shoulders, tense beneath dark scrubs. His wedding band catches briefly beneath harsh fluorescent light.

You know about his wife; you understand enough to know this has never really been about rejection. The problem is almost worse than that. Because sometimes, in the quiet moments between shifts and traffic lights, it feels painfully possible that Jack wants you too.

Dana follows your line of sight before nudging your shoulder lightly. “He’s been in a mood all day. I doubt it's you, kid.”

As though he feels you looking, his head turns. Your stomach knots stupidly, and you look away first, busying yourself reorganising charts that don’t need reorganising. “He was fine this morning.”

“Fine for Jack or fine for a normal person?”

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes through your nose.

“No, I mean…” You hesitate. “He was okay. We were talking like normal in the truck.” Your chest tightens unexpectedly. “And then something just switched.”

Dana’s expression softens slightly. “What happened?”

You think of the way his face closed the second you touched him. Like a door slamming shut.

“I don’t know.” The words come out quieter than intended. “Dana... Sometimes I can’t tell if he actually wants me there or if I’m just…” You trail off.

“Just what?”

You stare toward the ambulance bay, where rainwater runs in shimmering rivers beneath harsh fluorescent light.

“A distraction, maybe.”

Even saying it aloud feels ridiculous. Jack isn’t yours to lose. There’s no relationship to question, no promise sitting between you waiting to be broken. Just shared rides to work, lingering glances, coffee cups balanced between the seats of his truck. A thousand tiny things that you so dangerously wish meant something more.

Dana snorts immediately. “That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Sometimes I think he likes needing me more than he likes… me.”

“Maybe at first,” she admits carefully. “Men like Jack… they cling to whatever keeps them standing.”

Your stomach drops. Dana watches the expression cross your face and immediately sighs.

“Hey.” Her voice softens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It kind of sounded like what you meant.”

“What I mean,” Dana says softly, “is that Jack’s been drowning for a long time.”

The rain batters harder against the ambulance bay doors, loud enough now to shake through the walls.

“And?” you ask quietly.

She glances across the department before answering. “And people who’ve been drowning long enough don’t always realise they’re allowed to want more than just survival.”

Your throat tightens painfully, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I loved her too, you know.”

“Dana—”

“I’m serious.” Her expression gentles. “She was my friend.”

Guilt blooms hot and immediate beneath your ribs, ugly enough to make you feel suddenly sixteen instead of twenty-six. Dana must see it on your face, because she reaches over and briefly squeezes your forearm.

“Oh, honey. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

She lowers her voice slightly. “Loving him doesn’t make either of you disloyal to her.”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost pisses you off.

"I never said that I—"

Before you can finish, a parademic calling out a trauma page cuts violently through the hallway.

Your head snaps up instantly, and just like that, the moment is over.

By the time handover finally arrives, the storm has swallowed the entire city. Water pours in silver sheets beyond the ambulance bay, gutters overflowing enough to sound like rushing rivers. Somewhere miles away, thunder groans low and endless.

You pull your bag onto your shoulder without looking toward the trauma board. You can still feel him anyway; that awful magnetic awareness.

Jack appears beside you silently a moment later, keys spinning once around his finger. He always does that when he’s tired; an unconscious little movement that grows faster the longer his shifts run.

Usually, the sight of it softens something in you instantly. Tonight, it feels mocking.

“You ready?” he asks.

You zip your jacket slowly. “I’m going to walk.”

Jack’s brow furrows immediately. “What?”

“I said I’ll walk.”

Outside, heat lightning fractures the sky in white bursts.

For a second, he just stares at you, genuinely confused, like the possibility never occurred to him. Somewhere along the way, your place beside him had become inevitable. Passenger seat. Coffee cup. Shared silence before sunrise.

“Don’t be crazy,” he says. “It’s pouring.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Another roll of thunder shakes the garage.

You should let him drive you home. You know that. The walk to your apartment isn’t exactly safe in weather like this, and Pittsburgh streets flood if somebody sneezes too hard near the river.

But something ugly and wounded still twists beneath your ribs.

Dana’s voice echoes unpleasantly in your head, and maybe she's right, but people look at beautiful things all the time without intending to keep them.

“You’re tired,” he says flatly. “Just get in the truck.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

Before he can answer, you push through the garage doors into the storm.

The rain is brutal immediately.

Cold water soaks through your scrubs within seconds, hair plastering to your skin as thunder cracks somewhere overhead, sharp enough to make you flinch. Cars hiss past through flooded streets, headlights smeared gold against rain-slick asphalt.

Anger keeps your spine straight for almost half a block. After that, exhaustion starts creeping in around the edges.

Your soaked scrubs cling uncomfortably to your skin with every step. Water fills the seams of your shoes. Somewhere above you, old fire escapes rattle in the wind hard enough to sound like distant applause.

Rainwater splashes around your ankles as you step off the curb. Five minutes later, headlights appear beside you through the storm.

Jack’s truck crawls slowly along the flooded curb lane, and the passenger window lowers with a mechanical whine.

“You’re being insane,” he calls over the rain.

You don’t look at him.

“Go home.”

The truck keeps pace beside you as thunder rolls overhead.

“Please get in the truck.”

Rain batters violently against the hood as the truck crawls beside you. You wipe water from your face angrily, though it’s useless.

“I said no.”

Jack exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening against the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ, what is this about?”

The question stops you cold. Because that’s exactly it, isn’t it?

He still thinks this is sudden. Like your hurt appeared out of nowhere instead of being carved slowly into you over months of almosts and maybes and careful little silences.

You turn toward the open window, finally. Rainwater drips from your jaw onto the pavement below.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you earlier.”

“That’s not the point.”

Something flickers across Jack’s face then. Frustration. Confusion. Fear. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. For a second, he just stares at you through the storm.

Then the truck shifts abruptly into park, and the engine dies. Jack shoves the driver’s door open hard enough for rain to blow immediately into the cab.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath as he steps out into the street.

Water darkens his shirt within seconds while he comes around the front of the truck toward you, expression tight with something dangerously close to desperation now.

“Help me out here, kid,” he says. “What is this really about?”

Thunder cracks overhead hard enough to rattle nearby windows.

Your laugh comes out thin and disbelieving. “You pull me close every time you want something to hold onto, and then the second it feels too real, you shove me back out again.”

“That’s not fair.”

Lightning flashes somewhere overhead, bleaching the entire street white for half a second. In the sudden brightness, Jack looks exhausted.

Your anger falters dangerously before hardening all over again.

“No?” Your voice rises despite yourself. “Then what exactly are we doing here, Jack?”

Rain streams from his hairline now, dampening the collar of his shirt where the storm blows through the open window.

“You think you’re protecting people,” you say, quieter now. “But you’re not. You’re just hurting them before they get the chance to hurt you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens visibly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something hot and furious twists suddenly through your chest.

“No,” you snap. “You don’t get to do that.”

His expression hardens. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re the only person on earth who’s ever had something terrible happen to them.”

The words disappear instantly beneath the storm. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the truck roof between you both. Somewhere nearby, thunder groans low enough to vibrate beneath your feet.

You can see the exact moment he starts to answer automatically — defensive and wounded, ready to shut the conversation down entirely. Then, something in your expression stops him.

“What does that mean?” he asks finally.

Your throat tightens. You hadn’t meant to say that much. “Nothing.”

“Hey, don’t do that.”

A sharp laugh tears out of you before you can stop it. “That’s funny coming from you.”

Jack ignores it, eyes fixed entirely on your face now. Rain darkens his shirt collar, curls damp against his temples.

“What happened to you?”

The question lands like a bruise; not because nobody has ever asked before, but because Jack asks it like he already knows the answer will hurt him, too.

You fold your arms tighter across yourself instead, fingers digging hard enough into your sleeves to ache.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if—”

“No.” Your voice cracks sharply enough to surprise both of you. “No, Jack, it doesn’t.”

Heat rushes suddenly beneath your skin despite the freezing rain.

“Because that’s not the point.”

Jack’s expression shifts again. You look away from him first.

Cars move through flooded streets behind you both, headlights smeared gold and white against rainwater. The entire city feels blurred at the edges.

“You think I don’t understand fear?” you ask quietly.

Jack says nothing.

“You think it’s easy for me to let people touch me?” The words scrape painfully against your throat. “To trust them?”

His face changes instantly, and you laugh again, softer this time. Bitter around the edges.

“Yeah.”

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it again. Windshield wipers drag furiously across the glass beside him, rhythmic and desperate.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Every day,” you continue, staring hard at the sky, “there’s this feeling—”

You press a fist briefly against your sternum.

“Like somebody left a knife inside me and every time a person gets too close, it twists a little deeper.”

Jack’s entire expression crumples for half a second before he catches it.

“But I still try,” you whisper. “I still wake up every day and make the choice to trust people anyway.”

Your eyes finally meet his again through the rain.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Your voice shakes slightly now, exhaustion bleeding through the anger. “I really am.”

He looks away immediately. Rainwater drips from the edge of his jaw while one hand comes up briefly, rubbing hard across his mouth like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” you continue quietly. “I’m sorry the love of your life died, and I can’t even begin to imagine what that did to you, and what it continues to do to you.”

His nose scrunches sharply for half a second, pushing away the first hint of pain before it gets the chance to reach him.

“But you can’t have it both ways.”

Jack’s eyes close briefly.

“You can’t pull me close every time the silence starts feeling too heavy and then shove me away the second you remember why you’re scared.”

The storm presses around both of you in violent sheets of rain.

“I can’t be the person who makes you feel less lonely when it’s convenient and then take the brunt of your grief every time it catches up to you.”

He flinches, and you think it might be the first time you’ve ever seen him look genuinely ashamed.

Your throat aches around the next words.

“You have to be brave enough to let this be real,” you whisper. “Or you have to leave me alone.”

Rainwater streams steadily down Jack’s face now, impossible to separate from anything else.

When he finally looks back at you, he looks devastated.

Jack stares at you through the rain for so long you start to feel hollowed out by it.

His chest rises once beneath soaked black fabric.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says finally.

The words come out rough and stripped raw. He shakes his head once, hard enough to send rainwater scattering. “You don’t understand.”

Something inside you splinters quietly as he laughs once under his breath. The sound is horrible.

“I buried my wife.” The sentence seems to fight its way out of him.

“I had to stand there while strangers asked me what kind of wood she would've wanted for her casket.” His eyes unfocus somewhere beyond you. “I had to pick flower arrangements. Do you understand what that does to a person?”

You stare at him for a long moment, rainwater dripping steadily from your chin. "No, I don't."

“But, Jack... I can’t keep standing in the doorway of your life hoping you’ll eventually let me inside.”

Your voice breaks softly then. Worse somehow than yelling.

“And I love you too much to let it turn me into someone who begs for scraps.”

Jack physically recoils like the words hit him somewhere vital.

When he still says nothing, that’s how you know it’s over. Thunder rolls somewhere far above the city, softer now. Tired. Your chest hurts, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, you can feel the cold seeping into your bones.

You wipe uselessly at your face with a soaked sleeve before stepping toward the passenger door. The handle sticks slightly before finally giving beneath your grip.

Jack looks over immediately, startled.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cold, and I want to go home,” You say quietly.

The words sound exhausted rather than angry now.

You climb into the truck without waiting for permission, soaked scrubs sticking unpleasantly against the leather seats. The interior smells faintly like rainwater, old coffee, and pine.

Home. The feeling nearly makes you nauseous.

Jack says nothing as you pull the door shut, just hauls himself inside, next to you but far away, and shifts the truck into drive.

Rain hammers steadily against the roof while Pittsburgh slides past in blurred reflections of red brake lights and flooded sidewalks. Somewhere near downtown, a traffic light flickers weakly against standing water.

You stare straight ahead the entire drive.

Once, at a stoplight, Jack opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but quickly thinks better of it.

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulls to a stop outside your apartment building. Neither of you moves.

Your fingers tighten slowly around the strap of your bag. “Goodnight, Jack.”

His jaw flexes.

“Kid—”

You can’t survive hearing whatever he has to say right now.

“Don’t.”

The word comes out smaller than intended, and Jack falls silent immediately.

For one awful second, you almost take it back. Almost lean across the centre console and kiss him just to stop this feeling from happening.

You force yourself to open the door instead. Cold air rushes instantly into the truck.

“I meant what I said,” you whisper without looking at him. “You have to leave me alone if you can’t be brave about this.”

Then you step out into the rain and close the door behind you.

Jack watches you disappear into the apartment building without moving. He stays parked there long after the hallway light above your door finally clicks off.

By the time Jack gets home, the storm has started to weaken. Rain still falls steadily, but softer now. Exhausted around the edges.

His prosthetic clicks dully against the front steps as he climbs toward the porch, each impact softened by waterlogged carbon fibre. Somewhere nearby, gutters overflow in uneven streams.

The house greets him in the same empty way it always does.

Water drips steadily from the hem of his jacket onto hardwood floors she once insisted were charming because of the scratches. Jack had argued about refinishing them for almost a year after moving in.

She’d laughed outright. “If a house looks like nobody has ever lived in it, what’s the point of having one?”

His chest caves suddenly around the memory. Jack shuts the front door behind him and abruptly cannot breathe.

Both fights replay violently in fragments behind his eyes.

You stood in the rain, water running down your face in silver streams beneath flashing streetlights, being braver than he had ever been.

The look on your face when he told you he couldn’t do this. His chest tightens hard enough to hurt.

He reaches automatically for the kitchen counter and misses. His keys hit the hardwood first, then the rest of him follows.

Jack sinks heavily onto the kitchen floor with one hand crushed hard against his mouth because the sound trying to crawl out of him feels unbearable.

He hasn’t cried like this since the first night without her.

Not at the funeral or while signing paperwork. Not while packing her clothes into boxes that lie dormant in the guest bedroom.

Only once. The night he rolled over half-asleep and reached for a body that was no longer there. The memory of it still lives inside him like a wound that never scarred correctly: cold sheets, darkness, and the split second before remembering.

A broken sound tears violently out of him before he can stop it.

“What am I supposed to do?” he chokes helplessly into the empty house.

Rain taps softly now against the kitchen windows. Jack lowers his head hard against the cabinet behind him, shoulders shaking beneath soaked fabric.

“Please,” he whispers.

He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to anymore. God? His wife? The version of himself that existed before grief hollowed him out from the inside?

Outside the kitchen window, the storm has finally broken apart. Water still drips steadily from gutters and telephone wires, but above them, the clouds have started to split open. Pale gold light bleeds softly through the darkness beyond. Jack stares at it through blurred vision. And suddenly, horribly, he remembers her laughing beneath the awning outside their wedding venue while rain soaked the hem of her dress.

Rain always stops eventually, Jackie.

The memory lands differently this time; alive enough in his mind that for one impossible second, Jack can almost feel her hand slipping damp and warm into his. God, she would’ve been furious with him for mistaking loneliness for love all these years. Furious that he’d turned surviving her into the only thing left of himself.

Jack lets out a breathless sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, rubbing hard at his face with the heel of his hand. And for the first time since she died, the memory of her does not feel like being dragged under. Rather, it feels like somebody reaching back for him through the dark.

His army fatigues lay beside his backpack on the floor next to the lockers. People’s belongings were strewn all over the place by the time the shifts changed over. It was a long twelve hours, perhaps you could blame that for how batshit you behaved in that moment. 

You moved aside Jack’s things to get to your locker, when you caught the whiff of his musk on his clothes. It collected around the collar, from what you could determine. You held the garment closer, then closer…

Suddenly, you took a deep inhale and drifted away. For maybe a microsecond. Possibly an age. Either way, you didn’t stop fast enough.

A throat cleared and you froze, eyes darting to the source. 

Jack Abbot stood over you, arms folded. His head tilted ever so slightly as you rose, his clothes still in your balled fists. 

Your face was on fire. He frowned a little, amused and quietly smug about all this. 

You were caught. He knew he’d caught you. You knew that he knew that you were caught. Your heart hammered as you threw it at him and he caught it. 

You turned your back to him, finally grabbing your backpack from the locker. You stood abruptly, lips parting to make some excuse, to say anything. 

“You two getting off now?” came a voice, and you felt like you could have swallowed your tongue. 

Santos pushed past you, adjusting her hair tie, a smirk on her face. She was always watching, making little comments about your very obvious attraction to one another. Nothing had ever come of it. You suspected she’d made a bet with Princess and Perlah over it, but you couldn’t prove it.

“Yeah, you good?” you muttered, and her brows rose.

“Touchy.”

You ignored her. You sidestepped Jack, sensing his presence behind you as you left. You managed to make your escape, hackles still raised as you walked out of the hospital.

“Hey.”

A hand on your arm, pulling you back. You let him tug you, and didn't resist at all. He never touched you unless it was incidental. A shoulder bumping yours. A chest brushing your back as he moved behind you during a shift. 

It was deliberate, controlled. Firm and certain in a way that made your insides turn molten. 

“Wanna tell me what that was about?” he murmured, and you looked him in the eye finally. 

You didn’t know what to say, feeling foolish. This thing between you was something you had kept to yourself, treasured it even. You shrugged.

“Don’t get shy now,” he added. 

“Don’t tease me,” you retorted. 

He wasn’t. You could see by how he was looking at you. He was aware of you, studying you. You mirrored him, glancing him up and down. 

“Wanna get out of here?”

“Are you serious?” you asked. 

His voice was all soft, familiar in a way that could easily become addictive. 

“Of course.”

-

He drove you home. You were silent most of the way, having put your address in the GPS. By how he drove, you could see he didn’t need directions anyway. 

He knew the city back to front. While the traffic was sluggish at times, those people were going in the opposite direction to you. 

When he parked outside your apartment building, he leaned toward you, hand reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Very smooth,” you said, to break the tension. 

“I thought so,” he said. “Were you smelling my clothes before?” 

“Yeah,” you said, lifting your chin. “Is that weird?”

“I’ve… seen weirder.”

He was still touching you, now holding your jaw in a calloused hand. You drew in a deep breath, eyes traveling up his arm, to his face. 

“Come upstairs?” 

“Yeah,” he whispered.

He waited until the door shut behind him before he kissed you, and then he was wrapping his arms around your waist, plying your mouth open for him.

You moaned, caught a little off guard by the heat of it. Despite him catching you being feral for him before, you hadn’t imagined him being the same. 

He returned that full force - grabbed at you and pulled you into him as he drank from you. Your nails dug into his arms and he grunted, pushing you into the wall. As his lips moved down your front, mouthing you over your scrubs, your hips rolled in response. 

He moved up again, as if he couldn’t bear not kissing your lips for longer than a few seconds. Pinning you against the wall, you took his hand, your noses bumping as you guided him under the waistband of your pants. 

He sighed when his fingers met your cunt, and you gasped into his mouth, grinding. This close to him, his smell was all over you, and you were all over him. In no time, you could hear how wet you were, could feel how tight you were wound.

“Jack-”

He breathed your name back at you, a small smile forming. He kissed the side of your face, nudging at you, almost inside. 

You whimpered and he relented, pushing inside. The angle wasn’t ideal but it was enough, and he was fucking you with his fingers with a kind of maddeningly expert stroke. No-one had done this this well for you.

You squeezed hard and came, shaking all over. You lost vision, warmth flooding you. He kissed and kissed you, sticky fingers on your hips, and then you were kissing him back, pushing up against him until he stepped back.

You lowered yourself to the floor, hands at his waistband. His own hands hovered for a split second before he found your shoulders, panting as it dawned on him.

“Shit…”

You took his cock in your mouth, swallowing him down, coughing from the effort. His grip tightened, fingers sliding up to your scalp to anchor him.

“Shit, baby…”

You practically purred at that. His cock in your mouth, his skin still unwashed from a long work day, he was at his peak scent-wise. It was intoxicating. 

You set to work, head bobbing. In what felt like no time at all, his balls were tightening, his thighs tensing as you lost your breath. You dedicated yourself to his pleasure, awarded again and again with appreciative, near-helpless moans from above.

“Fuck, I’m–”

You didn’t pull back, looking him in the eye as he came, his eyes slammed shut as he spilled into your mouth. Thick, warm and more than you expected. You swallowed it all, licked it all away. You pulled back, tucking him away, leaving him as you found him. 

He took you by the arms and pulled you into a hug - something you again hadn’t expected.

In the embrace, it was him all around you. His scent, his warmth. It was safe. 

Wondrous. 

Pedro Pascal

Late Blooming - @azuraaass 

Lock Screen - @lazysoulwriter

Can I see her? - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

And then there were three - ↑

Center of his universe - ↑

Dial Drunk, Love Sober - ↑

Oh… - ↑

Fantastic Fashion & First Steps - @wiitchesterr

Charity Case - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

Din Djarin

Oblivious - @pentechnics

Of Love and Time - ↑ 📖

Gut-Wrenching - @absurdthirst ❤️‍🔥

Alternative Ending - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

Laid bare - @pedros-mustache ❤️‍🔥

Heat signature - @javierpinme ❤️‍🔥

Beautiful truths - @haylzcyon ❤️‍🔥

Cabin Fever - @omgreally ❤️‍🔥

pornstar!Din - @charnelhouses ❤️‍🔥

Inevitable - @ejlovespie ❤️‍🔥

The sweetest melody - @noisynaia ❤️‍🔥

Beyond my skin, deep in my bones - @djarins-wife ❤️‍🔥

I'd like to... - @ak-vintage ❤️‍🔥

It was the kid’s idea - @the-witty-pen-name 🧒

Stuck with me - @marvelouslytrekking 💓

Harry Castillo

Worth The Risk - @adelliet ❤️‍🔥

Heartlines - @lonely-ey3s 

Sweet Sweet Baby - @foxtrology ❤️‍🔥📖

Prompt List - ↑ 🧒

Somebody to Love - @punkshort

Spitfire - @entitled-fangirl

Glitz & Glamour & Gloom - @writeslikeanaria

Oh darlin’, don’t you ever grow up - @maroonpascal 🧒

Joel Miller

Teacher’s Pet - ↑

Have a Good Night - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

Wet Nights - @shellshocklove ❤️‍🔥

Wedding crashers - @thatcorporategirlie ❤️‍🔥

What's a fanfiction? - @talaok ❤️‍🔥

A fake soccer date - @toomanystoriessolittletime ❤️‍🔥

Tastes like strawberries - @thedilfdiaries ❤️‍🔥

Subscribe - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

Reed Richards

Summer Dresses - @marvelwitchergilmore 🤰

Field Test - ↑ ❤️‍🔥

Favorite Student - @plaidcowboy

Daddy Richards - @thinkerpedro ❤️‍🔥 🤰

Star Sailor - ↑ 📖

Welcome to The Fam

ily - @quakeismyhero 🕸 📖

Observed Behavior - @youthereader

To the moon, and then some | @lazypinkpig

Baby | @sunnysidevans

The rumor spreads fast that (y/n) “baby” Robinavitch is part of the PTMC family. After one drunk night at the bar, you quickly became his baby.

the real thing | @callienotcally

jack comes home to see you wrapped up in his wardrobe

A KISS A DAY | @esotericcherub

reader is on night shift with jack abbot when you accidentally bump into him with a crash cart sending him flying on his back. to make it up to him, you kiss him all better.

You Two Sicken Me | @redd-blushing-roses

night shift. crazy hours, crazier cases. but there's a soft moment in the short time before handoffs where jack and you can just be husband and wife and not the calm attending and kind nurse everyone knows.

Put a ring on it. | @psychotina

the fear of losing him on a mission and a simple comment that changes everything.

To be seen. | @/psychotina

Things started to get dark for him. Hopefully, he has a place called home and that place is by your side.

Rapid therapy session | @steamdeckaddict

Jack asks his girlfriend to try and talk some sense into Robby.

Taken or not? | @/steamdeckaddict

John has no idea whether or not the rumors are true. This is the morning when he finds out the truth.

Foolish | @brucewayneswifey22

jack abbot has had a shit day. luckily, his beautiful OBGYN wife is there to save his day.

OH MY ANGEL | @/brucewayneswifey22

you're furious after finding out that a baby girl was dropped off in the ER, so you take it upon yourself to take care of her for the day. Jack, noticing your closeness, decides to confront you about a very touchy subject.

like real people do, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4 | @thatcorporategirlie

Jack came back to Boston shattered. His leg was gone, and he was dumped by his girlfriend, who was unable to handle his new reality. Suddenly... he’s alone, grieving the life he thought he’d return to, and wondering if he's even fit to be a doctor anymore. And then he meets you...his annoyingly persistent physical therapist who refuses to let his bad attitude scare you off.

French Toast and Nutella | @/thatcorporategirlie

Jack FaceTimes you and the kids during a double shift, and you can tell something’s wrong.

JEALOUS GIRL. | @youleftmenochoicebut

you’re not jealous. you’re not. right?

normal girl | @intheglorybox

night shift reader struggles to adjust to workplace misogyny. she and jack have a talk on the roof.

you have no idea | @geminiwritten

even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

Shen’s bet | @lipsunsmokedcigarette

Linger | @miserymorgue

you join PTMC as their slightly uptight, sharp hospital lawyer and catch the attention of night shift attending jack abbot.

Optics | @/miserymorgue

the ER might be catching onto the fact that their resident lawyer and night shift attending might be each other’s favourites.

In Good Hands | @youthereader

Sleep deprived at PTMC, you get into the on-call bed, realizing too late that Dr. Abbot is already in it.

can’t stop | @katchamb3rs

you can’t help but be upset when your husband gets hurt on the fourth of july

Everything is gonna be alright, I know | @annaevermore

Jack finds you on the roof after you've lost your first pediatric patient.

STABBED | @macknsstuff

PUSHING IT DOWN AND PRAYING | @jacaeryslover

you're a doctor at the ptmc, and someone attacks you.

tell me what you feel | @annsfics

after another grueling shift, you feel like you're at your wit's end. on the verge of a mental break & about to make an irreversible decision, jack finds you on the rooftop & talks you down... both literally & metaphorically.

it’s your house too | @/annsfics

what starts out as a cozy night in while jack & robby watch a steelers game on tv soon sends you spiraling because of their endless shouting at coaches & players who can't hear them. you step out in attempt to calm yourself down & end up making nervous wrecks out of each of them when they can't find you.

i'll come running, pt 2 | @/annsfics

when an unspeakable truth becomes apparent at work—that you're harming yourself—jack refuses to let the issue slide when he has a private heart-to-heart with you in the women's restroom.

things a man provides | @/annsfics

after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.

constantly on my mind | @/annsfics

you & jack have both pined after one another since day one. due to always believing the other to be disinterested, however, it's led to resentment, jealousy, & hurt on both sides. just when he thinks he's about to lose you, jack traipses up to the roof to fix things before any chance he might've once had with you is gone for good.

to the rescue | @/annsfics

a patient presents with alcohol poisoning when she's brought into ptmc after getting rowdy at a bar. jack attempts to treat her & when she gets physical...you see red & go to an extreme length to defend your husband.

Pregnant!reader | @justalittlepitt

Day Off | @dumbbandpoetic

in which jack takes a day off after his double shift, and his wife decides to take a day off her job too, to spend it with him. what follows is little vignettes per hour of their day together.

What’s In A Name? | @somethingeh

you and jack prepare for the baby.

Imagine | @bootblush

Direct Fire | @escapic-mezzanine

It is hard to consider saving somebody’s life a failure. You get gravely judged for making a mistake, though, and getting hurt in the process. Your squad mates look at you like it was nothing but a show-off. Luckily, there’s also Doctor Abbot who not only understands you to the bone, but also uses the occasion to do what he wanted for a while.

falling for him. Literally. | @frickyeahfanfic

you could die of embarrassment. running full speed into your work crush was the last thing you were expecting to do on your shift tonight. even worse, he’s your attendin

everywhere, everything | @levanterhaze

you never knew what love was until Jack showed you its true meaning. and when he asks for your hand in marriage, you have a mission to fulfill.

Homerun | @bonelessghoul

not even a baseball game could be a simple date for you and Dr. Abbot, but it gets even more complicated when it's the reason the rest of the ER guesses you two are dating.

The Great War | @dearwalker

Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.

Morning glory | @/dearwalker

After Jack learns about a tumor in your head that could’ve been the reason your marriage fell apart years ago, all the old bitterness of your separation stops mattering. Now he’s chasing surgeons across the country as he watches the woman he still loves slip further away. But what terrifies him the most, is the relentless, exhausting, yet beautiful war of choosing you everyday, even when you keep unintentionally hurting him.

Gorgeous | @/dearwalker

You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.

Baby Jane Abbot | @/dearwalker

After deciding to foster Baby Jane Doe, the Abbot household faces a sleepless afternoon. As Jack rocks her back to sleep, you both realize the word “foster” starts to feel less like a temporary label, and more like something you wish to erase completely.

Poppy | @/dearwalker

Years after adopting baby Jane Doe, you get a call from Robby telling you about another abandoned child at PTMC. The news brings the past painfully close, and your daughter starts questioning you about her own story.

You’ve Come a Long Way | @an-abysma1-0bserver

Little snapshots in the earlier moments of your relationship with Dr. Jack Abbot.

PALM OF HIS HAND | @lukovsnirvana

following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.

unleashed | @lauraneedstochill

Victoria calls you for help when Mateo is unlawfully detained. Jack gets a chance to see you in action — and he reacts to it in a very unexpected way.

stained with you | @/lauraneedstochill

you and Jack broke up a year ago — it was so painful, you barely recovered. when you meet again at the Pitt Fundraiser, you’re dead set on keeping your distance. he is dead set on getting you back.

a side of sweetness | @i-love-hozier

No one knew Abbot was married until a suspiciously young woman covered in frosting came in.

BUDDY KNOWS BEST ! | @of-apollo

When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.

DOG’S BEST FRIEND ! | @/of-apollo

When Jack takes you back to his place after the longest night shift, he is quick to warn you about the stubborn rescue dog living with him. However, in a beautiful turn of events, the dog takes a very strong liking to you.

With Open Arms | @atlaslapis

When Baby Jane Doe can’t find a placement, nurse Dana has to pull a dirty move in order to get the baby placed

Grumpy x Sunshine | @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

An insight to when Grumpy!Reader has a rough shift without their Sunshine

Grumpy x Sunshine | @/ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff

It’s not always sunshine and rainbows in the ER or for your relationship

Sometimes, you need a fresh start | @deathvalleyqueen

Casual | @wordssforworldss

jack coming home | @fluffy-duck0

jack is finally home, and you’ve missed him.

ETA 10 minutes | @inmydaydreamingerain4k

She has always been jack's carbon copy, so when Pittsburg police brings in an altered man after he started hitting himself on the car on the way to the station, jack isn't surprised by who walks in.

in love and war | @thedarkseidofthemoon

as jack’s soon-to-be ex-wife, you never expected to see him again. until you land in his ER.

A special patient | @vampireedolll

you take your toddler into the E.R after having a mild allergic reaction and run into your husband Dr. Abbot

baby break | @/vampireedolll

you come to check on baby jane doe and have a quick and impromptu conversation about children with your husband

The Best Man She’s Ever Known | @tumbleweedstillhaspanic

Night shift nurse Y/N has been in denial about the symptoms she’s been experiencing lately. The fatigue is just because she needs a vacation. The nausea is just something she ate. The late period…well. A conversation with Dana while Y/N is covering a day shift for one of the day shift nurses makes Y/N realize just what her symptoms are alluding to. Dr. Jack Abbot is a great boyfriend. He is the best man Y/N has ever known, and she counts herself lucky to call him hers. She just isn’t quite ready to drag him into this just yet. She can’t put it off forever though. How Will Dr. Abbot take the possibility of impending fatherhood? Will Y/N be able to get out of her head enough to prepare for the possibility she might become a mom?

Jack Abbot x ER Nurse Female | @penguinpartytime27

You are secretly dating Dr. Abbot while working night shift together. One particular patient triggers your past and he’s there to comfort you.

𝐖𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 ? | @/pastabox

𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙠… 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙝, 𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩

Jealousy | @/angelverse222

you and jack are coworkers at PTMC, you being in your mid-twenties, a r4, and him your attending. he’s always been an admirer of yours, watching from the background and not ever acting on it. it’s only when you see him possibly flirting with a patient, that you find yourself watching him more closely. finding yourself.. jealous?

𝐈𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞 | @/cryonme

brows raise amongst the pitt crew when you and Jack irish goodbye during a party.

it’s a little bit messy | @/alinathinkstoomuch

abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far.

sprains & refrains | @/alinathinkstoomuch

you decide to come into work with a sprained ankle and hide it from abbot. he is not happy when he finds out.

Need You Here | @/voidsagent

after a patient attacks you during your shift, all you want is to be comforted by your favorite night shift attending.

Stay This Little | @/voidsagent

A lazy morning with Jack & your tiny new baby boy

So Fucking Endearing | @/inkdrinkerworld

you do a bar crawl with the night shift as a new couple with jack abbot and he’s concerned about your blood sugar

i don’t deserve you | @/writingismycardio

Jack comes home to you, exhausted from his night shift, worry from what he experienced still lingering on his mind. You're there to comfort him and he practically melts into you.

BABY STEPS | @/lovebugism

now with a baby on the way, you and jack have reconciled and are learning to fall back in love again; when you show up at the ptmc with suddenly severe symptoms that threaten to take you away from him, he proves to you and himself that he’ll do anything to keep you here.

The wake was quiet, as your father would’ve wanted. You recognised more coats than faces. Most of them hadn’t been up the hill in years. They came in out of habit or pity, some because they owed your father favours they couldn’t now repay.

Furlong came early, and stayed longer than anyone expected. He sat near the stove, his coat still damp, and said very little. Just that he’d known your father since they were boys, since the coal yard was still Wilson’s and the sheds were made of real stone.

You hadn’t seen him in years, not properly. He looked older than you remembered, but less tired than most. He brought turf, the good kind, and left it by the back door without making a fuss. Later, when you found the bag, you felt the weight of it as though it had been laid directly on your chest.

You hadn’t planned on staying. Dublin still pressed at your thoughts, its noise clinging to your coat sleeves. But the house was yours now. And the neighbours—what few remained—came with casseroles and soda bread and inquiries disguised as condolences. So you stayed.

You lit fires even when you didn’t need to. Not for heat, but for the company.

Furlong came by again, a week after the funeral. Just to check on things. The boiler, he said. The state of the roof. You knew he was lying, but you made tea anyway, and he sat on the edge of the chair like someone waiting to be told to go.

You talked about your father. How he had a way of walking without swinging his arms. How he never owned a dressing gown, not once. Furlong smiled at that, said he remembered him at twelve years old, scraping ice off windows with the edge of a butter knife.

“He was kind to me,” Furlong said, and you nodded, because that was true, and rare.

The next day, you found a sack of coal on the step, and no note.

You should’ve said something. Should’ve returned it. But you didn’t.

Instead, you opened the stove, lit a match, and sat for a long time with your coat still on, listening to the crackle.

That evening, you saw him again—crossing the lane with his collar up, shoulders hunched in that way of his. He didn’t look at your house. But you knew he knew you were watching.

You found yourself watching for him.

Not every day, but most. The coal lorry passed irregularly, and you learned the sound of it—the rattle over the ridge of the lane, the low shift of its weight on the hill. He didn’t always stop. Sometimes you’d hear it and sit back from the window, ashamed.

But then there’d be another sack left on the step, and you’d have to light the fire again, not for warmth but so you’d have something to thank him for if he came back.

You wondered what the town made of it. If Mrs. Kehoe had said anything in the shop, or if someone had noticed his boots outside your door. But if they had, they said nothing. You were your father’s daughter, after all, and he’d always been left mostly alone.

You didn’t know what you were to Furlong. Not a widow. Not a girl. Not a wife. Perhaps just someone whose silences didn’t need explaining. When he came, you offered tea, and he drank it slowly, his elbows barely touching the table.

Once, he brought bread. Said his wife had made two loaves, and he thought you might like one. You accepted it, though it was still warm and you knew the lie of it straight away.

You didn’t eat it that night. Instead, you sliced it in the morning, toasted it on the edge of the grate, and ate it slowly with marmalade. You imagined his hands in the dough, though you knew it wasn’t true. Still, the bread was good. Dense and unsweetened. It filled you.

One Sunday, when the frost hadn’t yet lifted, he appeared at the gate with his cap in hand. He asked if the yard might need sweeping, though there were no leaves and the gravel had long settled. You opened the shed and stood there while he looked at your father’s old spade, the one still rusted at the edge.

“I remember him with this,” he said, lifting it like it was something holy. “He once dug a hole for a hedge and it near broke him. But he did it. He always did things slow, and all the way through.”

You said nothing. Just nodded.

That night, you left a small tin of scones on his doorstep. No note. You saw the light go on in their front room when he found them.

The days shortened. Smoke rose early from chimneys. The crows came back to the wires, blackening them like notes on a stave. You walked sometimes, out past the convent. You didn’t look at it, but you knew it was there.

You wondered if he thought about what he’d seen there. If it kept him up. You wondered if that had anything to do with you, with the way he looked at you now, when he did.

One evening, you left the door open a little longer than usual. The fire had gone low, but the kettle was hot, and the light was soft. You heard the lorry, then the steps on the gravel.

He paused at the doorway. Just a second too long.

Then he stepped in, ducking his head as though the doorway were too low, though it wasn’t. You noticed how he removed his cap slowly, how his hand hovered before he folded it and tucked it under his arm. He didn’t speak. You didn’t, either.

The fire had sunk, glowing low in the grate, and the kettle sang a little where it rested on the iron hob. You moved to pour the tea. Your hands didn’t shake, but you worried they might.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you said nothing, and let the tea run into the cups.

He sat where he always did, on the hard wooden chair by the wall. You wished, not for the first time, that the house had softer things—curtains that swung instead of hung stiff, a cushion to offer him, a lamp with a fabric shade. The place still felt like your father. His silence, his spareness. But you were here now, and not a man, and not him.

You placed his cup in front of him. He looked up and gave a small nod. That gesture—barely anything—settled into your chest like heat.

There was nothing to say. The room had no clock, no ticking. The only sound was the faint chime of the spoon in your own cup, and once, the shifting of coal in the stove as it fell in on itself.

You thought of the things you could ask. How the girls were. Whether his wife still baked that bread. If he ever sat up at night the way you did, full of thoughts that had nowhere to go. But you didn’t ask any of it.

Instead you looked at his hands. Not the nails, which were scrubbed raw, but the backs of them. The pale blue veins that branched and thinned into the wrist. His hands looked like they had once carried something tender and not let it fall.

You thought: if he reached out now, just lightly—just to take my hand—I would not move away.

You thought: surely he knows.

You thought: God help me, what if it’s showing?

Your chest felt tight. You placed your tea down without drinking it. He had, at some point, finished his.

“Right so,” he said, though it wasn’t late.

You stood with him. He placed his cap back on his head and glanced at the hearth as if it might speak.

“If you ever need anything,” he said.

You nodded.

He stepped past you. Your sleeve brushed his coat, only for a second, but you felt it all the way to your ribs.

At the door, he paused. The outside was dark now, the lane quiet. He looked back, and you waited, hoping—for something, anything, a hand raised, a shift, a question.

But he just nodded again, and left.

You stood there until the cold crept back in.

-

That night, you didn’t light the fire. You let the stove go out and sat in the half-dark, the cup of tea gone cold beside you. You didn’t bother with the lamp. The dark pressed its fingers into the corners of the room until it felt like the house might fold in on itself.

You didn’t cry. You weren’t sad, exactly. But something had opened, and now you had to sit with it. You could still feel the sleeve of his coat against your own, the slight roughness of the wool, the heat of something that might’ve been breath, or might’ve been nothing at all.

You should have said something. You should have stopped him at the door. But what would you have said? Please stay. I’m not afraid of what this might be. The thought made your skin prickle. Not with shame, exactly. With risk.

In the morning, you stood in the cold kitchen and thought about the things you needed. Matches. A new scuttle. Coal, though you had enough for now. You put your coat on anyway and walked down the hill.

The coal yard was quiet, the usual clangs and thumps dulled by the frost. A few black sacks lined the wall. The truck was gone. Inside the prefab, you saw someone moving behind the desk—paper rustled, a phone was put down.

When you stepped through the gate, you saw her. One of his daughters—though you weren’t sure which. Not the youngest. Not the eldest. One of the middle ones. Tall, her hair pulled back in a way that made her look older than she was, until you caught the roundness still in her face.

She looked up. Her eyes were startlingly familiar. You realised she must be close to your age, maybe younger by only a handful of years. The thought unsettled you—not just for what it meant, but for how little it moved you, in the way guilt is meant to. You weren’t ashamed. You were only… curious.

“Can I help you?” she asked, polite but tired.

“I was just looking for Bill,” you said, your voice too soft.

“He’s out with deliveries. Won’t be back ‘til after dinner.”

You nodded, already backing away. She glanced at your hands—empty—and you wondered if she could tell you’d come for something other than fuel.

“You can leave a message,” she offered, stepping out of the prefab, rubbing her arms in the cold. “Or if it’s for the house, I can take a note.”

You said no, no, thank you, it was nothing urgent. Just checking.

And she smiled at you—not unkindly. Not suspiciously, either. Just a small smile that said she knew how to mind her father’s place, and wasn’t worried about you.

On the way home, you watched the frost melt along the verge. The light was coming in low and gold, catching in the ditchwater, and the birds were busy, their wings loud against the quiet.

You didn’t know what you wanted, not really.

Only that something had started, and it wasn’t finished yet.

-

You hadn’t expected to see him in town. It was a Thursday, just after eleven, and you’d only come down to post a letter and buy flour. The shop was quiet. The cold kept most people in. You had already passed the convent—kept your eyes ahead, as always—and were turning down onto Quay Street when you saw him across the way, near Hanrahan’s window, staring at a pair of boots.

He didn’t see you at first.

He was standing beside a woman with cropped hair, wearing a fine green coat and gloves without holes. You recognised her from the funeral. She’d brought something—traybake or sponge—and left without staying long. She didn’t look like she belonged to the coal yard. She looked like someone who folded things properly and kept receipts.

She touched his arm then, lightly. He turned, said something low. She laughed—not loudly, but warmly, like it was a habit.

You meant to keep walking.

But something in the shape of him, the way his head tilted to listen, stopped you. Not jealousy, not quite. Just the sudden awareness that he belonged elsewhere. To someone.

He turned and caught sight of you.

He nodded first. Then, like she’d followed his gaze, she turned too.

You smiled. Polite. Small.

She stepped forward before he could, her gloves held loosely in one hand.

“Are you the neighbour?” she asked.

You said you were.

She told you her name—Eileen—though you already knew it. Her voice was pleasant. Clear. You could see how someone might feel safe beside it.

“You’ve been very brave,” she said. “It’s no small thing, coming back after everything.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. What everything?

But you thanked her, softly.

Furlong stood behind her now, his face unreadable. He looked older in the daylight, the lines at his mouth deeper than you remembered. You wanted to say something to him—to ask about the lorry, the frost, the scones—but nothing would come.

Eileen looked between you and him, then said, lightly, “We should be getting on.”

And then, to you, as she turned, “Don’t be a stranger. It’s good to have someone in that house again.”

You nodded.

They walked away together, slowly. She said something else, and he didn’t answer right away.

You stood still until they were gone.

That night, back in the house, you didn’t light the fire again. You left the flour on the table. You watched the sky turn to iron and thought of her gloves, her voice, the easy shape of her in the street beside him.

And still—you wished, in a corner of yourself that refused to shrink—that he had looked back.

It was late afternoon when he came. The light already going, low and gold through the bare branches. You hadn’t lit the fire, though you’d meant to. The room felt hollow with the cold. You were standing at the sink, your hands in lukewarm water, when you heard his boots on the gravel.

You didn’t move right away.

When you opened the door, he stood on the step with his cap in his hands.

“I was passing,” he said. “Thought I’d check the oil tank, see it’s not getting too low in this weather.”

You told him it was fine. That you had enough. But he stepped in anyway.

You didn’t stop him.

He looked different—smaller, somehow, though he stood the same height. Something behind the eyes was quieter. His mouth had that firm line it wore when he was holding something in.

You boiled the kettle, though neither of you mentioned tea.

He stood near the stove, rubbing his hands. You noticed how he kept them to himself—didn’t touch the chair, didn’t reach for the poker, didn’t even remove his coat. He was all edges now, like he was trying to pull himself in from the corners.

You said, finally, “Your wife seems kind.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then: “She’s a good woman. She’s always been good to the girls.”

And that was when you knew. Whatever you’d imagined—that this was mutual, that it lived somewhere beyond pity or familiarity—was something you’d conjured for yourself. You looked down at the cups, suddenly aware of the way you stood, of the line your body made in the light.

“I’ve overstepped, haven’t I,” you said, not meaning to say it aloud.

He turned to you then. Fully. Looked straight at you.

“You haven’t.”

His voice was soft, but not uncertain.

You didn’t know what to say. You felt suddenly very young. Not the years you’d lived, but the kind of young that comes with wanting something too much.

“I’m your neighbour,” you said, voice low. “And you knew my father.”

“I did,” he said. “And he was good to me. Kind, when others weren’t.”

You nodded, trying to steady yourself. You weren’t sure what you expected—an apology, maybe. Or a step back.

Instead, he reached out and touched your wrist. Just there, above the cuff. Nothing more than the weight of a thumb. But it was enough.

Enough to know he wasn’t only being fatherly.

Enough to know he had crossed the same line, in his own mind, more than once.

You didn’t move. You let him leave it there.

And when he did let go, it wasn’t with shame.

It was with care.

He stepped back. Picked up his cap.

“I’ll call again, if you want,” he said.

And you said yes, though your voice barely carried.

You lit the fire after he left. Not out of habit this time, but out of need.

And when the flames caught, you sat near them on the floor, not looking at anything in particular.

The room felt different.

Not warmer, exactly.

Just less alone.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

The fire burned low, and still you sat by it. You didn’t bother with tea. You left the curtains open and the lamp off. There was no one to see you anyway. Outside, a dog barked once and then fell silent. You watched the clouds thicken and pass, watched the light shift against the ceiling like breath under skin.

His touch had been light. Barely a moment. But your wrist remembered it. You could still feel the heat of it, the pressure. Not heavy—only real.

You told yourself not to hope.

By morning, you were tired in that peculiar way where your bones felt thin. You washed your face too long and poured tea you didn’t drink. The fire was out. You didn’t bother relighting it.

You waited two days. Three.

No knock. No lorry. No boots on gravel.

The town was as it had always been—grey lanes, tidy hedges, the faint sound of the church bell at odd hours. You went for walks. You passed the convent, eyes forward. You stood too long in the post office pretending to read notices. You told yourself you hadn’t expected anything.

But the grief surprised you.

It wasn’t loud, and it didn’t arrive all at once. It came like weather. A slow saturation. You moved through the days like someone who’d been lightly struck. Not wounded exactly. Just left hollow in the places where expectation used to sit.

You told yourself you had misread him again. That he had come to his senses. That he was remembering his girls, and the quiet woman with the green coat who made two loaves at a time and never left a drawer open. And what were you, really, to disturb all that?

You let the coal run low. You washed your own windows. You did not go back to the yard.

It was four days before he came again.

Late afternoon. Just on the edge of dusk.

You heard the lorry before you saw him. You were in the back room, and your body went very still. You listened to the door of the truck slam shut, the careful step on the path.

You opened the door before he could knock.

He looked tired, his coat still on. There was nothing in his hands.

He stepped in like someone who had been outside for too long.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

It was the kind of silence that had weight. That required both of you to hold your sides of it carefully.

He looked at you. Not your eyes—your mouth.

Then, without a word, he reached for you. Not suddenly. Not with force. Just a quiet movement, like putting his hand into a stream.

His mouth found yours, gently, as though afraid you might vanish under him. It wasn’t long. Just long enough to know it was real. Just long enough to say everything he couldn’t.

Then he stepped back.

And just like that, he was gone.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. He closed the door behind him and didn’t look back.

You stood in the doorway long after the sound of the truck had faded.

The house was very quiet.

But you knew—finally, plainly—that you had not imagined him.

-

You didn’t light the fire that night, though the cold came in early. You sat near the hearth, arms wrapped around your knees, watching the last of the grey light bleed from the window. The air in the room held something—weight, stillness, the trace of him.

You hadn’t kissed in years. Not like that.

It wasn’t the kiss that left you breathless. It was what it meant. That he’d thought about it. That it had lived in him as it had in you. That he’d crossed whatever threshold he’d been circling in silence for weeks, maybe longer.

And then he’d gone. Not a word. Not even your name.

He hadn’t looked afraid. Only resolute.

As though he’d let himself have one thing—one honest thing—and then done what he had to do.

You didn’t cry. You felt too full to cry. You carried the moment like a weight under the ribs. It slowed your movements. Made you gentle with the kettle, quiet with your steps. You moved through the house like someone sharing it now with something invisible and alive.

You waited, though you told yourself you weren’t.

You thought of what he might be doing. Filling sacks, standing beside that old stove in the prefab, talking to the lads, lifting his daughters’ coats off the hooks at night. You wondered if he washed his hands the same way after—slow, methodical, as though penance could be scrubbed in.

But you knew he would come again.

You didn’t know how you knew. Only that you did.

It sat in your bones like the weather: that low ache before rain, that shift in light before snow.

He would come. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next week.

But he would.

And when he did, you would be here.

Not waiting.

But ready.

-

It was a Sunday.

The bells had long stopped ringing, and the town felt emptied out, like a theatre after the crowd’s gone. You hadn’t gone to Mass. You hadn’t even opened the curtains fully. The fire was lit low, the afternoon light already slanting across the floorboards.

You didn’t hear the lorry this time.

Just the knock. Once. And then the sound of the latch lifting.

He stepped inside without speaking. His coat was wet at the hem.

You didn’t ask what had changed.

He moved toward the fire like a man drawn by heat alone, then stopped just before it. His face had that unreadable look again, like it might crack open or vanish altogether.

You didn’t reach for him.

You stood still, close enough that the edge of your sleeve brushed his.

He touched your arm first. Not your hand—your arm, where the wool was thin and your pulse lived. Then he leaned in, slower this time, and kissed you again.

There was no hesitation now. No uncertainty.

You felt it in the way his hand cupped your face, in the way his mouth softened against yours, in how he pressed his forehead to yours before pulling you closer.

You sank to the rug together, knees touching, breath warming the space between. The fire popped gently behind you, and his hand slid beneath your jumper, not greedy, just steady. You closed your eyes.

He said your name once. Not loud. Just to say it.

Then he stood, and reached down for you.

In the bedroom, he was careful at first, as if he didn’t quite believe you were real. His hands traced your back like a map he’d studied but never touched. When you undressed, he turned his face slightly—not out of shame, but reverence.

Then something in him gave.

His tenderness deepened into something else—urgent, quiet, like thirst after a long walk. He held you close, touched his mouth to the hollow of your throat. His breathing grew uneven. Yours followed.

When he entered you, you held your breath. He gripped your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish. The ache between you was familiar and new all at once—like returning to a place you’d dreamed of.

You came first, quietly, your face turned into his shoulder. His name in your mouth but not spoken. He followed soon after, with a low sound you’d never heard from him before. Something human and helpless.

After, he didn’t move.

You lay tangled together, his head tucked beneath your chin, your legs still caught up in his. You could feel his chest against your ribs, warm and slow. His hand stayed in yours, even after your breathing softened.

The light outside faded further, slipping into evening. You didn’t turn on a lamp.

You thought he might leave.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

You both drifted, not into full sleep—just that half-state where the body forgets its edges. You heard the fire settle in the grate. You felt him sigh once, into your neck.

Later, when he rose, it was quiet.

He dressed slowly. Kissed your forehead.

He didn’t say when he’d be back.

-

He hadn’t meant to see her that day.

It was Saturday, and the girls had asked to walk the Square—Grace wanted to look in the chemist window, and Sheila had hopes of catching a boy from school she’d been watching all term. Eileen had her arm looped through his, her gloves tucked into her bag, her coat done up against the wind.

The streets were half-busy with weekend chatter. People moving slowly, watching their steps on the wet flags.

He heard her voice before he saw her.

She was standing outside the post office, the sun in her hair, wearing that coat that was too thin for the season. She looked different somehow—older, distant, as if she’d already begun packing her life back into herself.

Eileen saw her too and went straight over.

He stayed back with the girls. Watched his wife and the woman speak.

She smiled at Eileen. Said something low. Her eyes flicked to him only once—barely—and then away again, like it cost her.

He watched as Eileen tilted her head, said something in reply, and then—he saw it happen—he saw her say it.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” she said. “Back to Dublin. The house is too much. And classes start again.”

He couldn’t hear the words, not properly, but the shape of them was clear. He felt them in his ribs.

Leaving.

He had known, of course. The way people know summer ends. But knowing and hearing were different things. Knowing was manageable. Hearing turned the ground to water.

She turned to go, nodding once, polite.

Eileen waved, called after her: “Safe travels!”

She didn’t look back.

Furlong stood still beside the sweet shop. His girls were already wandering ahead, their coats flapping open. Eileen came back and took his arm again, warm and unaware.

“She’s a lovely girl,” she said. “Brave, too. It mustn’t be easy, being up there all alone.”

He nodded.

His heart felt full of smoke. No flame, just the slow ache of what had been lit and left to smoulder.

They passed Hanrahan’s. Someone from the parish nodded at him. He nodded back, not hearing a word.

He hadn’t told her what she’d done to him.

Hadn’t said that he thought of her hands at night, not in sin but in longing—wanting to know how they stirred tea, how they folded clothes, how they touched the edge of a window frame when the rain came in.

Now she would go.

And he would stay.

He would light the fire in the Rayburn and mend the latch on the yard gate. He would toast bread for his girls, and smile for Eileen, and wipe coal dust from his hands in the sink they’d had since the year they married.

He would go on, as men do.

But something in him had shifted, and he knew it wouldn’t shift back.

Not even with time.

Not even with prayer.

-

It was Christmas Eve when he came again.

You’d returned only two days before, the train delayed, the station cold and full of mothers with paper parcels. The town looked the same—maybe a little smaller—but you didn’t mind. The quiet suited you.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming.

The house opened easily. The fire took on the first try. You bought bread and tinned soup, and left your coat folded on the chair where he once sat.

You didn’t expect him.

But you left the lamp on, anyway.

When he knocked, the air outside was full of sleet. He looked soaked through—hatless, no gloves, his face ruddy with cold. There was snow in his hair.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He stepped inside. You shut the door behind him.

He kissed you before the fire was even hot. His hands were cold and rough, but his mouth was warm. He held your face like he was trying to memorise it. You kissed him back as if nothing had passed between then and now, as if all the weeks had folded into this moment and lived only here.

You made tea but didn’t drink it.

You sat close on the floor, your legs tangled, your knees touching. He ran his hands through your hair like it was something he’d never let himself do before. You let him. You leaned into his body like you’d leaned into his silence the first time.

Later, in the bedroom, he touched you like a man with less time.

He wasn’t unkind—only urgent, full of need that had learned to hide. You met him with the same hunger. The roughness wasn’t cruelty. It was want made real. You clutched at his back, let him take you fully. When you came, it startled you—the way it shook something loose.

He followed soon after, with a low sound, his face buried against your shoulder. His weight on you was welcome. Heavy in the right places.

After, he lay beside you longer than he ever had.

The fire hissed in the other room. The house creaked like it always did in winter. His hand found yours under the blanket.

He didn’t say he loved you.

But he said your name, soft, and looked at you with eyes that held too much.

“You matter,” he said, quietly. “You have.”

You nodded, eyes wet but not from sorrow.

“I know.”

You touched his chest, the space between his ribs.

“This will never be more,” you said, not to wound but to steady.

“I know,” he echoed.

You lay there a long time, in the half-dark, the air around you full of the faint scent of turf and tea leaves and coal.

Before he left, he kissed your forehead, then your lips.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

And you knew he would.

Not every week.

Not always when you needed him.

But again.

Eventually.

When the world allowed.